Scenario Entitled: You Don't Bring Me Flowers AnymoreCharacters:
Jeremy, eccentric cyberdoc with a thing for lost causes.
Rooke, Councilwoman, and Lost Cause.
Location: City Council Chambers
Date: Late Autumn, 106 P.A.
The doors open hesitantly, with a weak squeaking of the hinges. Jeremy slips inside, his trenchcoat held over one shoulder with an arm. In his hand is a bouquet full of flowers -- beware of geeks bearing gifts, hon. He's pale and somewhat nervous, with an empty holster underneath his arm. Ah, well. And that, is that. His head pokes in slowly and tilts about, to see what it can see.
Rooke would beware... and crawl under the table, too. If she was aware of his presence, or indeed, aware of anything. All that can be seen of her is a dark red mop cradled in leather-clad arms. Oh, and shoulders, let's not forget those monuments of hewn rock. Small heaps of paper gather around her, singing lullabies in accounting strings and formal budget propositions. A laptop a few inches in front of her plays a wistfully tacky 'screen-saver' across its screen: A collection of flying vibro-knives, energy fields a-hummin' randomly.
Jeremy slips inside the room cautiously. He wisely announces his presence with a softly whispered, "Rooke?" He follows it up with a slightly louder, "Rooke, my de...my friend?" The doors part for him as he squeezes through, careful not to crumple or ruin the precious flowers. Wingtipped feet drag his unwilling form closer. Thin lips twist into a precarious smile.
"Mmmmfff. Yeah," comes the low voice from under the burden of dark hair. "What.. okay..." What faint stirring there is causes a slight shift in the nearest small heap of loose paper. See? She's busy. Busy as a little bee. Buzz, buzz, buzzz-zzzzz... zzzz... "Alright... I gotcha..." And there you have it. Your government figurehead in action.
Jeremy slips up towards the poor, sleepy little birdie. He sets his bouquet of hope and atonement down next to her horribly muscular arms. Then, as if it were to make all better, he strides across carpeting to kneel by her side. He tilts the laptop towards himself, and hits a button -- terminating the lease of all those scary vibro-cutter-things. Formerly cringing eyes focus on the screen, studying it and its results carefully.
Nowwww he's done it. Bet he doesn't know 'delete file' from 'quit program'... but luckily, the moron-safety-feature kicks in, and makes way for a glaring white screen of minimized spreadsheets, spilling over with obscure, dark totals. A toolbar on top beckons those 'in the know' to type in the correct hotkey to call up each miserable function, all crying out to be utilized. Rooke stirs again, and abruptly lifts a hand to shut off that horrid spill of light on her head, whapping the edge of the screen lightly to bring it closing down on the keyboard... and possibly his hand.
Possibly, nothing. The sudden whapping by She of Awesome Buffitude elicts a distinct 'ouch!' followed by a softer 'damn it!' The wounded doctor stumbles away slowly, grimacing and cradling his hand. At least he's not massaging anymore....although the laptop is still slightly open, and beeping horribly.
Too bad, too. He was actually about a minute or two from figuring out that program-thing. He knew all that programming and operation experience would come in handy some day.
Rooke jerks into semi-wakefulness, with an sultry but incoherent 'uh!', and leans back in her chair, examining the complaining portable console bemusedly. Her eyes inexorably fall to the bouquet, eyebrows raising slowly. "Uh..." she repeats, in more of an alert confusion now, and twists in her seat to regard the source of such quiet whimpers and rustlings. "You..?"
It'd be classic, if it didn't hurt so effin much. Jeremy looks up slowly from where he's holding his hand close to his chest. "I...erm...yes..." he murmurs...head falling a little bit. He straightens up some and drops his hand, trying to summon up some dignity as a shield when the fists start flying. "It was hell to find roses this time of year. I had to go to that fellow who I got the flowers from the first time...I'm surprised he's still here, after the Occupation and all." They are, indeed, a bouquet of twelve lovely roses, freshly cut (albeit, slightly droopy), and surrounded by little sprigs of baby's breath. "And...so...here I am. A few creds lighter, with a rather injured hand and a wounded pride...erm...I could go now. You know...if you'd like." He looks up at her, a lost puppydog trapped in his pathetic features, with his sad little eyes and his hopeful smile.
The veil of sleep eventually melts away from Rooke's features as she eyes him carefully, remembering exactly why she's so perturbed by his presence. Also, that fricken beep-beeping is jabbing like a chisel into her brain. Reaching back, her hand finishes what it started, and snaps the laptop shut, cutting off the bleating. Then it slips to the side and snags the bouquet, dragging it off the table in a downwards arc, to end up presented to him like a surprise on a summer's day. "Yeah.. you'd better, I think. I can't take these, either. Here," she says quietly, keeping her eyes on his face somewhere. After a short pause, she adds, "Sorry."
Jeremy replies uneasily, "Not sorry enough." He stares for another moment, deep into her eyes...even if they won't dare stare back. "That's not what I meant," he states awkwardly, "Just that...take them, alright? It's certainly not to show you how I feel -- because nothing I ever gave you could mean enough. They're mere tokens...no...it's just to say I'm sorry. It's...just a beginning, I guess." He begins to back off sheepishly, returning to the gentle massage of his hand. "Don't worry, love...just...keep them, ok? Give them to JT or Fritz, or something. Just...for God's sake, don't return them, huh?" A soft, despondant sigh passes his lips reluctantly, as a dark and brooding malaise starts it's nagging deep in the pit of his stomach.
