for @tamingwinter

Stepping into his old house--into his father’s house--felt uncomfortable.  Aside from the memories it brought up, there was something voyeuristic about it.  Seeing firsthand the way his father had lived really drove home how far the man had slipped in his later days.  

The power was out when he returned to the house that night.  He managed to find a flashlight, and went into the basement to look for the fuse box.  When he got the lights on, he turned...and saw a cage.

He got closer as he listened to the conversation that he had with another man, even if the topic was only secondary. Brock took two glasses of whiskey and walked over. “I think you may could like this,” he said when he offered the young man a glass, a knowing smile on his face.

He studied the man as Jack walked toward him down the street. He probably didn't even see Brock yet, who was leaning against the wall near a fruit stand. He would stand his ground. Was Jack a threat? Probably. But Brock didn't think he'd come out guns ablazing without a little chat first. Besides, Brock had his knives stashed on him, as usual.

Brock groaned, sustaining Jack’s weight atop of him and letting him slump against himself as he fiddled with the headlight to read the notes on his map. “ The fuck am I supposed to know how many hours. Map says 68 miles…” he trails off and shuts the headlights  “How bout you get some sleep? I’ll stand watch.” Brock turned his eyes to the fluttering zipper of the tent they were in.

Bucky smiled.  “Yeah, sure.  Did you have something in mind?”