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It's been a hell of a day and an even worse couple of weeks, so when one of the executive assistants hurries up to him as he's on his way to Fury’s office and tells him he's needed downstairs immediately, Brock barely manages to keep his temper in check and not lash out.
He's civil enough, if brusque, as he brushes her off. He was due in the Director’s office five minutes ago, he tells her, so whatever he's needed for downstairs is just going to have to wait.
“It can't wait, Commander,” she says, catching his wrist in a grip that is both gentle and surprisingly firm. He's about to shake her off with a snarl and a sharp word but stills when he sees the look on her face; sees just how soft and kind her eyes are.
“The police are waiting for you,” she says quietly, letting go of his arm. “I'll tell the Director you’ll need to reschedule.”
. . .
Two uniformed officers are waiting in the lobby. They look awkward and uncomfortable; out of place next to the men and women in smartly-tailored business suits milling around. Brock has seen the inside of enough stations over the years to know how the Triskelion’s gleaming surfaces and airy spaces look to the average cop dealing with the harsh realities of departmental infighting and budget cuts.
He nods a greeting to the man behind the desk and then turns to them. “How can I help you, officers?”
The older of the two, a compact Hispanic woman with greying hair steps forwards, holds out her badge. “Mr Rumlow?” she asks. “I'm Officer Gutierrez, and this is Officer Bauer. We're with the MPD.” The man behind her inclines his head in Brock's direction, his face set in grim lines.
“How can I help you?” Brock repeats, and pretends not to notice as Gutierrez’s gaze flicks down to the weapon holstered on his hip.
Bauer gestures around the lobby vaguely. “Is there somewhere private we can talk, sir?”
. . .
Brock takes them to the canteen; it's deserted at 6pm on a Thursday but they guide him to a table towards the back anyway, the lights flickering on as they make their way through the room.
They offer to get him a water, but Brock just shakes his head. Gutierrez takes a deep breath. “I'm afraid there’s no easy way to say this, Mr Rumlow," she says slowly. "Your mother was found dead earlier today in New York. I’m sorry.”
Brock nods along as she continues but he feels disconnected from it, like he's watching the conversation from a foot behind his own eyes. Found by the landlord… suspected overdose...no obvious signs of foul play...waiting on the coroner's examination… Does Brock know if she had already made prior arrangements for her funeral?
“Sir?”
“Hmm?” Brock shakes his head as though he's trying to shake away cobwebs. “Sorry, no I don't think so... I'll sort it out.”
Gutierrez offers him a small sad smile. “Alright. The Coroner’s office will be in touch with you as soon as the examination has been completed. They’ll be able to advise your further in the event that an inquest needs to be held. You'll need to appoint a funeral director to handle all the necessary arrangements and paperwork—”
Brock nods sharply. “I know. I'll sort it out.”
“I know this is difficult, Mr Rumlow. If you need anything…” she trails off as Brock stands up, the metallic screech as his chair scrapes against the tiles awfully loud in the stillness of the room.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He should go home, he thinks vaguely.
. . .
He doesn't go home.
He doesn't know how long he's been sitting in his office watching the rain lash against the window, but it's getting dark outside when he feels a hand land gently on his shoulder and looks up to find Jack standing over him.
“C’mon,” Jack says softly, giving his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Let's get you out of here.”
There's a sharp ache all along his jaw, and Brock stumbles as he gets up; his muscles are locked so tight that he can barely straighten his legs.
. . .
He’s in a meeting with Sitwell when he gets the call from the Coroner’s Office. He excuses himself politely and ducks out into the corridor, glad of any temporary respite.
As it happens there's no need for an inquest after all, he’s told. The body is ready to be released to whoever he has arranged to handle the funeral.
“A written copy of the findings is available to you and any other family members, Mr Rumlow, if you would like to see it.”
Brock frowns. “Do I need that for anything?”
The woman on the other end hesitates. “Well no… it’s not required in any legal sense, but some people want—”
“Then no, that won't be necessary.”
