Dr. Venture sighed heavily, chin propped up with his right hand as he stared hopelessly at the ever accumulating pile of papers stacked on his desk. Business was, in fact, booming for Venture Industries. He'd been at the helm of his late brother's company for nearly eight months and had somehow managed not to fuck it up. Yet. Dr. Thaddeus "Rusty" Venture was well versed in failure; having lived in his father's all-encompassing shadow for most of his life, only to be trumped by his younger brother's outrageous success, he had grown comfortable in his role as the lesser Venture son. The failure. The washed up has-been.

He should be thrilled by all of his new found success. Should be, but aren't. Admittedly, Rusty had been enthralled with his good fortune, initially. As the Venture compound had been destroyed, he'd thought it a sign that it was time to move forward, start fresh somewhere new. He'd been excited to move to New York. However, as he'd come to find over the past eight months, New York, for all it's excitement, still wasn't home.

Part of him had hoped, prayed, that a clean slate would fix everything. A new city, a new business to run, a second chance at a good life. However, as Rusty knew all too well, once the initial glitter and excitement wore off, he was still stuck with the same old problems. At the end of the day, he was still Rusty Venture. Still stuck being the same old me. He should have known better. He'd tried before, at college, to reinvent himself, to free himself of the personal woes that plagued him. You can't run away from yourself, Rust. No matter where you move, you're still you. A thousand miles distance won't change that. Who'd even said that to him? He frowned, struggling to recall who'd offered him those words of wisdom. Colonel Gentleman, perhaps? Rusty shrugged, rubbing his temples. It's not like it matters.

He removed his glasses for a moment, rubbing his eyes furiously. "What am I doing?" he wondered aloud.

"Doc?"

Rusty froze, startled by the sound of another's voice. Oh. It's Brock. "Brock?" he asked, hastily putting his glasses back on.

"I'm uh, heading out for the night. The boys are out... You okay on your own?" the blonde asked, pausing in the doorway, arms folded against his chest.

"Yeah, it's fine. Whatever," Rusty mumbled, puling the nearest stack of papers forward. "I have a lot of work to get done today."

"It's almost nine thirty, Doc. You sure you don't want to um, call it quits for the night?" Brock asked hesitantly, eyeing his employer uncertainly.

"I have a lot of work to do, Brock. It's hard work, running a company. People are counting on me to not screw this up like-" he paused, stopping short of finishing his sentence.

Despite the silence, the unsaid words rung in the air between the two.

Like I always do.

Rusty didn't need to say the words for Brock to know what he was thinking. After all, the men had known each other for over two decades. Brock knew better than anyone else the things that tormented Rusty Venture. Too well, a nagging voice in the back of Rusty's head taunted.

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Doc. You're doing a great job."

Rusty offered the man a small, grateful smile. "Thanks."

"Will you be back tonight or..." Rusty trailed off, his stomach recoiling. Why did you ask that? You'd be better off not knowing.

"I'll um, be out for the night. I'll be back in the morning," Brock retorted, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"Oh. Right then. Good night," Rusty muttered, turning his gaze back to his work.

Brock sighed heavily, blue eyes boring holes in Rusty's direction. Rusty stared intently at the business proposal before him, struggling to maintain his composure. Whatever you had with him happened a long time ago. He's over it. You don't get to be upset that he has someone new, now.

"I thought you were leaving," Rusty noted, words thick as he choked back a sob.

He glanced up, meeting Brock's gaze. Rusty bit the inside of his cheek, taken aback by the somber, almost apologetic look on Brock's face. "Your friend is probably waiting for you," he noted, the words coming out more bitterly than he'd intended.

"You should go," he added, his tone softer this time.

Brock nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets, "Yeah," he agreed, clearing his throat. "Good night, Doc," he mumbled, closing the door softly behind him as he left.

Rusty buried his head in his hands, unable to suppress the silent tears that trickled down his cheeks. Brock.

