Rules: Use five minutes, and only five minutes, to write a drabble. No re-reading, no editing. Tag ten followers afterward.
With a sigh, Jack sets down his beer, stands up from the couch, and walks toward the source of the petulant cry. He doesn’t move with any urgency.
Brock is in the bathtub, steeped in water that is murky with Epsom salt. His head is lolled back against the molded edge of the tub.
“Yes, princess?” Jack asks, leaning against the doorframe.
Brock flops his head to one side, pouting a bit. He’s still shitfaced from the last dose of muscle relaxants he took.
“The water’s cold,” he says.
“You want out or you want hot water?” Jack asks evenly.
Jack gets a towel and comes over to the side of the tub. Yesterday, Brock overdid it during training and gave himself an ungodly muscle spasm in his back. Despite being given a bunch of good drugs, Brock is still in pain as the muscle continues to spasm. So Jack is stuck with a whiny, doped up pissbaby.
He gets Brock to sit up and then carefully helps him stand. Jack is surprisingly adept at this. In his youth, one of his many odd jobs was working at a nursing home. They often needed strong men to move residents. Jack is grinning before he even says anything.
“I knew my nursing home skills would come in handy some day,” Jack says, wrapping the towel around Brock’s shoulders.