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Time’s passed on for so long that Jack eventually places a knife in his hand.
He thinks about this and lets it turn over and over again in his head as he has been doing for days. Sometimes when Jack isn’t in the kitchen Brock might even lift it from the cutting board as practice, handling it like he used to back in the day. In the past he was deadly with a knife, easy with it like an extra limb but Jack knew that too, bandaged wrists and purpling knuckles reminding him that all he can do now is hope it doesn’t fall out of his unsteady hand when he attempts to cut the fucking vegetables.
Brock can’t remember how long ago he was actually handed the knife, all the days sort of mesh together now and he used to be good at that too until Jack brought him here, drugged for days on end with no idea what way was up or down. He behaved himself and eventually Jack stood him up and placed the knife in his hand. He was confused and wary, Jack’s fingers warm as he pressed it against his palm, his other hand brushing his hair back from his eyes and cupping his cheek with a smile. Brock remembers how he smiled back.
He managed to map out the kitchen easily enough and the next day when Jack was going to the restroom Brock tried to get out through the back door only to trap himself on the gated patio. Jack cupped his cheek again later, checking the bruises and telling him he deserved every one of them before securing the shackle around his ankle. He knows he tried to reason with him, offer to do something Jack liked. The chain was heavy and the cuff bit into skin.
“You brought that upon yourself. Don’t forget.”
Brock began to correlate every mistake he made with what kind of punishment he would receive. He gained more freedom at the price of more risk. Every mistake was paid for immediately; breaking something earned him a slap across the face. Something tasting not right got the plate thrown back into him and it was his fault if it broke. He had to eat on the floor if he took too long. A blunt strike to the ribs if he didn’t listen to him exactly. On the rare moment he was being exceptionally terrible, Jack would press his head against the counter and simply break one of his fingers.
He lost how much time it took regaining that knife back into his hands and navigating around in just the right way to avoid most of the punishments. Fingers were reset and healed, so did ribs and slowly his face looked almost normal enough in the reflection of the toaster despite the haunted eyes and sallow cheeks staring back at him.
Eventually he becomes untethered as well and it’s progress albeit with a limp he can’t shake off and the promise of a severed Achilles heel if he tries to run away again.
Every day his mind goes back to the knife, still not sure if this was an ongoing test or if Jack was actually pleased with him. Jack made less comments about his meals and Brock was allowed to sit with him to eat, if he ate that day. He didn’t seem unhappy with him and Brock was sure he had been performing his duties well.
The swell of pride he gains in that thought makes him want to cry but he doesn’t bother thinking about why that is and only if it was possible to gain more freedom. He actually liked the living room and wanted to be there longer than an hour or two a day, maybe he would get to sleep upstairs instead of in the basement. Would it be possible if Jack could even take him outside?
..Or maybe Jack just knew how to keep him useless enough that even if he could stab him with the knife it would hardly debilitate him.
He deflates, shoulders sagging.
Still, something within causes him to grip the knife a little tighter despite the effort it takes.
Behind him, Jack enters the kitchen from the archway, the thick book he’s reading hits the table so loudly Brock tries his best to temper the way his body wants to lurch away from the noise. He can feel those green eyes looking at him, all over him and he holds back a shudder.
“I keep thinking they’re going to come bursting in here through the windows and rescue you.”
An uneasiness settles over Brock, body straight and stiff as he tilts his head Jack’s way and forces a smile. He goes back to cutting the vegetables, the heavy sound of the blade hitting the wood leaves a small fragment of satisfaction in him.
They would be his team, or what used to be his team. No one came looking. No one even bothered checking on Jack’s old rundown house, not when Brock was trapped in the basement and he could make out the top two steps to the front door. Neither of them were reported missing because there wasn’t a reason to.
“ -I’m disposable.”
He’s not sure if that was to himself or an answer to Jack’s comments about losing him any moment.
Despite mapping out Jack’s movements and habits day in and day out, he’s so distracted he doesn’t catch that he makes it across the room. A hand rests on top of his head and it makes Brock’s skin crawl as gentle fingers comb through, lips brushing along his ear, “Now that isn’t true at all. If it was, you’d be cut up and placed in trash bags for the pigs.”
The knife slips sideways, blade scraping across the board and one of the carrots rolls off and onto the floor between them. Brock winces, snapping his eyes closed as he forces himself to relax, “You’re right Jack.”
The hand in his hair tightens and twists, forces his head to jerk upwards while he’s still have turned over his shoulder and Jack’s smiling, pleased. He expects to be struck for being clumsy like usual when he doesn’t have a grip on something but instead Jack’s mouth presses against his own, the taste of cigarettes on Brock’s tongue.
It ends before Brock can even take in any of it, a trail of saliva connecting them momentarily before that also breaks and he’s left staring at those green eyes.
“If you ever disappear, I’ll kill each and every person standing in my way just to find you again.” Jack presses another kiss in, this time against his temple. “You know I will.”
It would have been a perfect time to tighten his fingers around the blade of the kitchen knife and jam it into Jack’s throat. He thinks about the gesture a few times, his hand already holding it as Jack’s distracted but he doesn’t because a part of him is caught up with the deep seeded realization that really, no one is coming for him.
Jack presses close to him from behind, large hand smoothing along his arm, gentle and light before it rests atop the bruised one holding the knife. His nose traces the sharpness of Brock’s cheekbone, other arm hugging around Brock’s waist.
“I love you Brock. I can’t ever lose you.”
Brock’s lips tremble, leaning into warmth and ill placed comfort. His eyes feel wet as he nods against him, “I love you too.”
He receives a lingering kiss against his forehead before Jack pulls away, leaving the kitchen to go back into the living room and wait for his dinner.
Staring blankly at the counter surface, Brock feels his body trying to sag, all the effort and energy sapped out of him while he struggles with his knees threatening to buckle. He sets the knife down and his fingers tremble faintly on their own.
Jack leaves him alone for now and so has everyone else.