Work Text:
Rusty Venture's bald forehead caught the bright light of the television like a projector screen; a pale glow in the dim twilight atmosphere permeating the Venture Complex's seating area with the lights turned low (which his bodyguard usually just called the living room, but Doc was - at times - stern about calling it the former for whatever inscrutable reason. Rich guy thing, probably). He had a glass of something bubbling in his palm, elbow leaning against the arm of the couch. Or maybe two somethings. Even three. There were at least that many bottles on the table, anyhow.
"The Sopranos?" Brock leaned forward, arms crossed against the back of the couch and next to his head. Rusty didn't seem perturbed about no longer being alone; either he noticed beforehand or didn't care either way. It was generally better for him to be left alone when he indulged considerably in substances (more than usual), though. Regardless, he nodded solemnly, raising his glass as he did. "-An American cable classic, or so I've been told."
"You've never seen it before?"
"What, surprised?" He was slurring his words a little.
"I figure you'd have, is all. Was, or uh, is popular." Brock said, glancing at Rusty from the corner of his eye.
"Didn't have the time when it came out; I was very busy..."
"With super science?" It was a semi-sarcastic question, but Rusty didn't notice.
"A mélange of that and some other business-related crap that I don't remember right now." He paused, motioning to the assortment of bottles on the coffee table. "-Speaking of one, care for a drink?"
The corner of Brock's lips pursed into a fine line. "I think you've already had a bit much, Doc... shouldn't enable you."
"That doesn't affect how much you've drank now, has it? Lighten up, come on..."
Rusty patted the seat next to him, and reluctantly, Brock stepped over the back of the couch and slumped into place, arms crossed. "What's in the bottles?"
"I wanted a Manhattan, but I only had bourbon and the vermouth, so I found some other drinky-mixy stuff in the cupboards and made it work out."
If there was one perk of being an old-money guy's bodyguard, it was being able to taste the expensive stuff now and again... as long as his boss wasn't being as stingy as he tended to be. Brock decided to grab the Burbon by the neck of bottle to take a swig directly from, which Rusty was thankfully too drunk to care about; he did watch silently when he tipped it back and took a few languid swallows, though.
"-Which episode are you on?" Brock asked.
He looked away quickly. "Oh, I don't know," Rusty sighed. "Three? Four? I think it's four. They just shot some guy in the head last episode.”
"You enjoyin' it? I'm surprised you're watching this kind of show while being as hammered as you are."
"I'm not hammered, Brock, I'm only tipsy!” A blatant lie. “Whatever, I don't have to prove anything to you, who cares... anyway, It's good. A lot more intense than I thought it was going to be going in, though."
"What did you think a mafia drama story was gonna be about? Walkin’ around New York? Hanging out?”
“Of course not-”
Brock laughed a little. “Maybe have two or three guys snapping their fingers and walking down the street?...”
"Okay, for your information, wise-ass, I thought this would be more action-oriented going in. Also, it's in New Jersey or something."
'Or something', Brock thought, still smirking subtly to himself. "But you're still watching it."
"Well, it kinda sucked me in. The intrigue and all that. Tony is a pretty compelling protagonist, you know... I can sort of relate to the guy," Rusty said, leaning back against the couch with a familiarly self-absorbed simper, and with his wine glass tucked between his middle and ring finger.
"Oh yeah?" Brock resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"Yeah! Look, his simplistic, primitive line of work is in a totally different league than my profession, don't get me wrong, but his er... his whole deal with the, like, balancing his intense work obligations and the challenges - the danger - that goes with them, while trying to protect his children is all very compelling." Rusty sucked down the last of the alcohol in his glass. "-Mm, and having to juggle the responsibilities of being a father with all that too. Tony, man, he's got all this crap to deal with... it's so relatable it sort of disturbs me. Poor guy."
"You don't think he has any responsibility over what's going on at all?”
"Sure," Rusty interrupted. "Who doesn't have some control over a few small things, but his real problems were all thrust upon him, to be frank. What the hell is he supposed to do besides his best at this point?"
"So... you think the dude is a good guy or something?"
Rusty snorted, letting his head flop back against the couch cushion, staring now at the ceiling. "Don't be naïve... his situation is complicated! You don’t just get to tap out of responsibilities like that.”
“Even if it endangers his kids to be, like, mafioso-ing around?”
Rusty’s rolled his eyes, with a hint of annoyance in his voice. “-Well, he can’t exactly do anything about that now, can he? Suspension of disbelief, it’s a TV show…”
Brock got the sense to drop this line of conversation. He figured that Rusty was likely better suited to analyzing samples of bodily fluids than TV shows. Not like he was any better at it, anyway. "...Speaking of kids, the boys are hangin' out in their room. Will probably get to sleep sooner or later."
