[ Brock does not, in any way, want to encourage self-reflection. If he starts prodding Jack along that path, he’s going to have to follow suit, and life’s taught him in its most heavy-handed manner that his destination rarely matches up with that of anyone else. If he starts poking around in the depths of his shriveled, shrunken heart, he’s going to find undeniable proof of what he already knows and just blithely pretends to ignore.
He cares about Jack a lot. Not the prince of Gilboa and the trappings of power that come with the title. Not the promise of some inheritance should he ever come back into possession of it. Just Jack. Just the spoiled, petty, pissy, contrary, bratty, arrogant, selfish little shit that makes up Jack Benjamin.
Because he sees what’s under all that armor. He’s sees the hurt Silas and Rose have caused, the wounds that don’t heal and the scars that haven’t faded. And sometimes, when he least expects it, he catches glimpses so fleeting of who Jack might have been that he thinks that he might be imagining them. It’s those might-have-been moments that make who he is now all the more poignant and, at times, painful. It’s wearing on him, undermining all of the callousness and distance and cool disinterest Brock’s held toward the world at large. Worse than that, it’s making him love him.
And it’s getting harder and harder to live with Jack every day and pretend that he doesn’t. This mission is both a relief and a challenge, pretending that he loves the man he pretends he doesn’t love by letting himself love him openly and pretending that it’s fake. Even for a double-agent, it’s getting a little complicated.
Explosion or deflection: those are the two options from which he suspects Jack’s reaction to his words will come. Vitriol and anger or blasé mockery. It’s like rolling the dice, gambling for no prize at all, yet Brock can’t help watching Jack look at him, and then their hands, with bated breath. Waiting with a curious sense of anticipation.
Deflection, he thinks, as he hears the sigh and the words that follow. He’s about to roll his eyes, deliver some equally sarcastic retort to strip the residual weight from the declaration that he’s made, when Jack takes him by surprise with that kiss. And does it again a second later, when the kiss turns out not to be a quick, fiery affair that scrambles his mind with lust, but the kind of slow burn that makes his chest ache in ways he’s still not accustomed to.
Perhaps it’s too soft, too tender, to cradle the back of Jack’s head in his palm, but the kiss lends itself to the gesture and Brock doesn’t hesitate and overthink it. He just moves with the moment, sliding an arm around Jack’s waist and shifting closer as he surrenders himself to his mouth. There’s no fight in him, no need to direct the speed or the intensity of what they’re doing. Brock gives it over to Jack without even a hint of protest. There are other things he means to communicate than his strength, and he tries now, using lips and tongue to say without words all of the things he won’t allow himself to think, much less voice.
When the need to breathe forces him to pull back to steal a hurried sip of air, what he does voice is as flippant as what Jack had. ]
You think this is dramatic? [ Another quick intake of breath and he leans forward again, brushing his lips against Jack’s in a way that’s clearly, undeniably a caress. The effect’s only slightly ruined near the end, when Brock’s lips twist into a grin. ] Wait until you hear my vows.
no subject
He cares about Jack a lot. Not the prince of Gilboa and the trappings of power that come with the title. Not the promise of some inheritance should he ever come back into possession of it. Just Jack. Just the spoiled, petty, pissy, contrary, bratty, arrogant, selfish little shit that makes up Jack Benjamin.
Because he sees what’s under all that armor. He’s sees the hurt Silas and Rose have caused, the wounds that don’t heal and the scars that haven’t faded. And sometimes, when he least expects it, he catches glimpses so fleeting of who Jack might have been that he thinks that he might be imagining them. It’s those might-have-been moments that make who he is now all the more poignant and, at times, painful. It’s wearing on him, undermining all of the callousness and distance and cool disinterest Brock’s held toward the world at large. Worse than that, it’s making him love him.
And it’s getting harder and harder to live with Jack every day and pretend that he doesn’t. This mission is both a relief and a challenge, pretending that he loves the man he pretends he doesn’t love by letting himself love him openly and pretending that it’s fake. Even for a double-agent, it’s getting a little complicated.
Explosion or deflection: those are the two options from which he suspects Jack’s reaction to his words will come. Vitriol and anger or blasé mockery. It’s like rolling the dice, gambling for no prize at all, yet Brock can’t help watching Jack look at him, and then their hands, with bated breath. Waiting with a curious sense of anticipation.
Deflection, he thinks, as he hears the sigh and the words that follow. He’s about to roll his eyes, deliver some equally sarcastic retort to strip the residual weight from the declaration that he’s made, when Jack takes him by surprise with that kiss. And does it again a second later, when the kiss turns out not to be a quick, fiery affair that scrambles his mind with lust, but the kind of slow burn that makes his chest ache in ways he’s still not accustomed to.
Perhaps it’s too soft, too tender, to cradle the back of Jack’s head in his palm, but the kiss lends itself to the gesture and Brock doesn’t hesitate and overthink it. He just moves with the moment, sliding an arm around Jack’s waist and shifting closer as he surrenders himself to his mouth. There’s no fight in him, no need to direct the speed or the intensity of what they’re doing. Brock gives it over to Jack without even a hint of protest. There are other things he means to communicate than his strength, and he tries now, using lips and tongue to say without words all of the things he won’t allow himself to think, much less voice.
When the need to breathe forces him to pull back to steal a hurried sip of air, what he does voice is as flippant as what Jack had. ]
You think this is dramatic? [ Another quick intake of breath and he leans forward again, brushing his lips against Jack’s in a way that’s clearly, undeniably a caress. The effect’s only slightly ruined near the end, when Brock’s lips twist into a grin. ] Wait until you hear my vows.