AN: basically a drabble, I don't really know...it's kind of almost too fluffy for Brock/Molotov, ha ha.
I don't own Venture Brothers!
There was never an exclusive agreement between them, although Brock is pretty sure if Molotov happened to walk in on him fucking some girl, she'd kill the girl and then kill him (or try, she can always try). It's not a matter of being faithful, since they're not a couple, at least not in so many words, and they never have been. Brock would never say this, but he thinks of her, each time, of her lips on his and those hands running across his chest. Nobody else.
He's often wondered if the belt was just for him, or if it's for every guy she's ever messed around with. Either way, he tries not to think of her kissing another man or doing more than kiss another man. It's unbearable for some reason, in a way he can't quite define, and so he simply doesn't think about it at all. This works pretty well, for a while.
He was there with Hunter to kiss up to the big-wigs of O.S.I. The top brass was giving them this assignment to make nice with the other organizations as a sort of punishment for the incident with the creepy kid with the huge head, and it kind of sucked. Hunter had disappeared, and Brock was downing cup after cup of barely alcoholic punch in an attempt to make the company a little more bearable, and that was when he had spotted her across the room. He could recognize her hair, the way she held herself, from anywhere.
It took him a minute to see that she was hanging off the arm of some blond guy, pale and much older than her. And as if she'd sensed him, she turns around in his direction.
Their eyes meet, her expression halfway between a sneer and a look of guilt, of being caught red-handed. When he walks up to her, she introduces him to the man, who is a fellow KGB member, fairly high up on the social ladder and a Colonel.
"What are you going to do?", Molotov snaps at him as they stand outside on the balcony, chain-smoking. "Kill him?"
The image won't leave his mind, like a record stuck on repeat, just her, hair flowing down her bare back, the black dress, and then, the arm around her waist, possessive, laying claim on the only woman he's ever loved, the only woman he is fairly sure he will ever love.
It's almost physically painful, tenfold worse than simply thinking of it, and at Molotov's comment, he starts seriously considering killing him. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply through his nose.
"Samson."
She blows smoke in his face, a small smile gracing her features. The rareness of this, a look of near tenderness, makes him shift closer towards her, and at this cue, she slips both arms about his waist, laying her head against his chest. Minutes pass, but it seems like forever they hold this, the light from the windows falling in squares on the concrete, the air chilly and almost too quiet.
Then she stubs out her cigarette on the balcony railing and goes back inside.