Tetris.

19Mar08

It is ten-thirty in the morning. Molotov is in a dead sleep in the middle of the bed, having wandered in in an exhausted haze at four AM. Too tired for even a cursory hello after having been on a mission for nine days, she had passed out without undressing. Brock simply rolled over and turned the alarm clock off.

At ten thirty-one, Brock kicks open the bedroom door. Molotov does not even twitch, which Brock takes as more evidence that she has not slept in several days. For half a second, he reconsiders what he is about to do. Then he extends his leg and kicks his wife square in the back.

Molotov yelps as she is jerked from her slumber. She shoots up and glares at Brock. “What?!”

He looks at her. “Found it,” he says, holding up a black box.

Molotov sighs exasperatedly and turns back around, flopping back into the mattress dramatically.  She clutches the pillow to her head, deciding that she does not care enough to ask what ‘it’ is.

Undeterred, Brock kicks her again. “Remember before you left, what you said?”

Molotov clenches her eye shut. “Nyet, I do not. Nor do I care.”

Brock chooses to ignore her words. “You said that I couldn’t think of a single fair contest I could beat you in.”

“I am glad to see that your feelings were hurt so deeply, and it is nice that you put so much effort into this, but I honestly do not care, Samson.”

“Well, I figured it out,” Brock continues, talking over her. He crosses the room and drops the box he is holding on the bed in front of her. Except it’s not a box.

Molotov opens her eye the tiniest bit and looks at it. “Samson, what the hell is that?”

“Atari. Get up, we’re gonna play Tetris.”

She is not amused, and, rather than get up, yanks the covers over her head. Brock eyes her form for a second, then says the one thing he is sure will make her compete.

“I bet you can’t beat me.”

Molotov slowly pulls the covers off to reveal her face. “What did you say?”

Brock smirks, sensing victory. “Just that you must know you’re gonna lose, since you won’t play.”

Nostrils flaring, Molotov sits up. “You, my dog, are on.”

–

It is now two minutes past eleven. Molotov is drinking coffee that is actually about eighty percent liquor, sitting on the sofa and watching Brock hook the ancient game system up to the television.  “Where did you even get that?” she asks, warily scrutinising it.

“I had it,” Brock shrugs. He stands up and hands her a controller. “You ready?”

“What are we betting?” Molotov asks, downing the rest of her coffee. She is answered by raised eyebrows and a lascivious grin, which makes her smile despite herself. “Good. I was hoping that I wouldn’t win something stupid.”

He rolls his eyes at her cockiness, but extends his hand toward the screen, letting her go first and set the score to beat.

Two hours later, Brock is still watching her play. Molotov’s score has reached well over three million, and she is still going strong. After another forty-five minutes, Molotov gets bored and throws down her controller. The television beeps GAME OVER and flashes her score.

“I am finished with this,” she says, standing up. She turns to leave the room.

“So you’re not gonna watch me kick your ass?” Brock asks lightly.

Molotov stops in her tracks, turns and plants herself back on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table. Brock smiles at her and starts his game.

He plays for several hours while Molotov dozes off next to him. When he is a thousand points behind her score, he wakes her up.

“Thought you’d want to watch me make you eat your words,” he informs her. She ignores him.

Molotov sleepily watches his score climb. She does not speak, though her eyebrow raises at his next statement.

“One hundred more points, baby.”

Once he is done talking, she abruptly climbs on top of him, unbuckling his belt. He begins to protest her obvious cheating, but she cuts him off by grabbing his face and kissing him forcefully. Brock’s brain tries to make him shove her off, insisting that she will have to pay up in only a few more seconds, but other parts of him blatantly ignore the orders. Then she starts unbuttoning his shirt and his brain stops working altogether.

A minute later, the television beeps again. Molotov sits up straight and looks over her shoulder at Brock’s final score.

“Well, well, Samson,” she says, turning back to him with a smug grin. “It would seem that you have lost your precious game.”

Brock is relatively unconcerned. “Thought you wanted a fair contest, you cheater.” He places his hands on her ass and pulls her closer.

Molotov chuckles darkly and tosses her hair to the side. “The contest had to be fair, not the competition. Now,” she adds, sliding her arms around his neck. “I believe you owe me a prize.”

Brock grins and throws her flat on the sofa. He pins her down before responding. “Guess I do.”

Filed under: Brock/Molotov, Venture Bros, future fic   |  Leave a Comment