Rusty stared down at the vial of pills in his hands, considering. He'd been up for three days straight, struggling to finish up a project he had to present the following week to his board members. It had been a number of years since he had last indulged in his one true vice: diet pills. He'd given up the habit years ago, though he still occasionally found himself reaching for the familiar orange prescription bottle from the top drawer of his nightstand on particularly bad nights. You gave them up for Brock, the nagging voice reminded him. Rusty cringed. It was true; Brock had hated his habit, and he'd reluctantly given them up for him. To make Brock happy. But here he was, desperately unhappy, with Brock nothing more to him than an employee, at this point. He'd given up his one comfort, but even that hadn't been enough to make him stay. Christ, even the boys hadn't been reason enough for Brock to stick around. He stared at the bottle again, reading the label carefully. Dextroamphetamine. After rifling around every medicine cabinet in the penthouse, he'd stumbled upon this in the boys' bathroom. ADD medicine, prescribed to his oldest, Hank. Amphetamines. He paused once more, considering his options. On the one hand, he was exhausted. Work had been particularly draining, and he just needed something to help him power through with all of his work. At least until he finished this project. He wouldn't keep taking them. On the other hand, what would Brock think? He'd promised Brock, all those years ago, that he was through with the pills (mostly amphetamines), for good. Who cares what Brock thinks? He's not your... whatever he was, anymore. Brock doesn't get to decide what you do or don't do.

Rusty removed the lid, gently tapping three pills into his palm. He avoided his reflection in the mirror as he swallowed them down, dry.

"What do you mean, you forgot that I have to be in D.C. this weekend?" Rusty hissed, eyes wild with rage.

"Doc, I-"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Did you forget that you work for me? That you have a job to do, here? O.S.I. didn't assign you here to spend your days off doing god knows what with your... whatever she is," he continued, jabbing an accusatory finger in Brock's direction.

Rusty took a deep breath, his heart pounding dangerously fast in his chest. He glanced down at his mug of coffee, still half-full. Perhaps a handful of pills and caffeine are not the best combination, he considered, frowning.

Brock remained silent, unusual for him. Rusty glanced at the larger man, suddenly uneasy. "Well?" he asked, gesturing wildly with his right hand.

"I'm sorry," Brock sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I forgot about it. I'll cancel my plans, okay?"

"Do you even want to be here?" Rusty asked lowly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"How can you say that, Doc? You know I-"

"You left because you weren't feeling fulfilled with your job. With me."

Brock stared at Rusty with a look of disbelief. How could he say that? "You're my family. How could I not take the assignment?" he questioned, disbelievingly.

"If we were really your family, you never would have left," Rusty quipped, arms folded against his chest.

Before Brock could open his mouth to get a word in edgewise, Rusty stormed out of the room.

"Hey Brock," Hank called out cheerfully, joining the larger man in the kitchen.

"Hey Hank," Brock mumbled, pouring himself a mug of coffee.

"What's Pop so angry about?" the younger boy asked, as he set about preparing himself a bowl of cereal.

"He's uh, just stressed out about work, Hank. Don't worry about it, he'll cool off."

Hank shot him a disbelieving look as he settled down at the kitchen table.

"What's that look for?" Brock questioned, arms folded against his chest.

"Nothing. Pop's been acting like this for a while, now."

"This is the first I've seen it."

"You're never around."

Brock paused, taken aback by how casually Hank had said that. A pang of guilt ached deep in his chest. "I guess I haven't been around much, huh?" he mumbled, taking a seat at the table.

Hank shrugged, digging into his cereal. "Well, yeah. You never used to... you know. Go out every night," he noted, eyes lowered, focusing on his breakfast.

Brock cleared his throat, unsure of how to respond.

"I guess maybe Pop thought things would be different."

"What do you mean?"

Hank paused, staring thoughtfully at him. "Well," he started, pausing to take another spoonful of cereal, "you came back to be our bodyguard. After all this time. I guess he thought that things would go back to the way there were before. Like back home."

The two sat in silence for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. "I know I hoped they would," Hank added, averting his eyes back to his bowl of cereal.

A low sigh escaped Brock's lips as he stared down into his coffee mug. "Things aren't the same, though, Hank. You boys are all grown up. You don't need someone constantly watching over you to keep you out of trouble."

"Maybe it's not us who need to be looked after," Hank mumbled.

Brock observed the boy a moment, a single brow raised.

"What are you trying to say, Hank?" he asked lowly, nervously running a hand through his curly blonde locks.

"Nothing. It's nothing," Hank replied, rising to his feet. "I have to get to work," he mumbled, shrugging his shoulders.

Brock mumbled a good bye, taking a deep sip of his coffee. Hank hadn't needed to say a word. He already knew: Doc needed him. And he hadn't been doing a great job at looking after him. Dr. Thaddeus Venture. Rusty to his friends. One of his oldest friends. Hell, his former... He shook his head, unable to bring himself to think the words, let alone speak them aloud. What was he, even? A partner? A lover?

