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[molotov]

Who: molotov and samson
What: Talking :(
When: The morning after all of this.
Where: Brock's cabin
Rating: Probably like PG-13 at most.

She said she'd find him.

When Brock hadn't come home, and he wasn't still on the kitchen floor, Molotov figured he must have gone out to his cabin. So that was where she went. It was late morning -- she'd wanted to give him time to wake up.

With a small knock, she opened the door, peering around the edge before the door was even fully opened.

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[samson]

"If he killed me, would you forgive him?" he said immediately, frown deepening. "You know him better than me, would he have told you he's sorry?"

[molotov]

"He would have apologized for the fact that he allowed me to love you at all," she said, "and no, I never would have forgiven him. I might not have said anything to him, I might have still obeyed, but I never would have forgiven, even for a second."

[samson]

Brock was getting tired of just standing there, so he sat down heavily on the sofa, head in his hands. "I can't apologize for something I'm not sorry for," he said quietly, looking vaguely at the floor. "It was war. I'm not sorry I did it."

He paused, squinting a little, trying to figure out how to put this into words. This entire conversation was not Brock's strong suit. "I'm sorry I had to do it," he continued slowly, a bit haltingly. "I don't even know if I had to. I know he would have done the same thing to me. But mostly it was just ... I guess it was because of you that I did it. I wanted to hurt you. Bad.

"So I'm sorry I wanted to do that."

[molotov]

Molotov was silent for several very long moments, walking away to the other side of the room and leaning against the wall.

"So it was not war," she finally said. "You just wanted to make sure we could never be okay. You wanted to hurt me so badly that I could never heal, no matter what happened. Why? Because you loved me?"

[samson]

"No, that wasn't about you," he said, looking up sharply. "Well ... okay, it was about you, but not you. It was about the woman who killed my partner, not the woman I loved. You just wound up being the same person."

[molotov]

"Your partner wasn't dead," she said, her voice flat and measured, her eye just an angry slit. "So you did not hurt the woman who killed your partner, because she does not exist. There was only the woman you loved."

[samson]

"I know that now," he said with a frown. "So I guess I'm sorry I made a mistake. But he still would have killed me if he had the chance, so I don't ... I mean, should I be sorry I got to him first? Would you want me dead instead of him?"

[molotov]

"No," she said, immediately and honestly, "I would not. I just want you to care about everything else, and to admit that it was not me. I asked you so many times, I begged you, I waited over twenty years for you, alone and locked away. And all that ever mattered to you was my job. Did you even really love me, Brock? Or was I just wasting time, hoping?"

[samson]

"Don't ask me that, Molotov," he said, rubbing at his face with both hands, which he then dropped to his lap and slouched miserably on the couch, frowning at his feet. "Of course I loved you. You're the only woman I ever loved. Ever. But when you're like us, when you do the things we do ... you can't separate the job from the person."

He looked over at her. "We're killers, Molotov. It's really all we're good at. I couldn't really quit my job either."

[molotov]

Molotov looked away and inhaled sharply, her face crumpling for a moment before she recomposed herself. "You separated it here," she managed to say evenly. "I am the same person. I see nothing wrong with my work. I am not going out and killing innocent people on the street. I do not kill people with terrible lives, who are doing the only jobs they could find, like you used to, by the dozen. In sheer numbers, you take the cake, my love, and can you really say that most of those men were deserving of the deaths they got? I kill rich and powerful people, almost all of whom are doing terrible things anyway. People usually do not pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to have someone killed just because they do not like them. And even when they do, what does me taking money for a personal grudge matter when both sides are drug lords or mob bosses?"

[samson]

"The only jobs they could find -- no, don't pull that on me. Henchmen know what they're doing. They're stupid, but they know what they're doing."

He sighed and leaned forward, putting his head in his hands again. "It's different. I'm doing it to protect, or I used to. And now it's to make the world a better place. I don't know," he said, just getting frustrated by this -- how was Molotov touting how much better than him she was, and how awful he was actually going to help them? "I don't know what you want me to say. I can't change the past, and even if I could, we're not even there anymore."

[molotov]

"Henchmen get kidnapped!" she said. Molotov actually knows a decent amount about the Guild. That happens when you run in these circles, and also when you're friends with the Sovereign.

