“You sure you don’t wanna come?”
“I just kind of feel like spending the day at Jared’s, I—I don’t know. You know how Dad gets sometimes—”
“—yeah, I know. Just gonna be weird having both you and Hank gone on Christmas.”
“Yeah.”
The silence stretches out between them. It’s somewhere near 10 PM on Christmas Eve, and Brock finds himself sitting on his mattress, studying the worry lines in Dean’s face through the small screen on his watch.
Dean is polite enough not to mention that the past few Christmases have had a notable absence in the form of Brock himself, even if they’re both thinking about it. They haven’t spent Christmas together as a family for a while now.
“Sorry,” Dean stutters awkwardly, after a moment, once the quiet becomes stifling enough that he can’t stand it anymore. “I just—”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for, kid,” Brock cuts him off with a smile. “You’re an adult. Do whatever the hell you want. Your dad’ll be fine.”
Dean chews his lip for a minute, then flashes a nervous smile of his own. “Thanks, Brock. Merry Christmas.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly, finger hovering over the button to switch the call off. “you too.”
Brock stands up after a moment, stretching briefly, wrenching his arms far enough forward that he hears his bones click. Hank is busy with his girlfriend, Dean is busy with his — well, he hasn’t admitted it yet, but Brock isn’t convinced their relationship is platonic. His “friend.” Leaving just him and Doc to celebrate on their lonesome.
It’s not how he’d pictured celebrating Christmas, but since the thing with Warriana didn’t quite work out, he doesn’t exactly have a choice.
(Certainly, Hatred wouldn’t be opposed to coming up to spend the evening, but he knows neither him nor Doc have any interest in that idea.)
Brock finds Doc curled up underneath a particularly tacky blanket next to a half-emptied glass of eggnog, the TV advertising various mundane products set to Christmas carols inbetween some old Christmas movie. For a moment, he considers not waking him, just leaving him like that. But Doc probably deserves to know that the boys aren’t coming home anytime soon, no matter how long he naps on the couch.
“Doc,” he says, quietly at first, then louder as he grows impatient, reaching forward to shake the man’s shoulder. “Doc. Wake up.”
“Guh—” Dr. Venture blearily squints up at him for a few seconds before his eyes close again with a loud yawn, reaching blindly for his glasses on the coffee table, nearly knocking them — and the eggnog — off in the process. “w'do you want?”
Brock hesitates. He’d intended to be blunt about this, but something stills his hand. Instead of delivering the news bluntly, he opts for a gentler question. “You still think the boys are coming?”
A blank expression greets him, as if he’d forgotten it was a possibility they wouldn’t.
“Well,” he starts, pulling himself tiredly into a sitting position, tugging the blanket more securely over his slim shoulders. “of course. Of course they’re coming. It’s Christmas. Why wouldn’t they?”
“I got them presents,” Rusty adds, more quietly, as if that were an obvious guarantee that they’d come. For material goods, if nothing else.
Brock sighs as he looks down at him. There’s something very pathetic about this whole display — the glasses askew on his nose, the companion alcohol, the unspoken yet painfully obvious hope — yet at the same time, it’s oddly compelling. (It’s not the first time he’s ascribed those words to Doc’s antics.)
Sitting down next to him, he grabs the remote and checks the TV guide. A Christmas Carol. Figures.
Rusty glances over at him a little reproachfully, like he knows there’s an element of pity to his company, yet finds himself grateful for it. He scoots nearer to him on the couch, enough that their shoulders are touching.
Brock doesn’t shrug him off like he normally does. It’s Christmas, after all. If Doc is craving physical touch on a holiday when both his kids are gone, well, that’s almost what Brock would describe as sympathetic. Almost.
And after a moment of thought, he begrudgingly slings an arm around his shoulders, sliding him closer. It’s enough of a surprise to make Doc flinch, looking up at him in mild confusion that Brock doesn’t even acknowledge.
They watch the movie in silence.
It’s thirty minutes later when he says something. At some point Rusty’s head had tipped, as a matter of positioning and gravity, onto his chest, and now they are somewhere uncomfortably close to snuggling. But the growing sleepiness in Brock’s mind leaves him too lazy to fix it — the only reason, surely.
“They’re not coming, Doc,” he says quietly, tipping his chin down to look at him.
Rusty doesn’t lift his head, staring at the TV. “They’ll come.”
“You don’t know that. The boys aren’t boys anymore — they’re adults, they’ve got stuff to do, lives of their own —”
“We’re family, Brock,” he replies, more than a little irritably. “They’ll come.”
