[ If Most Likely to Die a Bachelor had been a superlative in his high school’s yearbook, Brock would have likely carried the unanimous vote. And that had been before the military and the things he’d seen in combat had warped him. Before Hydra had gotten its tentacles around him and twisted him even further. If he felt like it, in the rare moment of downtime between playing loyal SHIELD lapdog and Hydra’s snarling attack monster, he might enjoy a quick, casual, meaningless fuck. But he didn’t have relationships. He certainly didn’t think about marriage.
Until a stopover in some weird-ass, ultra conservative religious clusterfuck of a country had inadvertently brought about a mid-life crisis of Biblical proportions.
He doesn’t know who suggested them for the mission, but he suspects—deep down in the depths of his cold, dark soul he knows—that it was Rollins. What he really doesn’t know, will likely never know, is whether it was meant as a joke or if it was supposed to be a subtle, subtle, kick in the ass. All he’s actually clear on is that it pisses Jack off, and that, in turn, pisses him off. Because an angry Jack is an even more difficult Jack to live with than usual and the last thing he needs right now is another domestic disturbance complaint filed against him with the police department.
It was one, albeit very loud argument, in the middle of the street at an unfortunate time of night that happened three months ago. The Johnsons really need to get the fuck over it already.
Brock won’t say it out loud, but it’s actually kind of fun, all this cloak and dagger undercover shit with Jack. It’s like the best parts of Hydra without all the bowing and scraping and whispering little code phrases into the ears of others like long lost lovers. He likes the activity, the hint of danger, the thrill of adrenalin, and it’s nice to have someone at his back again that he trusts. The mission’s cover’s a little hokey, sure, but he’s confident they can manage.
If they don’t start fighting over something trivial in the middle of it.
Although he’s not a fluffy bathrobe kind of guy, there’s one in the room for him and since it’s there, he figures he may as well use it. He doesn’t wear it as second-skin comfortably as Jack, he’d never had this kind of luxury often enough prior to their life together for it to be anything other than a novelty, but he can’t deny that it feels nice against his skin. He casts a sidelong direction Jack’s way as he makes his way over to the couch, biting the inside of his lip against the smile as he sits down, and decides to patiently wait him out until he makes the quip.
Looping his arm around Jack’s shoulders, Brock tugs him closer, turning his head and favoring him with the kind of beatific smile he assumes a married man would give a husband he felt so passionately about that he wanted to renew their vows on a beach in the middle of France. ]
Oh, darling, I couldn’t possibly forget them. [ In order to give it just enough ring of authenticity to throw Jack off, Brock lets a hint of his genuine feelings creep into his voice as he heaps some exaggerated sappiness into it. ] They’re etched in my heart right alongside my love for you.
no subject
Until a stopover in some weird-ass, ultra conservative religious clusterfuck of a country had inadvertently brought about a mid-life crisis of Biblical proportions.
He doesn’t know who suggested them for the mission, but he suspects—deep down in the depths of his cold, dark soul he knows—that it was Rollins. What he really doesn’t know, will likely never know, is whether it was meant as a joke or if it was supposed to be a subtle, subtle, kick in the ass. All he’s actually clear on is that it pisses Jack off, and that, in turn, pisses him off. Because an angry Jack is an even more difficult Jack to live with than usual and the last thing he needs right now is another domestic disturbance complaint filed against him with the police department.
It was one, albeit very loud argument, in the middle of the street at an unfortunate time of night that happened three months ago. The Johnsons really need to get the fuck over it already.
Brock won’t say it out loud, but it’s actually kind of fun, all this cloak and dagger undercover shit with Jack. It’s like the best parts of Hydra without all the bowing and scraping and whispering little code phrases into the ears of others like long lost lovers. He likes the activity, the hint of danger, the thrill of adrenalin, and it’s nice to have someone at his back again that he trusts. The mission’s cover’s a little hokey, sure, but he’s confident they can manage.
If they don’t start fighting over something trivial in the middle of it.
Although he’s not a fluffy bathrobe kind of guy, there’s one in the room for him and since it’s there, he figures he may as well use it. He doesn’t wear it as second-skin comfortably as Jack, he’d never had this kind of luxury often enough prior to their life together for it to be anything other than a novelty, but he can’t deny that it feels nice against his skin. He casts a sidelong direction Jack’s way as he makes his way over to the couch, biting the inside of his lip against the smile as he sits down, and decides to patiently wait him out until he makes the quip.
Looping his arm around Jack’s shoulders, Brock tugs him closer, turning his head and favoring him with the kind of beatific smile he assumes a married man would give a husband he felt so passionately about that he wanted to renew their vows on a beach in the middle of France. ]
Oh, darling, I couldn’t possibly forget them. [ In order to give it just enough ring of authenticity to throw Jack off, Brock lets a hint of his genuine feelings creep into his voice as he heaps some exaggerated sappiness into it. ] They’re etched in my heart right alongside my love for you.