(no subject)
Grr, so sorry about inactivity. :(
Here's this... thing.
After Molotov left, Brock went about the Compound as usual. He made dinner for the Ventures, began cleaning the mess they had made over the past three days, and just generally tried to keep his thoughts from deep-voiced women with stubble, and normal-voiced women with his heart.
He went up to the boys’ room and said hi to Hank, who asked a lot of suspicious questions about Molotov, most of which Brock couldn’t answer anyway. He listened to Dr. Venture rant for an hour about her being ‘too choosy’, and also about how she shot at him with an AK-47 (this made Brock vaguely jealous in a way he couldn’t define).
Yes, Brock was absolutely fine until he went to take a shower. In fact, he would have remained fine if he hadn’t looked down and seen two long strands of red hair on the floor of the tub.
For several moments, he stood, transfixed, watching the water run over her hair in his tub, until both of the strands were lifted by the current and swirled down the drain. After they were gone, much like she was, Brock sighed, closed his eyes, and slammed his forehead against the wall once, hard, staying that way until he was able to make his heart and other parts stop throbbing in the kind of pain that only Molotov could induce.
Leaving the bathroom, slightly disgruntled, Brock went to fold the sofa-bed up, pausing outside the door for a minute because he could smell her cigarette smoke still emanating from the room, since he had forgotten to tell her that she could only smoke in the hangar or outside. Forcing himself to think about something else, anything else, he took a deep breath and walked in. Keeping his mind blank, he returned the sofa to its normal shape, snatching the pillow from it and tucking it under his arm.
He walked from the room without so much as second glance back, brusquely marching to the hall closet and opening it to throw the pillow to the back of the top shelf, but as he raised his arm above his head, he caught a single whiff of the scent of her hair and then couldn’t bring himself to let go of the pillowcase. Sighing, he dropped his arm and shut the closet door again, closing his eyes for a minute, then turned and walked to his bedroom, pillow still clutched in one hand.
Brock closed the door behind him once he reached his bedroom, then leaned against it, eyes shut. He stood there for several minutes, still, then glanced down at his fist, still clenched in white cotton, telling himself no, but he couldn’t help it after a few seconds, and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling the smell of her deeply, her cigarette smoke and her floral shampoo and her heady perfume and blood.
Once he began suffocating in the pillowcase, he moved it, crossing the room to put her pillow next to his own on the bed. He changed into his pyjamas, then stood in front of his bed, looking blankly at the pillows side by side.
About one second after he decided to sleep on her pillow tonight, he noticed something.
A single red strand of hair on the white of his pillow. Brock smirked, looked around to make sure she didn’t steal anything, then laid down on linens that smelled distantly of Molotov and went to sleep.
Here's this... thing.
After Molotov left, Brock went about the Compound as usual. He made dinner for the Ventures, began cleaning the mess they had made over the past three days, and just generally tried to keep his thoughts from deep-voiced women with stubble, and normal-voiced women with his heart.
He went up to the boys’ room and said hi to Hank, who asked a lot of suspicious questions about Molotov, most of which Brock couldn’t answer anyway. He listened to Dr. Venture rant for an hour about her being ‘too choosy’, and also about how she shot at him with an AK-47 (this made Brock vaguely jealous in a way he couldn’t define).
Yes, Brock was absolutely fine until he went to take a shower. In fact, he would have remained fine if he hadn’t looked down and seen two long strands of red hair on the floor of the tub.
For several moments, he stood, transfixed, watching the water run over her hair in his tub, until both of the strands were lifted by the current and swirled down the drain. After they were gone, much like she was, Brock sighed, closed his eyes, and slammed his forehead against the wall once, hard, staying that way until he was able to make his heart and other parts stop throbbing in the kind of pain that only Molotov could induce.
Leaving the bathroom, slightly disgruntled, Brock went to fold the sofa-bed up, pausing outside the door for a minute because he could smell her cigarette smoke still emanating from the room, since he had forgotten to tell her that she could only smoke in the hangar or outside. Forcing himself to think about something else, anything else, he took a deep breath and walked in. Keeping his mind blank, he returned the sofa to its normal shape, snatching the pillow from it and tucking it under his arm.
He walked from the room without so much as second glance back, brusquely marching to the hall closet and opening it to throw the pillow to the back of the top shelf, but as he raised his arm above his head, he caught a single whiff of the scent of her hair and then couldn’t bring himself to let go of the pillowcase. Sighing, he dropped his arm and shut the closet door again, closing his eyes for a minute, then turned and walked to his bedroom, pillow still clutched in one hand.
Brock closed the door behind him once he reached his bedroom, then leaned against it, eyes shut. He stood there for several minutes, still, then glanced down at his fist, still clenched in white cotton, telling himself no, but he couldn’t help it after a few seconds, and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling the smell of her deeply, her cigarette smoke and her floral shampoo and her heady perfume and blood.
Once he began suffocating in the pillowcase, he moved it, crossing the room to put her pillow next to his own on the bed. He changed into his pyjamas, then stood in front of his bed, looking blankly at the pillows side by side.
About one second after he decided to sleep on her pillow tonight, he noticed something.
A single red strand of hair on the white of his pillow. Brock smirked, looked around to make sure she didn’t steal anything, then laid down on linens that smelled distantly of Molotov and went to sleep.