. . .
Brock is on the phone to yet another funeral provider when Jack stomps in through the back door, shedding dirt and dust into the air and kicking off his heavy work boots after taking out the strain of a tough week on the backyard.
He places a hand over the receiver and scowls at the same time as Jack looks up and raises his hands in apology. Sorry, he mouths, and heads into the bathroom.
“Yeah, I'm still here. So run me through your prices…”
He jots them down as she goes through the different options, dividing them into two different columns. Jack’s out of the shower by the time he hangs up, clad just in a towel as he puts a pot of coffee on to boil.
“For fuck’s sake,” Brock mutters. He runs the pen down the columns of figures on the paper, totals them up at the bottom and underlines one of them twice. “I thought cremations were supposed to be cheap.”
“Let me see that...” Jack leans over his shoulder, close enough for Brock to catch the scent of sandalwood from his skin. “Huh. Actually that's not bad—”
Brock pushes the paper away with a grunt. “It’s not the amount,” he says sharply. “I just don’t see the fucking point of spending money on the dead. It's just such a fucking waste.”
. . .
He has the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear as he preps the vegetables for their dinner. It's too hot really for a roast dinner but it has become one of their traditions, and Brock likes the sense of order and continuity that comes from it.
“Legal name, uh, Giulia Isabella Santoro. G-I-U-L-I-A, yeah. Uh, October 1956. 13th or 15th, I don't know, sorry. Um, Italy. Palermo.”
He switches the phone to the other ear as he runs the knife under the tap. “No, I don't know the social security number. Uh, I guess where she was found? I don't have the address- maybe the coroner? Or I could call the-? Oh, right. Yeah, fine.”
“Her mother’s-? No, sorry, I don’t know- uh, no. Married? No, I don't think so. No. Look, I'm sorry I can't be of more use.”
The man on the other end of the phone sighs gently. “No apologies necessary at all, Mr Rumlow. We can amend the record at a later date.” His voice says he's seen this all before. “The disposition details I can fill in, so the only other thing I need is your full name and address, please.”
Brock rattles them off quickly, like he's making up for everything else he can't answer and then they move onto confirming the arrangements. Direct cremation only. No visitation, and no memorial service. No, he's not going to be present for the committal. He lies, and says he'll handle the obituary himself.
“One last thing, Mr Rumlow. Have you given any thought yet as to what you would like to do with the remains?”
Brock swallows thickly.
“There's no pressure to make a decision right now,” the man assures him when Brock doesn’t reply. “Let me finalise the rest of the paperwork. We can come back to it.”
. . .
“I think I'm gonna head down next Wednesday,” he tells Jack after dinner, taking a long drag on his beer. “Take the train after work, get a hotel for the night. The appointment’s at ten, so I should be back by two at the latest.”
Jack frowns. “That gonna give you enough time?”
Brock shrugs as he runs his fingers through the condensation on the beer bottle. “There's no statutory leave for shit like this, Jack, and I'd much rather spend my holiday days on other things.”
“Well yeah, but SHIELD—”
“I’m just collecting the ashes and the death certificates,” he snaps. “That's all. It's not a big deal; it's not going to take long.”
Jack is silent for a long moment before he says, very carefully, “How about I come with you?” His expression is entirely unreadable.
Brock shrugs again. He gets up to clear away the plates and the cutlery. “Sure, why not.” He runs the tap to fill the sink. “I can finally show you that little Italian place I keep talking about.”
. . .
Jack pulls the knot of his tie apart with a frustrated grunt, starts again. “You're really going to wear that?”
Brock pulls the t-shirt over his head and finds Jack staring at him in the reflection of the mirror.
He threads the belt through the loops on his jeans, pulls it tight and buckles it. “It's 70 degrees out, and we're only gonna be there for ten minutes,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like the question is absurd.
He reaches around Jack to pick up his sneakers.
. . .
