"I can't do this. I can't fucking do this, Brock."

Brock stared down at his breakfast, carefully considering how to respond.

Three weeks had passed since their trip to D.C. Three weeks Brock had bided his time, unsure of how to approach the doctor about the pills.

"Everything is just..." Rusty trailed off, pacing the length of the kitchen hurriedly, hands trembling as he paused occasionally to take sips from his mug of coffee.

"When's the last time you slept, Doc?" Brock asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Rusty shrugged, angrily slamming his mug onto the kitchen counter. "I don't know who I'm trying to fool... I can't run a multi-billion dollar company. I-I fucking... Everything I touch, I ruin. I-I just want to go back home. Where no one expected anything from me. This is all too much. I'm not my dad. I'm not J.J."

"Doc," Brock said gently, rising to his feet. "You've been running yourself into the ground... You need some rest."

He placed his right hand on the smaller man's shoulder, in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. "You're working too hard."

Brock had seen Rusty like this too many times before; strung out and coming down off of amphetamine binges. Since they'd returned home, Rusty'd been popping pills like they were candy, and if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication, hadn't slept much during that time, as well.

"I don't have time to sleep, Brock. Everyone expects me to do everything and keep everything afloat. I have to... Have to be better. Better than I'm capable of..." Rusty sighed, lowering himself onto the ground, knees pulled tightly up against his chest.

Brock cleared his throat, preparing himself for what he had to say. You have to confront him. He's a fucking mess. "Rust," he started, choosing to call the doctor by his nickname, rather than the usual way he addressed him.

Rusty glanced up at him, surprised by the familiar name Brock had addressed him by.

"I know you're uh, that you've been... taking those pills again," he continued, lowering his eyes to the ground, careful to avoid Rusty's gaze.

"You're... You're coming down off of them, Rust. What, did you run out of them or..."

Rusty remained silent, face pallid as he gazed up at Brock, apparently frozen in fear.

"Hey, come on... You... You used to be able to tell me anything. I'm not going to get mad about it. Just tell me," Brock continued, taken aback by the doctor's reaction. He'd braced himself for the worst, expecting yelling and denial. The last thing he'd expected was the sight before him.

"I don't want to talk about it," Rusty replied, eyes narrowed into slits.

"How many a day are you up to?" Brock queried, arms folded against his chest.

"What do you even care?" Rusty muttered, slowly rising to his feet. "I'm not your problem, anymore, Samson."

"I care," Brock snapped, striding purposefully toward the smaller man. "I care a lot."

"You have a funny way of showing it," Rusty snapped, turning his back to the larger man. "Why don't you just move in with her? Frankly, the entire pretense of you living here is a joke. You're there more than you are here. Everyone knows it. I don't know why you came back."

Brock froze, stunned by the sharpness of the doctor's words. "This isn't about me, Doc. This is about you. You're fucking taking those goddamn pills again, even though you-"

"You don't get to be mad about this. I'm an adult. I can... If I want to take them, it's my decision," Rusty interrupted, shooting Brock a furious look.

"Because we both know how great you are at making your own decisions," Brock retorted, immediately regretting the words the moment they escaped his lips.

Rusty recoiled, the hurt all too apparent in his eyes. "Get out of here. Get out of my penthouse," he whispered, hands shaking as he reached into his pockets for a vial of pills.

"I didn't mean-"

"Go," Rusty interrupted, shakily removing several pills from the bottle and tossing them back with a sip from his coffee mug.

"Doc, please, I'm sorry-"

"Go. Away." Rusty insisted, shoulders tense as he turned his back to him.

Brock sighed, resigned. "Do you really want me to leave?"

Silence.

"I'm assigned to protect you, Doc. I'll go out for a little while if that's what you want. But I'm coming back. I need..." he trailed off, holding himself back from completing his thought of I need you. "It's my job," he concluded, instead.

Rusty remained silent, apparently ignoring him.

Brock sighed heavily, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Whether you like it or not, eventually we're going to have to talk about... This. About everything, really. We can't keep dancing around what happened if... If this is how you're choosing to deal with it."

Rusty muttered something incomprehensible under his breath.

Brock shook his head, heading toward the elevators. "Just because I left... I didn't... I never said I didn't love you, you know."

Brock returned to the penthouse some time after midnight, deciding it best to give Doc as much time to cool off as possible. To his surprise, he found the living room fully lit, the boys huddled up together on the sofa. "What're you two doing up?" he asked, uneasy at the sight of the two boys looking so worried.

"Pop's been acting... off," Dean started, frowning.

Brock nodded mutely, unsure of how to respond.

"More than off, Dean-o. He was breaking things down in the lab. Hatred had to restrain him," Hank added, shooting an out of character accusatory look in Brock's direction.

Brock sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "Where's your dad?" he asked.

"He's in his room. Sleeping, I think. Uncle Hatred gave him a sedative, I believe. He said that Pop hasn't been sleeping, much. I guess he's... not taking the pressure of his new role very well, huh?" Dean replied, shrugging his shoulders nervously.

