☠ 062

[molotov]

Who: Molotov and you, maybe
What: Fireside sitting in the lobby, thinking, talking, drinking
When: The middle of the damn night!
Where: Lobby
Rating: Ehhh probably like PG-13 at most

The lobby never really got silent, not with the noctural residents and everyone who seemed to come and go at all hours, but it did get quiet if you waited up late enough, and Molotov needed a little bit of quiet.

Sure, she could have stayed up in her room, could have sat in bed next to Brock as he slept, even though she couldn't sleep herself. But something about it made her want to leave, want to just be in front of the beautiful, if slightly "majestic generic", fireplace down in the lobby.

So she'd put on some pajamas and wandered downstairs, taking a seat on the sofa closest the fire. The castle provided a blanket to cover her legs with, and a mug of red wine hot chocolate that never seemed to need refilling, and Molotov couldn't help but think it was the nicest thing the castle had done in a while.

And there she sat, alone and silent, gazing into the flames as the lobby traffic died out more and more.

Until you came along.

Comments

[molotov]

"The fire is warm," she tells him, leaning against his side and taking another sip from her mug. "And those are not for keeping warm anyway." Because they are made of lace and silk and nothing else. She has no fleecy robes with hoods, Samson!

[samson]

Brock eyes her mug. "I thought we said no wishing," he answers, which is not actually an answer. Maybe he just wants to nag her, okay. Somebody has to do it.

"Don't tell me you're starting to trust this place again."

[molotov]

"Nyet," she groans, turning her side into his side. "It was just there, the castle gave it to me. Passive wishing, cannot be helped. Besides, I am not so afraid of cocoa. It is not a holiday."

With a quiet sigh, she looks at her mug again. "I think the castle can be nice sometimes, when it wants to."

[samson]

Wow, okay. He rolls his eyes, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "You're kidding, right? Don't get all Stockholm-y on me."

[molotov]

She groans again, louder and more whiny. "No! But some things are nice! Like Andropov. Some people do not get their children back, and we do. That is nice."

[samson]

Ugh, he pushes her head. Whining! "Knock it off. Anyway, what about when it doesn't bring her back? This place is a fucking monster. You need to be ready for anything. Don't get soft."

[molotov]

Molotov is allowed to whine, she is a grown woman! She punches his thigh lightly. "I am not soft, I am tired. Can't I have one night, a night where nothing is happening, to just drink a mug of cocoa? Besides, I do not have a fucking cow to milk and a cacao tree to make chocolate from."

[samson]

"Not when it's magic castle cocoa," he says dryly, though she has a point. It's impossible to do anything on your own here. Even if you get most of your stuff in the city, from the townspeople -- like Brock does -- there's no real way of knowing if that isn't under the castle's purview as well.

"You're soft, though. So am I. When's the last time we actually did some real work in this place? I don't even know when the last time I killed somebody was."

Not counting those weird frolicking guys in straight jackets.

[molotov]

"I don't know what you want me to do about that," she says, leaning her head into the crook of his underarm. "Our jobs are obsolete here. Most people's are. We cannot just kill people for no reason, and nothing else we do will keep us 'hard', or whatever you are implying. I train most days, but a punching bag is just a punching bag, you know?"

[samson]

Brock grunts, moving his arm from around her to wrap it around the back of the sofa instead, hooking his ankle over his knee. "Yeah. Hell if I know."

He pauses to drag off his cigarette, exhaling the smoke in a thin stream as he looks at the ceiling.

"I dunno. I miss actually doing important shit. There's never anything important here, though. Sometimes I play carpenter or mechanic but it's... not, uh. The same. Right? Like forced retirement," he says, then scoffs. "I always figured I'd die in the field or something. Not fuck around with a little homestead."

[molotov]

Molotov goes quiet for a few moments, curling tighter against him when he stops actively holding her. No, husband, don't be distant!!!

"Would you rather be dead?" she finally asks, her brow knit as she looks down at her hands. "Were you happier... before? Before we 'settled down', before it was us instead of just you and just me?"

She definitely sounds like she has more to say, but she cuts herself off instead, gripping tightly at her mug.

[samson]

Wow, jeez, he's just trying to have a conversation with her as equals! It's hard to think of her as a contemporary when he's all holding her, okay. Which is part of the problem, too; it's hard for him to reconcile his natural tendency toward domestic bullshit with the part of him that's a hardcore murderous spy when he... doesn't actually have an outlet for the latter.

So she's not far off, though not for the reasons she's thinking.

Brock grunts again, rolling his eyes. Even after years of being with her here, he's still not good at this feelings jam shit. "No. I'm just bored as hell all the time," he says, glancing at her. "If there was something to do here, though -- for either of us -- then we wouldn't work out. I guess it's a catch-22."

[molotov]

They can be equals and still snuggle! What the fuck, did that mean he thought of her as lesser or something when they were being domestic? She thought they were partners in this marriage, goddamn it. And let's be real here, he was kind of inclined toward domestic bullshit even when he did have an outlet. Molotov bets he's crocheted little doilies and put them all over SPHINX headquarters!

