Of Mullets and Memories

by Kameka

Brock visits a bit of his past. Written because I can see this of a man who owns his own tanning bed, went to Jazzercise, and who knows what else – and once I thought of it, the image wouldn’t get outta my head and I figured I’d write it and just maybe it

Title: Of Mullets and Memories

Disclaimers: I don't own Brock, Henry, BJ, Houston, Billy Ray Cyrus, "Achy Breaky Heart," "I Want My Mullet Back," any of the magazines mentioned, or anything ELSE mentioned that's either real or was established by someone else. In other words: I don't own anything except maybe the story itself (and even that's iffy, since it's fanfic), so please don't plagiarize. I've made absolutely no money, so there's no reason to sue me. All you'll get are some DVDs and a really, really temperamental bird. That will bite you. Hard. Multiple times.

Notes: Dunno, just popped into my head when I heard the song. Hopefully, you think it's funny. I tend to write emotions more than actions, and I don't usually do comedy, so… Well, it's an experiment. It was also written in about… probably 4 hours from start to finish – that's with breaks in the middle. It's been spelling and grammar checked but it unbeta'd. Any mistakes are mine – hopefully there aren't many!

Summary: Brock visits a bit of his past. Written because I can see this of a man who owns his own tanning bed, went to Jazzercise, and who knows what else – and once I thought of it, the image wouldn't get outta my head and I figured I'd write it and just maybe it'll go away.

Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba.Reba

Brock Hart let himself into the home he shared with his wife and son quietly, peering around the door and craning his head in a way that made him feel like a criminal breaking and entering or an international spy from the movies heading deep into enemy territory. Even as he shook his head at the absurdity, he wondered which scenario he preferred. Seeing that the coast was clear, he hurried inside and then turning, carefully, ever so carefully, shutting the front door so that not a single sound was made. He had just begun to tiptoe across the living room floor when he heard one of the single most unwelcome sounds he could have.

"Brock? Honey, is that you?" was called down the stairs, quickly followed by the muffled sound of footsteps moving down a carpeted hallway.

He looked around the room frantically, the plastic bag he was clutching in one hand crinkling warningly. As he heard his wife begin to descend the stairs, he dove for one of the tables lined up against the wall and snatched some of the items out of a drawer. Keeping one eye on the stairs, he quickly put his bag in and covered it, shutting the door as quickly as possible while still being quiet before pivoting and leaping over the back of the sofa to land on the cushions. Quickly grabbing one of the magazines left on the coffee table, he looked behind him and smiled as Barbara Jean came into view. "Hi, honey."

He quickly looked down at the magazine as she regarded him suspiciously, automatically jiggling their son on her hip.

"Everything okay, Brock?"

He laughed and shook his head, standing up to kiss her on her lips. "Of course, honey. What makes you ask that?" He accepted Henry from her, pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he held him close.

"You never come home and sit down on the sofa right away," Barbara Jean answered him. "You usually head to the kitchen for a cold beer."

"Oh!" He knew he tended to keep a schedule, but was he so unimaginative that the slightest deviation made his wife question him? "I just, uh," he looked down and remembered that he'd been holding a magazine when she came down, "just heard about this article at work and really wanted to read it. I guess the excitement got to me."

"In Country Living?"

He finally looked at the cover of the magazine that he had set down and almost groaned. Still, it could've been a lot worse; at least he hadn't picked up one of the parenting magazines that Barbara Jean had subscribed to the minute the stick had turned pink or, God forbid, Good Housekeeping. "You know me and my country music stars," he chuckled uneasily.

Not looking completely convinced but willing to give her husband the benefit of doubt, Barbara Jean nodded, a smile breaking out as she flipped her blonde hair. She followed as he carried Henry through the house into the kitchen and turned to lean against the counter. She automatically went to the refrigerator and took out a long-necked bottle, opened it, and gave it to him. As he took his first long drink, she moved closer to him, pressing the length of her body against his and running a long-nailed finger down his cheek. "I missed you, Brock," she pouted.

"I missed you too, honey," he answered, kissing her again. Before it could get too heated, Henry stirred against his arm and Brock pulled back.