The funeral director is a thin man in his late sixties with papery skin stretched tightly across his bones, tufts of wild white hair and an expression that is altogether far too knowing.
He greets them both warmly and leads them into a wood-panelled side room. The attendant will be along in a moment with the remains, he tells them. In the meantime…
He hands Brock an envelope. “I ordered ten copies, Mr Rumlow.” Brock pulls out one of the papers just enough to see the name, and then closes the envelope again. “You can always order more should the need arise but they can take a while. In my experience, this should be enough to fulfil all the legal requirements.”
The door opens before Brock has a chance to reply, admitting a pretty petite young woman. She nudges the door shut with her hip, and Brock finds his gaze drawn to cardboard box she's carrying in her hands.
“Mr Rumlow?” She looks at Jack, who shakes his head and gestures to Brock. Colour rises in her cheeks as she steps towards him and holds out the box.
Jack plucks the envelope out of his hands and Brock reaches out to take a hold of the box. It's so much lighter than he thought it would be. “Is this it?” he asks stupidly, and she nods.
“I'm sorry for your loss.” Brock feels like he is frozen in place, and she adds hesitantly, “Sir, if you want to take a few moments alone--”
“No!” She flinches slightly at the force behind the word, and Brock amends quickly. “I mean- that’s a very kind offer but it's not necessary.”
“We’re going to have a little something at home later,” Jack adds with a tight smile, trying to ease the sudden tension. He looks at Brock expectantly. “Right?”
Brock doesn't answer. “Thanks for everything,” he tells the funeral director, and heads for the door.
. . .
Brock is walking so fast that Jack is having trouble keeping up. His mind is awash in white noise, his blood pounding in his ears. The rigid cardboard box seems to be getting heavier with every step he takes.
“Brock, wait!”
Jack reaches out to grab at him but Brock shifts away, out of reach and quickens his pace even more, until he's close to running down the street. He turns off the main road onto a smaller street, glancing left and right. None of these are quite right.
“For fuck’s sake, Rumlow!”
Here, this will do. He ducks into a stinking alley, ignoring the filth that sticks to his shoes as he picks his way through the broken alcohol bottles, drug detritus and garbage littering the ground.
He opens the box and pulls out the heavy-duty plastic bag. Fifty-three years on the planet, reduced to less than three pounds of greyish-white dust. He pulls and tears at the plastic frantically until it gives way, and then pitches it into the dumpster where it lands with a squelch amongst the rotting waste before strong hands grab him, pushing him backwards until his head hits the wall hard enough that he sees stars.
“What the fuck has gotten into you?” Jack shouts at him. He has Brock pinned against the wall, his body pressed against Brock’s and one thick arm braced across his chest. There's a vein throbbing in his forehead and his pulse is jumping in his throat. “Why the fuck would you throw your mother’s ashes in the goddamned bin?”
Brock doesn't answer. He tries to move his arms, tries to shove Jack away from him fruitlessly; it's like trying to move a wall. Jack shifts, his fingers digging into Brock's arms as he shakes him. “Fucking tell me, Brock!”
“Because that's where trash belongs!” Brock snarls back savagely and Jack releases him, stumbling back sharply like he's been struck. “That's where it goes,” he says, his voice now little more than a whisper, his hands clenching into fists against his thighs.
. . .
I'm sorry, Jack whispers against his skin. I'm so sorry.
Brock’s cold, so cold. He shivers uncontrollably; tremors so violent that he feels as though he's a second away from shaking apart—shattering into hundreds of little pieces that will never fit together ever again.
You’re not worthless, pressed to the spot right above where his heart aches sharply in his chest, as though it's tearing itself apart with each heavy beat.
But Jack is warm, so warm. Brock feels like he’s burning every place their skin touches; the heat searing through him and driving out the cold that has settled deep into his bones.
I love you, over and over and over likes it's a mantra, shielding him from the past and protecting the future.
Brock shudders under the touches, and pulls Jack closer.
. . .