Admittedly, his inability to put a label on whatever it was he and the good doctor had shared was half the problem; he, like a jackass, had up and left. He'd been the one to end things, by quitting his job and abandoning the Venture family. His family. Doc already had crippling emotional damage courtesy of his traumatic childhood. There was no doubt that his leaving had done a number on him. Brock tried not to think about it. It was just a job, he told himself. But that wasn't really true. Not even a little bit. Nothing had ever been so cut and dry with Doc.

Though he could barely admit it to himself, Brock was still at least half in love with the smaller man. How could he not be? They'd spent nearly every waking moment together for close to twenty years. They'd raised a family together. He bit his lip, mind drifting to memories of the older man that he kept safely guarded in the deep recesses of his heart. Memories he treasured far more than he'd ever care to admit. Intimate moments the pair had shared. Moments that had shaped the way he, Brock Samson, would define what love felt like for the rest of his life. Hell, half the reason he'd thrown himself into his whirlwind romance with Warriana was to avoid the aching attraction he still felt for the redheaded Venture.

He'd jumped at the opportunity to return to his old job, guarding the Ventures. At last, he was back where he belonged, with his family. With Rusty. He should have known, however, that things wouldn't return to the way they'd been when he'd left. Too much time had passed. Too many of the wrong things had been said, and too many of the right things, left unsaid. Rusty still carried the hurt and rejection, like a festered wound, deep inside him. Most days, Brock could barely look him in the eye without feeling the unbearable weight of guilt crashing over him.

So what had he done? He'd run, like a coward, into the arms of another lover. Warriana. Anything to forget the guilt, to dull the pain. He'd considered apologizing, countless times. He'd even practiced what he would say, rehearsing half a dozen ways he'd come up with to apologize for leaving. To beg for forgiveness. To take him back. But still, he'd never acted on it. He couldn't bring himself to face what he could only assume would be inevitable rejection. You left him. It's been three years. A little late for apologies.

Rusty slammed the door shut as he entered the lab, signaling his presence.

"Hey Rust!" Pete White, his college friend, greeted him, raising a hand in recognition.

"What's up?" Billy added, glancing up from the lab table where he'd been in the midst of tinkering with one of Venture Industries latest inventions.

"Can you believe he forgot that we're due in DC to present the new drone prototype to the army this weekend?" Rusty huffed, digging through his pockets.

Billy and Pete exchanged knowing looks, much to Rusty's chagrin. "What?" he hissed, lips contorted into a scowl.

Billy glanced at Pete, nodding for him to elaborate. "Jeeze, Rust. It's just... Are you still not over him?"

Rusty froze, every muscle in his body contracting. "W-what did you just say?" he stuttered, eyes shooting daggers in Pete's direction.

"Rust, you've had a crush on him since college. I know you guys had some sort of... thing, back at the compound-"

"Enough," Rusty interrupted, holding up a hand to pause him. "I don't want to talk about this. We have work to do."

Rusty fiddled with the cap of his prescription bottle, dumping a handful of pills into his palm. Nonchalantly, he tossed the handful into his mouth, helping himself to the can of fresca Pete had been drinking to chase them down. "What?" he muttered, rolling his eyes at the concerned looks the pair was giving him.

The two remained silent, averting their eyes from Rusty's menacing stare.

"I've been under a lot of pressure, you know. I have to... Everything has to be perfect. I can't screw this up. So what if I need a little something to get me through it?"

Billy and Pete nodded, uncomfortable. "Yeah... Sure, Rust," they muttered, turning their attention back to their work.

"Will the prototype be ready before Friday?" Rusty queried.

Billy nodded. "Sure thing. We'll make sure of it."

Rusty nodded, sinking down onto the stool beside the quiz-boy. "Good," he muttered, resting his head in his hands.

The trio sat quietly in silence for several minutes, the room quiet, save for the occasional whirr of power tools.

"Hey Rust," Billy said finally, a tinge of hesitance in his voice.

"Hmm?"

"Are you... Are you okay?"

Rusty lifted his head to face the younger man beside him, watching him carefully, a twinge of concern on his face.

He paused for a moment, considering how to respond. Frowning, he weighed his options, half tempted to admit the truth. Still, he resisted, knowing how badly that would sound to his friends. What could I say? I'm miserable? I'm speeding my balls off on my son's ADD medication? I haven't eaten in three days? I'm still in love with my bodyguard, who'd rather shirk his duties by gallivanting around town with his new woman than be around me? "Yeah, I'm fine," he lied, sighing deeply. Maybe Colonel Gentleman was right... The more things change, the more they stay the same.