Barbara Jean frowned, taking Henry and putting him on a small rug that she had moved into the kitchen ages earlier. Picking up one of the toys on it, she got his attention before giving it to him and moving back to her husband. "I am so looking forward to tonight."

"Tonight?" He shook his head; grateful his voice hadn't squeaked or cracked. Had he forgotten something? Were they supposed to go out; was it an anniversary?

"Yeah. I'm going with Cheyenne to Orchid Spa," she reminded him.

"Oh, yeah," he answered, smiling in relief. "When are you supposed to go?"

She looked at the clock and frowned. "Fifteen minutes." Sighing, she turned to the door of the kitchen and raced through it. "I better go get ready!"

The next fifteen minutes were a whirlwind of instructions from Barbara Jean as she raced through the house. A quick kiss on his cheek and the blonde was gone. Shaking his head and draining the last beer from the bottle, he turned to look at his son. "Looks like it's just you and me."

Henry's response was to hold up a toy and grin before scrambling to his feet and taking off through the house in a move reminiscent of his mother. Brock chased after him, smiling as Henry gleefully enjoyed the game.

It was later, after a quick dinner of hamburgers and tater-tots that Brock could once again cast his thoughts to the bag he had put in the drawer. "Hey, buddy, wanna play a new game?"

Henry nodded in excited agreement, clapping his hands. Any new game with his father was great.

"I got a new CD today," Brock confided in him. "It's by Billy Ray Cyrus. Remember him?"

Henry shook his head, shouting "no!" to the world.

"I can't stop my heart, my achy breaky heart," Brock started to sing softly, eyes crinkling in amusement as Henry jumped up from his seat on the sofa and began imitating the dance he had seen on a music video and that his father and painstakingly taught him. It wasn't a bad rendition, for a four-year-old.

"Yeah, that's him!" Brock laughed.

"Come on, we gotta get ready before we do this." He picked his son up and lifted him high in the air, laughing as Henry squealed and laughed at the move. Holding him high, Brock started up the stairs and made airplane noises.

"No plane! I'm Superman!" Henry objected, causing Brock to immediately go into the classic Superman song from the films. "Yeah!" They 'Supermanned' their way all the way up to the top of the house, Henry's mouth opening wide as they went into the attic. "Not allowed here, Daddy," he reminded him as Brock set him down on the floor.

"You're not allowed here alone," Brock explained. "But when you're with me, it's okay. I promise."

"Mommy won't be mad?"

"Mommy won't be mad," Brock agreed, flinching as Henry reached out and fingered one of the beanie babies he had hidden up here. "But you have to be good and not hurt anything," he hastily clarified, feeling a smidgen of guilt as Henry immediately drew his hand back and turned wide eyes to his father. "Come on, Henry, let's get what we need."

With Henry following, Brock made his way through the maze of boxes and furniture until he reached the very back of the attic. Sweeping a rug over, he uncovered a battered cardboard box and picked it up. "Let's get out of here," he shook his head as Henry sneezed.

They made their way down the stairs, Brock carefully looking back and watching Henry as they did, and arrived back at the second floor. "You go to your room and get dressed, okay, buddy?"

The little boy looked down at his clothes. "I am dressed, Daddy."

"This is a game, remember? You can wear whatever you want when we play it."

Henry's eyes got wide again, just like when he'd finally seen the forbidden attic. "Anything?"

"Anything," Brock repeated. He watched Henry scamper down the hall before turning into the master bedroom he shared with his wife. He set the box down on the white chair at the vanity and took a deep breath before breaking the tape seal and opening the flaps. The musky scent of age mingled with the faint one of the cologne that Brock had worn back in the 1980s. He smiled and reached into the box, pulling out a faded black T-shirt emblazoned with 'Country Palooza 1989' and a pair of folded jeans. Setting both of them on the bed, he took out an old black leather jacket and put it next to them before turning his attention to a Ziploc bag that was taped to one of the sides, nicely out of harms way if anyone was careful with the box. Since Brock was the only person who even knew about it, that was guaranteed.

Detaching it from the side, he grinned as he opened it up and pulled out a mop of… hair. It was lighter than his own current color, sun-bleached by long hours spent outside playing with his kids, listening to music, and hanging out with his buddies. He shook it out, fingers combing through it and untangling any knots that weren't supposed to be there. Walking over to the mirror, he put it on, using the small clips that had been added to secure it to his own hair… and was immediately transported into the past.