"Yeah. That's one way of putting it," Brock retorted, shaking his head. "How long has he been out?"

"I don't know... A few hours, I guess. He'd been going at it down in the lab for hours before anyone found him... Billy and Pete are still down there, trying to clean up and salvage some of their projects," Hank elaborated, shrugging.

"You boys should get to bed... I'm gonna go uh, check on your dad," Brock noted, shooting the two a meaningful look.

Brock gently rapped on Rusty's bedroom door before entering the room, closing the door behind him.

"Doc," he said softly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "Hey," he continued, carefully shaking Rusty's shoulder. "Doc."

"Mmmmg," Rusty mumbled, turning his head away from Brock.

"Doc... Rusty... I want to talk to you," Brock continued, shaking him by the shoulder again.

"Brock..." Rusty muttered, his words thick. "I'm so... tired..." he slurred, shutting his eyes once more.

Brock nodded, freezing as he caught sight of Rusty's bandaged hands. "What'd you do to yourself, Rust?" he asked, gingerly taking the smaller man's right hand in his own.

"I don't know," Rusty mumbled, hand limp in Brock's grasp. "Don't remember."

Brock nodded, gently placing Rusty's hand back down on the mattress. "You need to rest, Doc," he noted, reaching forward and removing Rusty's glasses.

"Mmmmg."

"Good night, Doc."

Rusty remained silent, save for the low hum of his snoring. Brock observed him for a moment, tears prickling the corners of his eyes. You shouldn't have left him alone earlier. You knew this would happen. He always gets like this when he's angry.

"Samson."

Brock turned his head, surprised to find Sergeant Hatred observing him from the doorway. "I uh, wanted to talk to him but he's... He's down for the count, it looks like," Brock elaborated, placing his large hand over Rusty's.

"A moment of your time, son? He's not going anywhere, not in this state," Hatred replied, nodding towards the hall.

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Brock agreed, rising to his feet.

"Sooooooo, I guess you can see that Doc isn't doing too well, eh?" Hatred started, motioning for Brock to follow him down the hall into the kitchen.

"Yeah," Brock agreed, folding his arms against his chest. "What'd you give him, anyway? He could barely talk when I tried to..." he trailed off, watching as Sgt. Hatred began brewing a pot of coffee.

"I had to, son. He was out of control. Heck, I had to practically pin him down to keep him from smashing all those darn test tubes and what have you down in the lab. Blood everywhere."

"Dean said you gave him a sedative."

"Yeah. I shot him up with enough ativan to knock out a gorilla, Samson. Doc's a feisty one, I'll give him that. He would not go down without a fight," Hatred noted, pouring two mugs of steaming hot coffee.

"Hmm," Brock mumbled, accepting a mug from the older man.

"He's back on the diet pills," Brock noted, taking a deep sip of coffee.

"Diet pills, eh? He never mentioned any of that back when I was-"

"It's been a long time since he's used them. Back when the boys were a lot younger he- well, he was abusing them pretty badly. He got his act together, for the most part, after that. Here and there he'd slip up, but before I uh, left to pursue other opportunities, he'd been clean for I don't know, maybe two or three years."

"He's none too fond of that woman of yours," Hatred noted, eyeing Brock suspiciously.

"Yeah," Brock agreed, sighing. "I picked up on that."

"You know, during my time as the Venture bodyguard, Doc told me some things..."

Brock froze, gripping his mug of coffee in a vice-like grip. No. He wouldn't. "Oh?" he asked, in a forced calm voice.

"The way he spoke about you, son... Heck, you'd think you two were married, or something. It really did a number on him, you up and quitting like you did," Hatred elaborated, shrugging his massive shoulders. "The boys took it pretty hard, too."

"Yeah, I know," Brock sighed, lowering his head.

"Why'd you up and quit like you did, anyway?"

Brock cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "It was just something I needed to do... You had it easy, the boys were already basically grown by the time you showed up... When you first assigned me to guard Doc, the boys were still infants. And you know how Doc is... I was basically a full-time nanny. I raised those boys. Which is all good and well but... I'm a soldier. You know? I was tired of doing laundry and and cleaning... I wanted to go back to doing what I do best."

Hatred nodded, taking a sip of his coffee. "If you say so, son."

"Look, it doesn't matter why I left. What are we going to do about Doc?" Brock asked irritably.

Hatred shrugged. "I don't know... you say he's got some sort of addiction problem?"

Brock nodded. "Aren't you some sort of expert on handling that kind of thing?"

Hatred shrugged, shaking his head. "No, no, I wouldn't go that far. Besides... you're the bodyguard. You said you've handled him with this sort of thing before. He's in good hands with you."

Brock observed Hatred for a moment, right eyebrow raised. "Normally you'd jump at the opportunity to help Doc."

Hatred shifted in his seat uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. "Well, you see... He kind of said some... things... when I was trying to calm him down and get him out of the lab..." he admitted, trailing off.

"What kind of things?" Brock pressed, lips pressed tightly together.

"You two... have a lot of things you need to talk about, it seems. I'll leave it at that."

Brock nodded, sighing heavily. "You're right about that."