"Good. Don't need Hank coming in and asking if he's allowed to try any of this. At best, he'll sneak some, hate it, and puke all over my granite counters directly afterwards..."
"I think the kid is more interested in seeing how many different kinds of soda he can put into a single cup than stealing from the liquor cabinet," he joked.
"You'd be surprised where curiosity about that stuff could carry a kid his age. Don't want to risk it."
"How responsible of you," Brock noted, but with a tone that suggested a degree of pride. Well, maybe not pride; pleasant surprise could be closer. The bar is low, but at least it’s being met on some level. Rusty groaned and waved at him dismissively, letting his empty wine glass roll out from his other palm and onto the cushion beside him. Though the show continued to play, he became much less conversational, only looking away to occasionally stare at Brock, who pretended not to notice.
"...Brock?"
"What's up?"
"...It's cold in here. Could you grab me a blanket?"
“Can’t get it yourself?” Though he was already standing up.
Rusty watched Brock’s fuzzy shape leave the room through bleary eyes, thankful somewhere inside that inky pit within his chest that he was so agreeable to waiting on him as much as he did. His cold fingers traced over the goosebumps lining his upper arms, twisting himself back into a forward-facing position on the couch when his eyes landed on that near-empty bourbon bottle. It gleamed at him in a sort of daring way, catching the warped reflections of James Gandolfini’s balding head. He didn’t even really care for drinking straight alcohol, asides from when he was just trying to get as drunk as possible, preferring cocktails that taste good and get him knocked out hard enough to forget what day it was… but a deeper urge in the back of his head swayed him to lean forward, sliding his fingers down the smooth glass neck and clasping his palm around it almost sensually. It was still a little warm from when Brock was holding it a couple minutes earlier, near the base of the stem. His hands were so much warmer, and big enough to hold it around its thickest diameter. Big, strong hands.
Rusty leaned back against the couch, lifting the mouth of the bottle against his lips, keeping it stationary for a moment. He closed his eyes, his trembling lungs forcing out a weak exhale before he breathed in. Slowly. The drink was sharp with alcohol and complex flavor, though it wasn’t the notes of wood or vanilla that he was trying so hard to discern. His body was moving without his brain at this point, leaving himself no room to second-guess. His earlier approximation of a Manhattan would wear off eventually, so he told himself that he just wanted something more to drink to compensate. That’s all this was. The way his tongue slid against where he imagined Brock’s mouth was earlier said another thing entirely.
He tipped it back to swallow down what there was left of it, but felt the bottle tugged from his lips, and the weight of a blanket dropping down over him instead. “You’ve had enough, Doc.”
Rusty felt shameful heat pooling into his cheeks, as if he was caught in the act of something much more salacious than drinking bourbon. He tugged the blanket around himself quickly, huffing in his own indignation. “-I’m a grown man, Brock, I know my limits.”
“You could barely finish your sentences half an hour ago.”
“That was then, this is now.” He felt Brock’s weight against the couch again, and looked up to watch him drink the last of the bourbon himself. Rusty’s mouth went dry, mind lightheaded. He closed his lips quickly, and reflexively attempted to keep his eyes settled on his knees instead. “-Anyway, you’re only saying that so you can drink the rest of my alcohol. You’re lucky I don’t make you pay.”
“Uh huh,” Brock said, humoring him a little. He placed the bottle back onto the table.
“It’s true. I could hold a grudge. That was expensive bourbon. I don’t splurge often.”
“Sorry, Doc.” He wasn’t. Rusty didn’t care though. They both knew that complaining was his way of expressing himself, for the better or worse. The episode had ended a while ago, but Rusty hadn’t noticed yet, buzzed mind still swimming over the image of Brock’s lips pressing against where his own just were, and vice-versa. Maybe he would’ve been more vehement about keeping wandering compulsive thoughts like that out of his head had he been a little more sober. Or maybe not. He was cold a moment ago, but now he could feel sweat against his palms. He really shouldn’t keep mixing his pills with alcohol like this. He still will anyway.
“…Are you okay, Doc?”
“-Yes,” Rusty mumbled, probably a little too quickly. “I’m just… I’m not feeling in the right mind I think.”
“Is that why you’re up so late like this? ‘N why you repurposed the coffee table into a bar?”
Rusty wasn’t sure. Maybe he felt lonely? Lonely for what? The thought was so embarrassing that it made him sick to consider. Sometimes it was just fun to get drunk. He was having FUN, damn it. Barrels of it. Whatever the reason though, Brock took his silence as it was, and sighed. “…Let’s get you to bed, Doc.”