With a grin, he shook his head and started to shed his clothes, quickly changing into what was laid out on the flowered bedspread. He had just finished when there was giggling coming from the door to the bedroom. He turned to see Henry standing there, clutching his stomach as he bent over slightly. His young face was flushed from his laughter.

"Daddy!"

"Hey, buddy." Brock spun in place and struck a classic Elvis Presley post with flair, up on his toes, his body bent slightly as he looked down and raised one arm in the air. He held it for as long as possibly, about five seconds, before relaxing. "What do you think?"

"You're playing dress-up!"

Brock frowned and lunged forward, catching his son and swinging him high. "We're not playing dress-up," he reprimanded him, a ferocious mock scowl on his tanned face.

His response was another giggle as Henry reached out and fingered the long locks of hair. "You have pretty hair like Mommy now, Daddy."

Brock shook his head and tossed Henry gently onto the bed, the child shrieking with joy as he bounced slightly on the landing. "You, my boy, are spending too much time with the girls," he mourned quietly, careful to hopefully not say it loud enough for his son to hear it to repeat later. "Are you ready to play?" he asked brightly.

Henry responded by moving to his knees and then climbing to his feet on the unsteady surface, beginning to jump up and down as he clapped his hands. He had dressed himself in Power Rangers Pajamas, Ninja Turtles slippers, and an old blue towel tied around his neck. The piece de resistance of the outfit was a headband that had the Finding Nemo gang swimming happily against a blue background.

Brock shook his head and snatched him mid-air, wincing as he elicited another squeal. Carrying the little boy turned superhero downstairs, he stopped and extracted the white plastic bag from the drawer. Putting Henry on the sofa, where the little boy immediately began jumping again, Brock turned his attention to the CD he had bought that afternoon on his lunch hour. Quickly unwrapping it from the plastic, he then struggled to peel the plastic seal off the two sides before putting the CD into the stereo system tucked into one corner of the room. Keying up the right track number, he smiled as guitar and drums sounded through the room.

"That's not 'Achy Breaky Heart!'" Henry protested from his spot on the sofa.

"It's the same guy, but it's a new song," Brock explained, picking up Henry and flopped down onto the sofa himself. "Shh, listen."

Henry did, squirming as the music picked up into a better beat that was more conducive to moving.

Having se the stereo to repeat that track, the music started up again as soon as the final notes had sounded with a flourish. As the second time it played began, Henry struggled out of his father's grasp and began jumping all over the living room, arms reaching high to the ceiling as he tossed in a mish mash of dance move he had learned in his short time on the planet. They included the Robot Man from Van, a pelvic thrust a la Elvis Presley, the Twist, and the Hokey Pokey.

Brock laughed at his son's antics and got up to join him, waiting for the third rendition of the song to start before he began. He started with some rather tame head bobbing, gradually moving his hips from side to side to the beat. He pointed to his son as he mouthed some of the lyrics, grinning. As the chorus began for the first time, Brock began pivoting, turning and posing as if there was someone watching him from behind. Passing a desk, he picked up a few sheaves of paper and rolled them up expertly, hanging one of the 'microphones' to his son as he started to sing into one.

As the song began to reach its' crescendo, the chorus repeating again and again, he began doing air guitar as he moved through the living, shaking his head rhythmically to the beat and grinning as his hair raised and lowered in response to the movements. He soon abandoned the air guitar, going for drums instead even as his feet continued to move quickly in dance moves as old as… well, he wasn't going to go there.

The fun continued through multiple plays of the same track, neither man nor boy aware of how much time had gone by. They were too caught up in the magic of the movement and the music of Billy Ray Cyrus. Brock could almost close his eyes and imagine that he was back in Hank's old garage with battered sofas pushed against the walls, coolers of beer placed prominently through the room, a cute girl wearing cowboy boots and a mini skirt pressed against him as they danced the night away.

Man, those were the good times.

