A muttered “I'm sorry” is all Brock can manage as Jack meets him by the door and pulls him into an embrace like Brock is about to collapse.
“I know” Jack replies in that quiet, steady voice of his that always makes things better, except that it doesn't. Not right now. Because Jack is supposed to be angry, upset. He is supposed to ask Brock to leave, but the scenario isn't playing out as Brock anticipated and he's at loss. He wants to ask questions, to do this right, as wrong as it all is, but he chooses to be selfish, to stay wrapped in those strong arms just for a moment longer.
“It's not your fault. I love you” Jack adds, and Brock doesn't understand.
“I love you, and I'm sorry this had to happen. I'm here for you if you'll still have me” Jack continues and Brock stays still, confused and scared and almost definitely leaving a wet patch on Jack's sweater. He still doesn’t get why Jack isn’t blaming him, why he makes it sound like Brock should be the one to decide where they’ll go from here. And some part of Brock wants to choose to decide that they’re fine after all.
They stay like that for a while, just holding on to each other, until Jack steers Brock out of the hallway and into the living room, makes him lay down on the sofa. Brock's t-shirt rides up as he settles down, head propped up on Jack’s thigh and legs curled towards his stomach, and a flash of panic crosses Jack's face when he spots bruises blossoming ugly and dark against Brock's olive skin.
Fingers reach out to touch him, but they still in mid-air, hovering uncertain.
“Did he hurt you?” Jack asks, and Brock wishes there was something he could do to alleviate the resigned sadness in his voice.
There isn’t, so he just catches Jack’s hands in his and brings it to his hip, lets it rest there. Despite the pain lingering beneath the surface of his skin, the touch is soothing. Jack drags his thumb back and forth against the jut of Brock’s hipbone, and Brock wishes he could drift away into sleep like this, and wake up to find all this a distant nightmare. Just another dream to forget over late Sunday breakfast, Jack cooking up something hearty and savoury, accompanied by rich, dark coffee.
Instead he forces himself to stay awake as he mumbles into Jack’s thigh, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Not intentionally, no. Turns out Cap likes it a bit rough, is all.” He tries to downplay it, how much it hurt. How much he hated every second of it. Jack is already tired enough, always picking up Brock’s loose ends, always dealing with his burdens. Brock can’t help but feel guilty for troubling him again.
“You don't though. Why did you let him do that?”
Jack’s fingers move to thread through Brock’s hair as he no doubt spots the bite marks on his nape, and Brock is grateful that he can’t see Jack’s face from this angle, doesn’t have to deal with his solemn expression.
“Figured it'd be over quicker if I do what he likes.”
Jack remains silent. There’s two fingers just behind Brock’s ear, rubbing up and down along his neck, down to the collarbone, and Brock knows Jack wishes he could say something, but he can’t, not right now.
With every tender motion of fingers against his skin, Brock is pulled together and falls apart all at once.
It’s too much, the silence, the weight carried in every minute movement, and Brock can feel the tears brimming and falling, an ugly onslaught like a downpour at the end of an already miserable day. His breathing picks up and he can feel the words trying to escape his throat, a desperate wave of unspoken truths that he knows Jack knows already, probably won’t care to hear, not amidst pitiful sniffling and a trembling voice.
“I'm sorry, Jackie. Never wanted anyone but you, swear to God I didn't” Brock mutters anyway, words growing desperate with every stammered breath.
“Promised you it was gonna be you and me for good and I still want it that way.”
“They made me do it. Wouldn't ever let anyone but you touch me, but they made me do it.”
“I'm so fucking sorry. I fucked this up. I fucked us up.” He knows he’s bawling now, messy and ugly and terrible, like he’s never cried before. He can’t stop, even as he realises that he’s only giving Jack another reason to feel disgusted with him.
Somehow, despite all that, Jack pulls him up into his lap, lets him rest his ugly, wet face in the crook of his shoulder as he embraces him, rubs soothing circles into his trembling back.
“You didn't. I love you” Jack says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like the mess Brock dragged them into doesn’t exist.
Eventually, Brock’s crying ceases. His breathing evens out and an overwhelming tiredness hits him all at once. More than anything, he feels empty.
'They'll make me do it again. And I don't want no one but you touching me. But they'll make me' he says into Jack’s shoulder, into the scent of fresh laundry and home cooking.
'They won't. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of you' Jack reassures, and all Brock wants is to believe it.