“…Okay,” he replied, feeling suddenly small. He didn’t object to it when Brock lifted him up into his arms either; he was probably assuming that Rusty was too drunk to shamble to bed on his own, not wanting to deal with the aftermath of him smashing his head open on the tile floors. Though, like a kid pretending to fall asleep on the car ride home, he didn’t announce that he felt like he could probably make it on his own. “…Will you make sure the boys are asleep?”
“Already taken care of, Doc.”
“…Thank you, Brock.”
“Mhmm.” His voice was rumbling and husky, with a depth that made whatever hair was left on the back of Rusty’s neck stand up. His palm slid itself onto the left side of his chest, closing his eyes for a moment. His respite was cut to its end once Brock set him down on top of his bed.
“Need water or something before I leave you be?”
Rusty’s jaw clenched. Then un-clenched. He must’ve looked as indecisive as he felt, because Brock left him with a single pat on the knee, already moving to get him a glass. When he returned, he was under his blankets, though he propped himself up, pillows behind his back. Brock held out the water wordlessly, and Rusty took it, but kept it clasped between his palms in his lap, staring down at the ripples. With an unsteady hand, he eventually slid the glass onto the end table, spilling a couple drops.
“…Hey Brock?”
He sat down on the bed, next to where Rusty lied.
“You’re too nice to me…”
“You’re drunk as hell,” Brock sighed. "I'm just making sure you don't trip over your own feet. Doin' my job."
“Maybe.”
Brock hesitated for a bit, sitting there in silence, hands clasped and elbows resting on his thighs, looking out the glass panes across from him. Rusty was glad for it. Glad for every moment spent in company for now. He was so cold and empty all the time. So lonely, lonely, lonely in his room alone like some sort of lonely freak. Raised to be alone and living to die alone, forever in the shadow of the man who raised him to be lonely once he died. Alone.
“…Do you know what it’s like?” He asked, as if he was speaking out loud the whole time.
“Nah,” Brock said, as if he understood. “But it’s not gonna help you to get drunk and sorry for yourself all the time. You’ve got other responsibilities.”
It was the truth, but Rusty didn’t want the truth right now. It made his chest ache. He wished that Brock would tell him instead how sorry and sad he was, and how much he deserved to be happy, and how he deserved to be given the world that he was promised; that the loneliest little man in the world is owed all the love he was always denied. So ruthlessly denied. Bitterly, Rusty frowned, glowering out the window now too. His eyes found the direction that Brock was staring, watching as an orange half-moon hung low in the sky, accompanied by billions of dancing stars.
“…That’s nice.”
“Yeah.”
Rusty’s hands finally stopped clenching the duvet, instead shifting forward on the bed, orienting himself to let his legs tuck behind him, and moving now to lean against Brock. “You know, there’s like… way more out there than you can see. And probably a lot of these are already gone.”
“Don’t give me an existential crisis.”
Rusty laughed softly; his glasses crooked on his face as his cheek leaned into his bicep. “Mmn, I won’t. Well, it really shouldn’t be enough to terrify anyone. Space is going to be out there whether we think about it or not, infinitely expanding… the eternal beast, ever-hungering.”
“This is what I mean, man, that’s freaky shit.” Brock said. “Why don’t you tell me something nice about space?”
“Well, if you wanna be so damn close-minded… We are in a cozy spot in space. Perfect position to be able to view a total solar eclipse and sustain life at the same time… which is so exceedingly rare of a phenomm... phenomeno… fuck, phenomenon individually, that it’s frankly insane that they both happened at once. Jupiter is extremely diligent at shielding us from debris soaring through outer space, too.”
“Mmhmm. Anything else?”
Rusty was surprised Brock hadn’t moved him yet. A testament to his patience, maybe. “-Wellll, I guess this is also the same planet where they invented mixology…”
“Cars too,” Brock added. “And those little uh... hostess cupcakes.”
“Mmnhmm, and Carbonara.”
“Can’t forget Pierogis.”
“Those little umbrellas you get in drinks by the beach too,” Rusty drawled, arm slowly sliding around Brock’s for stability. “Backyard lounge chairs…”
“Led Zepplin,” Brock closed his eyes. “Sunday evenings…”
Rusty’s eyes focused in on the golden curls spilling around his shoulders. “…Summertime…”
“And two kids. Who, despite everything, love you unconditionally.”
“…Yeah. For the better or worse, I guess,” Rusty muttered. To that though, Brock sighed, still staring out the window.
“…Well, whether they do or not, don’t keep getting like this when they’re home. Or, at least where they have to see.”
“What, are you coaching my life now?...”