SPHINX-abandoned-building-in-the-Ventures'-backyard. Whatever.

Molotov frowns more deeply when he says that, then inhales sharply, like she's trying to suppress her natural reaction. "We could work out," she mumbles, looking more and more miserable the longer they talk.

[samson]

Excuse you, they were not doilies, they were latch hook rugs. There's a difference.

"Look, we wouldn't be together if it wasn't for this place," he says with a frown, leaning back a little to get a better look at her. If she starts crying, that just lends more credence to his theory that they are getting irresponsibly soft. "The perfect storm of no bullshit politics getting in our way."

[molotov]

Well, whatever, they were ugly either way! Ugly and super Holly Homemaker bullshit, and he was doing it even when he had "something to do".

When Brock sits back, Molotov scoots away, no longer willing to try and be the relationship advocate in this discussion. "We could have been together, I wanted to be together!" she snaps, then reels it back in. "Bullshit politics is your meaningless excuse, it always has been. First you loved your government more than me, then you loved the Ventures more than me, and then you loved Hunter even more than me, even when every single one of them let you down over and over. But I have always been there, offering you a way out, something unconditional."

She looks over at him, and there might be just a tiny shimmer of a tear in her eye, but it's a tear of frustration, not sadness. "You always rely on 'politics' to be your excuse. Do you even want to be married to me, Brock? Or am I just a last resort, because you can't have America or the Ventures or fucking Hunter Gathers?"

[samson]

Molotov's 'unconditionality,' of course, isn't as simple as she's making it sound. He couldn't turn his back on his beliefs and his morals just for one woman, even if he loved her more than anything. But none of that really matters here; beliefs and morals hold a lot less weight when you're living in a magical castle that feeds on your soul and fucks with you for fun.

He doesn't say anything about that, though. He's tired of having this argument.

"Look," he says again, turning to face her. He takes his cigarette out his mouth and ashes it onto... the floor, because why the fuck not. "It just works out here. It's not complicated here. Stop overthinking things; of course I want you. This place is a monster, but at least it gave us this chance."

He sighs, rubbing at his face, then peers at her from between his fingers. "So maybe I shouldn't complain so much."

[molotov]

She doesn't answer -- instead, she just gazes at the fireplace, her face set in a deep, angry frown. There's nothing left to say, she feels, and so she keeps quiet, sipping at her mug and pointedly ignoring her own husband's presence. Maybe she'll go stay with someone else tonight.

No point in trying to make peace with this, she figures. Brock will just keep dodging the subject, and she'll just keep having to pretend.

[samson]

Pretty much! Though as far as Brock's concerned, there's no way to make peace with this, which is his point. He doesn't want to argue about it because it'll go nowhere. They just need to accept that this place gave them a chance they're never going to get in the 'real world.' It's not perfect, but it's something.

He's staring at her now, though. How rude, just pretending like he's not even there...

"Now what."

[molotov]

"Leave me alone," she says, unconsciously curling away from him. She'd been having a perfectly nice time all alone, thinking and watching the fire, until Brock showed up, seemingly just to make her feel like shit. She'd tried to avoid this, tried to get him to just sit with her in front of the fire, but no, he had to keep opening his mouth.

[samson]

Brock rolls his eyes. What a drama queen! Why can't Molotov be more like a dude, just be perfectly content not talking about shit. (Insert joke here about marrying Shoreleave instead.)

"I can't," he says mildly, throwing his arm over the back of the couch again and leaning back. "You're stuck with me, baby."

[molotov]

Because she is not a dude! Good lord, come on. If Brock wanted to be married to a lady, particularly a crazy one like Molotov, he was going to have to deal with emotions and drama. It comes with the territory! He could always go marry a man, if that was his thing.

She snorts, and then harrumphs. "I can leave you if I want. Get another man, a better one."

[samson]

He liked ladies too much, it was a real problem! To be fair, though, he never had to deal with the emotions and drama before; there's a reason why he preferred to sleep around and stuff, you know.

"I don't think that's possible," he says, then tips his head toward her. "There's no divorce here, too."

[molotov]

But it wasn't like Brock had been pressed for time to get used to it! They were approaching their second wedding anniversary, and that didn't even include their unmarried relationship. So really, Brock only had himself to blame for not being used to this shit by now.

"I do not have to get a divorce," she tells him, smirking. "Bigamy is legal here. Maybe I will have a little harem of husbands, rotate through them. Assign them days of the week."

[samson]

Well, yes, but it's not like they had a ton of emotional conversations. Ones that didn't end with Brock throwing his hands in the air, leaving, and then apologizing later, anyway; that didn't lend itself to very much progress.

"Cool, you do that," he says mildly, breathing a stream of smoke through the corner of his mouth. "I'll just kill 'em all."

[molotov]

"Don't you dare kill my other husbands," she says, feigning offense, and places one hand to her chest. "They are as deserving of my love as you are. Maybe more, they will not be mean to me."