And she wasn't touting it! But he wasn't allowed to sit here and act like she was an untouchable piece of shit for being a mercenary when, in reality, he was a lot worse than she was. "I already told you, I want you to care. I am not asking you to change the past, I am not asking you to control another world. But you can still acknowledge that it is not right."

[samson]

"So I'm the only one who fucked up," he said flatly, glancing up at her. "That's what you're saying. Everything is my fault."

[molotov]

"Nyet," she said, just as flatly. "But you fucked up first, more, and harder than I did, and you still blamed it on me."

[samson]

"Then you need to apologize too," he said, frowning.

[molotov]

"What do you want me to apologize for?" she asked, looking a little annoyed. "I will never apologize for Triggermensch, Sturgeon and Le Teuer. That was Hunter's idea and you would not ask him to apologize."

[samson]

"I don't know, whatever you fucked up about," he said, getting frustrated again. "I'm not going to kowtow to you, Mol. If I have to apologize for not working harder at us, then so do you."

[molotov]

Molotov made a noise of annoyance, because this wasn't fucking fair. She wasn't asking him to kowtow -- she'd told him exactly what she wanted an apology for.

"I am sorry that I did not drag you away from the OSI and your idiots by force," she said acidly, because she didn't know what the fuck else he wanted.

[samson]

Well, Molotov needed to remember that her husband was very prideful! Even if she didn't mean it, she needed to show him that they were equals, that he wasn't bowing and grovelling for forgiveness.

Brock glared at her a little, because that ... was not really what he wanted to hear at all? "How about how you wouldn't compromise for me," he said, forcing himself to remain calm and keep his tone even, then added: "I'm sorry I wouldn't compromise for you."

[molotov]

She looked at Brock like he was maybe a little stupid, and shook her head. "I will not apologize for that. What kind of compromise was I supposed to have made, Brock? I could not have just stopped working. I would have made room in my life for you whether or not you worked for the OSI. You would not do the same."

[samson]

He stared right back at her. "So it is all my fault. That's exactly what you're telling me, if the only thing you can come up with is that you didn't kidnap me."

[molotov]

"I asked what you wanted an apology for!" she said. "You think I should have compromised, but I had nothing left to compromise except my entire livelihood! I just asked what you think I should have done. Should I have been starving on the streets? Was I supposed to move into your little room at the Ventures'? What was I supposed to give? If you cannot tell me what I should be sorry for, then how should I know, Brock?"

[samson]

"'Come be my partner' isn't a compromise, Molotov! You never in a thousand fucking years told me I could have stayed with the OSI. Which I couldn't anyway -- they don't really keep you on if you desert your assignment," he said sardonically, then got up and started pacing, gesturing vaguely in the air as he did.

"Look, I don't know what I want you to apologize for. I just don't want everything to be my fucking fault. Okay? Or should I just roll over and admit how much better you are, and how I guess I wasted my life, and how every decision I made was shit? Would that make you feel better if I apologized for being a fuck-up at, like, everything? 'cause that's what I'm getting from you. I actually don't know why you love me, or married me, or like, anything, if you think I'm such a loser."

See, this is why Brock tries to avoid talking about feelings. Ever. Because now he's just talking and he can't stop, oh god.

[molotov]

"It is more of a compromise than 'come be a housewife, but not even in your own house'! Especially since you probably still would not have married me!" she shot back. "You think I would have given a shit if you only took feel-good jobs? If you fucking balanced my books and made sure I only gave to worthy charities? I tried to give what I had to give, but it is just never good enough for you! I tried and you didn't so maybe it is all your fault! Did you ever think of that, even once? That I tried for you, and you could not spare the effort for me?"

Molotov punched the wall, cutting her hand open, which she ignored. "I do not know why I love you, just that I do. And I do not think you are a loser, I just think you do not love me as much as I love you, and you never have and never will!"

She was tearing up despite herself, and she turned away to force it back.

[samson]

"We could have run away together," he blurted, talking over her, "we could have started a new life together, without any killing, or --"

When she punched the wall, he stopped and whirled on her, hands tense and in the air, fingers curled like he was ready to strangle somebody.

"Don't you," he said, voice dangerously low and his eyes narrowed, "ever fucking say that, Molotov Cocktease. I'm obsessed with you. Do you know since the day you left me to die in a fire, not a day's gone by where I didn't think about you? Not a day. I dream about you ... every damn night! Every night, you're shooting me in the face or strangling me or stabbing me or something, but it's always you. All the time."