“Not your nanny. Not telling you what to do with your life either – don’t drink and take drugs or do. But sober or not, don’t forget your responsibilities.”
“Yeesh, you make me sound like an addict,” he replied, which Brock didn’t dignify with a response. In the silence, though, Rusty slid his body in a little closer. Brock never seemed to suggest that he had a problem with Rusty being a touchy type. It sort of happened over time anyway; it’s how they communicated. Just who they were, and who Rusty was... but maybe he could be a little closer. It was cold now that he wasn’t under the blankets. And Brock was so warm… And big. Big and warm. His head was spinning a little less, which made it easier for him to slowly wrap his skinny arms around him in a hug. For once, Rusty’s touch made him twitch.
“…What are you doing?”
“It’s cold, Brock… please stay a while…”
Brock didn’t say anything for a moment, and Rusty didn’t look up to see his expression, with his face pressed in against his arm… Which then moved to his chest, shifting his head in against it subtly. He stayed still for a moment, though eventually Rusty could feel his palm rest against the back of his head, smoothed-over callouses pressing into the soft skin of his scalp.
“…You need to go to bed.”
“But I don’t want to be alone.”
“You’re not gonna be. I’m just a room away,” he said, reassuring him. Maybe he sensed that Rusty was more mentally fragile than usual right now, because his voice had less of a sharp edge to it than it did before.
“I just want you to stay here with me…”
“Doc-”
“You’re always so nice to me, too nice… I just want you to be here forever…”
“It’s my job, Doc. Come on, you’re gonna regret acting like this in the morning if you remember any of it.”
“I would feel the same about you if I was sober too. I always do,” Rusty said, ever so gently. Maybe it’s the nicest thing he’s ever said about anyone. It’s definitely the nicest thing he’s said around Brock, anyway. “You’re my… my best friend… feel safe with you always…”
Brock didn’t respond for a while, letting Rusty clamber up into a sad, pathetic ball against him, with his legs draped over his thigh now and half-sitting on him, half on the bed. Rusty felt that hand from before slide down from his head and onto his back. He still couldn’t bear to see what face he was making; if it was one of disgust, or pity, he may just die. Pity would be preferable to disgust, though. Rusty inhaled shakily, then, slowly, began to mutter again, despite the amount of better judgment he still possessed like this.
“I just want you to know that… Mmn.. I really think I would like it… and it would be a lot of fun if… if you and I-”
“Doc,” Brock said a little more sternly, and Rusty went silent for a moment.
“…If we…”
“-Whatever it is, it can wait until you’re not completely hammered."
“I won’t remember or wanna say it tomorrow…”
“Probably for the best,” Brock said, and then added somewhat distantly, “you’d thank me.”
Rusty felt a pit of sadness welling up, though it passed quickly enough with a sigh. “…Yeah, probably.
The silence prolonged itself for a few moments longer, but eventually, Brock broke it himself. “Here, let’s get you to bed, man.” Rusty was lifted up and slid back under the sheets, with Brock making sure the comforter was snug around him. “If you really end up needing me back in here, you have the watch. But it better not be just so we can talk about planets again.”
“You liked my planet facts,” Rusty muttered matter-of-factually.
“Yeah. I did, Doc.”
Brock closed his curtains and turned down the lights, making his way over towards the door. He looked back to see Rusty already fast asleep, tired eyes shut and lying peacefully on his side. He closed the door as softly as he could, though at this point, not even hell could wake a man so utterly passed out.
He stood there for a bit too long. Eventually though, he left to return to his own room.
This wasn’t the first time Doc had gotten like this. Probably wouldn’t be the last either. But in the morning, he would wake up with a nasty hangover. Maybe he would remember saying something sort of suspect while under the influence and pretend not to, or maybe he wouldn’t recall much at all.
Regardless of the specifics, Brock will nag him out of bed to help him make some French toast by the stove, and Dean will supply him with a cool glass of water, with some fruit he sweetly mixed in to help him nurse his aching head. They’ll be playing some rolling stones mixtape on the CD player; something that Brock put together in college (and got a virus from downloading all the MP3s for). Hank will probably be dancing the whole time, in breakfast-fueled jubilation, pretending he knows the lyrics by just mumbling a bunch of random vowels and consonants. The sun will surely rise and the sunset will be just as beautiful from the view on their porch, where Doc will sit on a well-worn lounge chair and Brock will apply some spray-on wax solution to his car in the garage, before being nagged by him to go water the plants out front with a hose. And just as sure as all else shall be, so will the unsaid words between them both, behind tongues fearfully held. But, regardless of the existence of unsaid things, this life was still a sort of bliss as it existed already, and maybe that was okay for now.