(no subject)
So this is just a gay little vignette that could only ever happen in my imagination, where Dean rides unicorns and Dr. Venture still has a full head of hair.
But it is also one of those vignettes that comes to you and slowly kills you with cuteness until you just give in and write the damn thing. SO IN THE SPIRIT OF EXORCISING DEMONS:
Brock wiped the steam off the mirror and looked at himself for a moment. Being in a bathroom that didn't look like a holdover from The Brady Bunch was weird, to say the least. He opened the medicine cabinet; seeing makeup and a spare eyepatch instead of pills was even weirder. He sighed and got dressed. He'd get used to it.
Taking a few minutes to eye a stack of still-wrapped gifts, and the packaging of china, appliances and weapons, Brock strolled through the living room towards the dining room. It was empty, and the table, though fully set, bore no food. He wasn't at all surprised.
One of the first things that had become abundantly clear to Brock after leaving the Ventures' was that Molotov was perhaps the least domestically-inclined woman Brock had ever met. She could keep things tidy enough, but true cooking and cleaning were simply beyond her. She had either been on military compounds or kept a maid since she was very young, and, Brock figured, the normal lessons for maintaining a house had never come.
This particular morning, Molotov was standing in the kitchen in her underwear, holding a box of freezer waffles and growling, physically growling. Brock was unsure of whether she was aware of the grumbling in her throat. She stared at the writing on the side of the box, then glanced up at the high-tech toaster oven some friend of hers had given them. (In keeping with the whole 'failure-at-domesticity' thing, Molotov had furnished a house and managed to forget such things as toasters and hangers. On the plus side, they had a full arsenal of kukris and RCLs in the armoire.) She hissed in Russian, and violently threw the box.
Brock retrieved the waffles from the corner and put them back in the freezer. "What's wrong?"
"I have set this machine to cook the food four times. It dings, but the waffles are still frozen." She crossed her arms and glared at the toaster oven.
"Let me see." Brock stood next to her, and eyed the thing. Molotov turned and began dumping vodka into a glass of orange juice.
It took him all of two minutes to find the problem. Brock turned back to her, and leaned against the counter. "Go get dressed," he said. "I have to get some tools, but it'll be fixed by the time you come back." She took her orange juice and left.
After Brock heard the bathroom door shut, he plugged in the toaster oven. Then he picked up the newspaper, and began reading. He waited a few minutes, then took a gravy ladle from a gift-wrapped serving set and started banging the top of the toaster oven.
When Molotov emerged a half-hour later, there were two plates of waffles on the table. She sniffed disdainfully at the waffles, but sat down. "What was wrong?" she asked, pouring half a bottle of maple syrup onto her plate. "You were quite loud."
Brock raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his coffee. "Just a screw that needed to be put back into place." He sat down next to her. "I'll make breakfast tomorrow, okay?"
LOL, I AM SO GAY.
But it is also one of those vignettes that comes to you and slowly kills you with cuteness until you just give in and write the damn thing. SO IN THE SPIRIT OF EXORCISING DEMONS:
Brock wiped the steam off the mirror and looked at himself for a moment. Being in a bathroom that didn't look like a holdover from The Brady Bunch was weird, to say the least. He opened the medicine cabinet; seeing makeup and a spare eyepatch instead of pills was even weirder. He sighed and got dressed. He'd get used to it.
Taking a few minutes to eye a stack of still-wrapped gifts, and the packaging of china, appliances and weapons, Brock strolled through the living room towards the dining room. It was empty, and the table, though fully set, bore no food. He wasn't at all surprised.
One of the first things that had become abundantly clear to Brock after leaving the Ventures' was that Molotov was perhaps the least domestically-inclined woman Brock had ever met. She could keep things tidy enough, but true cooking and cleaning were simply beyond her. She had either been on military compounds or kept a maid since she was very young, and, Brock figured, the normal lessons for maintaining a house had never come.
This particular morning, Molotov was standing in the kitchen in her underwear, holding a box of freezer waffles and growling, physically growling. Brock was unsure of whether she was aware of the grumbling in her throat. She stared at the writing on the side of the box, then glanced up at the high-tech toaster oven some friend of hers had given them. (In keeping with the whole 'failure-at-domesticity' thing, Molotov had furnished a house and managed to forget such things as toasters and hangers. On the plus side, they had a full arsenal of kukris and RCLs in the armoire.) She hissed in Russian, and violently threw the box.
Brock retrieved the waffles from the corner and put them back in the freezer. "What's wrong?"
"I have set this machine to cook the food four times. It dings, but the waffles are still frozen." She crossed her arms and glared at the toaster oven.
"Let me see." Brock stood next to her, and eyed the thing. Molotov turned and began dumping vodka into a glass of orange juice.
It took him all of two minutes to find the problem. Brock turned back to her, and leaned against the counter. "Go get dressed," he said. "I have to get some tools, but it'll be fixed by the time you come back." She took her orange juice and left.
After Brock heard the bathroom door shut, he plugged in the toaster oven. Then he picked up the newspaper, and began reading. He waited a few minutes, then took a gravy ladle from a gift-wrapped serving set and started banging the top of the toaster oven.
When Molotov emerged a half-hour later, there were two plates of waffles on the table. She sniffed disdainfully at the waffles, but sat down. "What was wrong?" she asked, pouring half a bottle of maple syrup onto her plate. "You were quite loud."
Brock raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his coffee. "Just a screw that needed to be put back into place." He sat down next to her. "I'll make breakfast tomorrow, okay?"
LOL, I AM SO GAY.