[Fill] Tattooed tears (3/3)
“I know” Jack replies in that quiet, steady voice of his that always makes things better, except that it doesn't. Not right now. Because Jack is supposed to be angry, upset. He is supposed to ask Brock to leave, but the scenario isn't playing out as Brock anticipated and he's at loss. He wants to ask questions, to do this right, as wrong as it all is, but he chooses to be selfish, to stay wrapped in those strong arms just for a moment longer.
“It's not your fault. I love you” Jack adds, and Brock doesn't understand.
“I love you, and I'm sorry this had to happen. I'm here for you if you'll still have me” Jack continues and Brock stays still, confused and scared and almost definitely leaving a wet patch on Jack's sweater. He still doesn’t get why Jack isn’t blaming him, why he makes it sound like Brock should be the one to decide where they’ll go from here. And some part of Brock wants to choose to decide that they’re fine after all.
They stay like that for a while, just holding on to each other, until Jack steers Brock out of the hallway and into the living room, makes him lay down on the sofa. Brock's t-shirt rides up as he settles down, head propped up on Jack’s thigh and legs curled towards his stomach, and a flash of panic crosses Jack's face when he spots bruises blossoming ugly and dark against Brock's olive skin.
Fingers reach out to touch him, but they still in mid-air, hovering uncertain.
“Did he hurt you?” Jack asks, and Brock wishes there was something he could do to alleviate the resigned sadness in his voice.
There isn’t, so he just catches Jack’s hands in his and brings it to his hip, lets it rest there. Despite the pain lingering beneath the surface of his skin, the touch is soothing. Jack drags his thumb back and forth against the jut of Brock’s hipbone, and Brock wishes he could drift away into sleep like this, and wake up to find all this a distant nightmare. Just another dream to forget over late Sunday breakfast, Jack cooking up something hearty and savoury, accompanied by rich, dark coffee.
Instead he forces himself to stay awake as he mumbles into Jack’s thigh, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Not intentionally, no. Turns out Cap likes it a bit rough, is all.” He tries to downplay it, how much it hurt. How much he hated every second of it. Jack is already tired enough, always picking up Brock’s loose ends, always dealing with his burdens. Brock can’t help but feel guilty for troubling him again.
“You don't though. Why did you let him do that?”
Jack’s fingers move to thread through Brock’s hair as he no doubt spots the bite marks on his nape, and Brock is grateful that he can’t see Jack’s face from this angle, doesn’t have to deal with his solemn expression.
“Figured it'd be over quicker if I do what he likes.”
Jack remains silent. There’s two fingers just behind Brock’s ear, rubbing up and down along his neck, down to the collarbone, and Brock knows Jack wishes he could say something, but he can’t, not right now.
With every tender motion of fingers against his skin, Brock is pulled together and falls apart all at once.
It’s too much, the silence, the weight carried in every minute movement, and Brock can feel the tears brimming and falling, an ugly onslaught like a downpour at the end of an already miserable day. His breathing picks up and he can feel the words trying to escape his throat, a desperate wave of unspoken truths that he knows Jack knows already, probably won’t care to hear, not amidst pitiful sniffling and a trembling voice.
“I'm sorry, Jackie. Never wanted anyone but you, swear to God I didn't” Brock mutters anyway, words growing desperate with every stammered breath.
“Promised you it was gonna be you and me for good and I still want it that way.”
“They made me do it. Wouldn't ever let anyone but you touch me, but they made me do it.”
“I'm so fucking sorry. I fucked this up. I fucked us up.” He knows he’s bawling now, messy and ugly and terrible, like he’s never cried before. He can’t stop, even as he realises that he’s only giving Jack another reason to feel disgusted with him.
Somehow, despite all that, Jack pulls him up into his lap, lets him rest his ugly, wet face in the crook of his shoulder as he embraces him, rubs soothing circles into his trembling back.
“You didn't. I love you” Jack says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like the mess Brock dragged them into doesn’t exist.
Eventually, Brock’s crying ceases. His breathing evens out and an overwhelming tiredness hits him all at once. More than anything, he feels empty.
'They'll make me do it again. And I don't want no one but you touching me. But they'll make me' he says into Jack’s shoulder, into the scent of fresh laundry and home cooking.
'They won't. I'll take care of it. I'll take care of you' Jack reassures, and all Brock wants is to believe it.
After all, he’s always been selfish.