It was understandable that neither one of them noticed the sound of the front door opening over the blasting radio, Brock having turned it up higher at Henry's insistence. It was also understandable that they didn't hear the footsteps or Barbara Jean calling out their names, a sound which ended on a strangled gasp as the blonde woman took in the scene before her. Something else that they didn't notice, but later Brock really, really wished he had, were the quiet clicks of Barbara Jean's every-present digital camera.

What they did notice was the music being switched off just as the stereo was about to begin a new track. The cessation of noise caused both of them to look over in mid-dance moves, Brock straightening as he saw his wife… before looking down at his clothes and hunching over slightly in the vague effort that she wouldn't notice anything different. Henry shouted in happiness, lunging to his mother and raising his arms wide.

Taking in her son's clothing, knowing that her little boy had been dressed normally when she'd left a few hours before, Barbara Jean turned questioning eyes on her husband. He looked like someone from a country music video set back in the early 1990s, complete with a… mullet?

"Brock?"

He hesitated for a brief moment before shaking his head. "I don't want to talk about it!" he exclaimed before pivoting and walking up the stairs with every shred of dignity that he could muster. He stopped at the top and rested his head against the cool wall, feeling the flush of embarrassment clearly in contrast. He could hear Barbara Jean and Henry talking, the low murmur of voices getting sharper as Henry excitedly told his mother all about the day of dress-up he and Daddy had had. He also expressed interest in getting a pretty wig himself, just like his Daddy. That way he could play dress-up right next time.

Brock groaned, gently thudding his head against the green-painted wall. He quickly made his way to the bedroom as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs, closing the door behind him so he wouldn't be disturbed. Once the footsteps had passed, he gingerly opened the door, reminding himself of the cloak-and-dagger routine from earlier.

Sure enough, he could hear his family in Henry's bedroom, Barbara Jean asking questions that their son was only too happy to answer. As his son's piping voice could be heard repeating his comment from earlier, about Henry spending too much time with the girls, Brock shook his head. He banged it once on the doorframe as he clearly heard Barbara Jean tell him not to worry, that it obviously won't be a problem in their family.

He was so caught up in his embarrassment that he missed Barbara Jean leaving Henry's room and coming down the hall, only noticing the sound of her footsteps when she was less than three feet away. His blue eyes widened and he quickly backpedaled into the room, closing the door again. This time he locked it for privacy, glad he had when the knob jiggled.

"Brock?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he repeated from earlier, shaking his head in vehement denial that she would ever get him to. She couldn't see the head shake, he knew, but it made him feel better anyway.

The knob jiggled again, Barbara Jean's persistence telling her to try, try again. "But, honey, I just want to..."

"No!"

The knob jiggled one more time before the flat of her hand could be heard on the door, along with a noise of frustration that Brock was extremely familiar with.

"Brock, open the door this instant!"

Suddenly feeling like the sacrificial maiden of old times, or the pure virgin in one of the bodice rippers that both his wife and his ex-wife had secret stashes of, Brock had the insane urge to giggle. "Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin!"

His answer brought a snort of disbelief followed by one of amusement. "Brock!" Her voice turned infinitely softer and sweeter just like when she wanted to cajole him into doing something he didn't want to. "Honey, I won't laugh. I promise." There was a long minute of silence that almost made him think she'd gone away.

He moved closer to the door and put his ear against it, impatiently brushing the hair away as he strained to listen. There was no sound from the other side. Deciding that she was either telling the truth or had left, he had just unlocked the door and begun to turn the knob when he heard it. Another snort and then strangled laughter quickly followed bye skin hitting skin. In his mind's eye, he could see Barbara Jean slapping a hand over her face, blue eyes dancing with mirth. He quickly put all of his weight against the door and locked it again.

"No, Barbara Jean!"

"Brock!"

"Just go downstairs, Barbara Jean," he answered tiredly, moving through the bedroom as he took off the leather jacket he wore.

"But, Brock, I need the story to go along with the pictures!"

Pictures? Brock flopped onto the bed with a long groan, arms spread wide as he tried to shake his head. The hair from the mullet had gotten caught beneath his shoulders and pulled, making him grimace. Man, how had he lived with that? And why had he decided to relive it? He groaned again, lifting his hands to cover his face. He could only shudder in disbelief as he thought about just whom his wife would be showing those pictures to.

He was never going to hear the end of this!

The End

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