Brock sighs at his persistence, falling silent, turning his head away to look at something else.
By coincidence, his eyes catch the windows facing the rooftop, and sees something far more interesting than a movie he’s watched for the 20th time. He gets up suddenly, grabbing Doc’s hand without even thinking about it, tugging him up off the couch.
“Come outside for a sec.”
Visibly startled, Rusty stumbles a little, his other hand clumsily holding the blanket tight around his shoulders. “What? It’s the middle of the night! It’s cold out there—”
“Trust me,” Brock replies, a comment that Rusty has learned to respect over the course of their business partnership. He grows quiet, following along in the shadow of Brock’s heavy footsteps.
Past the open door and onto the roof, it is, as Doc said, cold as hell. But there’s a reason for that — suspended in the air, falling delicately all around them, are small puffs of snow.
The city stretching out before them is lit up even now, full of stores lingering open for those last-minute shoppers on Christmas Eve. Between the softly glowing windows and the flakes of white drifting through the air, it’s downright picturesque.
“Oh,” Rusty says quietly. “It’s snowing.”
“Yeah.” Brock closes the door behind them and sits down on the steps, shuddering a little at the cold surface underneath him. He’s suddenly very glad for the fact that he’s wearing a jacket. “Good old-fashioned White Christmas for you, Doc.”
The scientist takes a seat beside him, once again a little closer than necessary, staring up into the sky with a little wonder.
Silence falls again. Brock checks his watch — 10:40. Getting close to midnight.
His thoughts stray to Hank, then Dean, wondering if they’re having a nice time. Dean’s probably asleep already — he’d looked tired. Quizboy and White are probably busy squabbling over some misplaced decoration. in their cramped apartment. Shore Leave’s probably partying, Hunter probably hasn’t left his desk for a minute, he never was much for holidays—
“It really is just me and you this year,” Doc says quietly, almost like it’s a question.
He looks over at Rusty, the blanket drawn tightly around his small frame, staring out into the open sky at nothing in particular, something oddly sober in his features.
“…Yeah.”
What else is there to say?
As if refusing to let himself dwell on the ramifications of that, Doc perks up a few seconds later, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose and taking on an irritated expression. “Well, what the hell are we doing out here? It’s colder than Satan’s asshole. I don’t even have a coat—”
“You complain too damn much,” he grunts, grabbing him and yanking him forward. The smaller man gives an undignified yelp, limbs scrabbling to find purchase as he’s abruptly pulled more-or-less into Brock’s lap, while Brock curls both of his broad arms around him. “C'mere, Doc.”
He regrets this decision about two seconds later. Doc is now — way too close. Entirely too close. Close enough to see the understated blue of his irises usually dulled and hidden by his glasses, to easily study the confusion and rare vulnerability in his expression. Close enough to see, very quickly, that Doc is equally as aware of how awkward a position this is.
“Now you’re warm,” he explains bluntly. He doesn’t lose his nerve, doesn’t look away, much as he wants to. Make a stupid decision, might as well commit to it.
“Thanks,” Rusty replies, just as awkwardly. He slowly fits his arms around Brock’s wide middle in return, tucking them under his coat to keep warm.
It’s quiet. Snow continues to gently fall around them. City lights twinkle and some blink out of existence, one by one, as stores close. For a few moments, it feels like this is all there is — the solid ground underneath them, the warm, thin body against his own, the biting chill of the air.
Doc’s face is still what he might describe as “nonplussed,” frozen in silence, unsure what to do. But after a few seconds, his eyes start to move, searching Brock’s face with something like curiosity.
Again, there is something oddly compelling about all of this. It’s probably the fatigue, or the eggnog, or the cold. That’s what Brock decides to tell himself later, at least, as he slowly bridges the distance between them.
And it only lasts for a moment. Doc’s lips are cold and wet, his movements clumsy and uncertain. His own are far more decisive, practiced. That doesn’t stop it from being one of the most surreal things he’s ever done.
When they part, he swears that those blue eyes are a little brighter, a little clearer. Must just be reflecting the light coming from the building behind them. The smile, though — that’s hard to mistake.
“It’s just me and you,” Brock says quietly, his voice soft and rumbling. Somewhere along the way, one of his hands had slipped down to rest on the small of Doc’s back. “You okay with that?”
“Yeah,” Rusty mumbles, leaning in a little closer until their noses touch. “I think I’ll be fine.”
