#mcnook

But that was in the room, not in the VIP section of a fancy club the team had decided to rent in celebration of - something. Brock can’t actually remember the occasion, all he knows is that the rookies are getting absolutely shitfaced and the veterans are pretending to be better than that even as they buy them shots, downing glasses of pretentious whiskey like it’s water.

“Brock McGinn,” Marty whisper yells from his new seat in Brock’s lap, because he’s incapable of being quiet. He stinks of whiskey, and his eyes are glassy.

“Jordan Martinook,” Brock answers, attempting to catch his breath after it was knocked out of him. He wraps an arm around Marty’s waist, telling himself it’s for balance. “What are you doing over here? Shouldn’t you be harassing rookies?”

“I’d rather be here,” Marty sighs, dropping his head to rest on Brock’s shoulder. “I saw you hiding in the corner and would rather be with you.”

Brock squeezes his eyes closed, because that isn’t - he wasn’t - he’s drunk.

“You’re welcome here,” Brock managages to say. Marty hums and drops a gentle kiss to his neck that he feels in his toes.

“Always?”