Rooke gives a short laugh, surprisingly enough. It's almost resonant, in the depths of its bitterness. After all, it's been over a year since he tried this trick.. she's had time to think, one would hope. "Doc. You take these, and /you/ do something with them. I.. don't.. want them," she grates out, shoving them at him once more, taking a hard step forward. "Take them!" Repeated, harsher, demanding that this onus be lifted. Her eyes, the dark pinpoints in the grey, are alarmingly close to looking him directly in the eyes, they might as well /be/. It kinda hints at a more urgent motivation underneath all the flaring indignation. The soft buds collide with his chest, rustling softly as the petals peel back slightly. She's just about ready to repeat herself, a bit louder.
Jeremy takes a few steps back at all the anger and indignation, not to mention the impending severe beating with a bouquet of lovely flowers. He certainly doesn't need that. "You'll have to break my hands first," he remarks softly, a bit sullen stubbornness slipping in. Sorrowfully, he backs off, stating much softer, "You'll find a use for them -- I won't." He continues gazing into those grey depths as best he can from his angle.
Rooke bears down upon him, much more comfortable with being a raging bitch in the privacy of the hallowed Council Chambers, under the watchful eyes of the venerable founders, than in some sleazy bar surrounded by a bunch of no-count lowlifes. The roses jab forth like a bundle of flaming spears, aiming to crush themselves against his torso again, as the spearmaiden herself demands that her will be done. "Damn you.. what happened here, Doc? We were doing so well.. was it the paint? /Did/ something happen," her voice drops to a faint murmur, "to change your mind again, to make you think that you could start pulling this... this.. /crap/ again?" A good, clean jab accompanies this, threatening to smush the delicate buds into his stomach.
Jeremy backs off a bit more, unwilling to die so ignomious a death as being impaled on a bunch of crummy roses that -he- payed a mint for. He gazes at her uncomprehendingly for a long moment, before he states softly, "Nonsense...nothing -happened-. I -realized-, is all...that's all. I know I can't go...I could...I mean....what I mean is that I couldn't really.../hide/ anymore. It was all buried so deep down inside that I never saw it. A lot of things are -- and I won't hide them, or me anymore. I am who I am, and I feel what I feel. I think...I mean...well, I -pray- you feel some of the same things I do. I don't know what holds /you/ back, and I don't care -- all I know is that I'll rend those damnable barriers with my own bare hands, if I have to." He seems to smolder suddenly -- though he's most decidedly not in a manic cycle. It's a sudden imperitive from deep down to grasp on, else lose everything.
It dawns on her, this sudden scintillating thought, and rises to her lips. "You've.... finally lost it... you're mad," she whispers, and sounds so full of hope that this is the case, how could a good man not do his duty, and try his best to actually /go/ nuts, for his lady fair. Rooke nods slowly, convictions solidifying themselves in a last ditch defense mechanism, and reiterates, "Completely bonkers... why else would you do this to me, Doc? When you /know/ I... I /can't/..." The roses have paused in their attack, just holding in a spray of color and scent from her grasp on the stems. But watch out.. that stance she's in happens to be the starting position to that ever deadly Gardener's Gambit. Know ye fear.
Jeremy stands wounded, nonetheless, despite the lack of flowers jutting from his chest in an ever-lovely display. There's definately something wrong deep in his eyes...a lasting hurt. Still, he continues on, thrusting out a steady hand. "No! No, don't say that, Rooke. Do not spurn me, Rooke, do not! I'll let you in on something...care to hear?" Without waiting for a response, he plows right through. "I'm saner than I've been in a long time. I don't think you're the one who did it -- but I suppose, ultimately, you're the reason I care why. Rooke...you always used to talk about endings. Destiny and things..well...what's wrong with ending this story a few chapters early? And who says that contentment is an end, anyways? There's still things for you to do! There's still things to accomplish!" He takes in a breath slowly, filtering it deep into unhealthy lungs...trying to steady himself. It's something he finally has managed to accomplish. "Listen -- united, we stand, yes? There's nothing wrong with a little unity, Rooke. It never hurt -anyone-...but...what have I done -to- you? Nothing. But love, maybe, and that's not a crime at all."
Jeremy adds, with a secure smile, and a near direct look in the eyes, "I...I even think I'm almost what you were looking for. A pillar. Something to lean on. Flawed perhaps, and cracked...but I know I can at least support -your- weight."
With every word, he grows less sane, in her gaze. That's the only way it's bearable, to see his eyes, to glimpse his brave, foolhardy smile. Her own eyes develop a glazed, sligthly unfocused cast, as he brings up the taboo subject of destiny, and of endings. As if he knew... as if he had /any/ right to take up the pen and compose those precious last few chapters for her. "Be quiet," Rooke murmurs, hardly audible, as he insistently weaves the tale. "Be still!" she cries out finally, just as he finishes, and rears back with the bouquet clutching arm, getting ready to knock him right upside the head with the unfortunate blooms. She would do this... beat him senseless and unconscious, just to save him from this fool's quest, to save herself as well. "How dare you?" she gasps, from the effort it takes to stay her own hand even for just a little while. "What do /you/ know?"
'What do you know'... sounds mighty familiar. But that song has already played out, and she'd rather swing than sing right now, anyway. Although the words appropriate once again lie within the unplayed verses:Do you wanna show me something?
Or will you just describe it to me?
Just look me in the eye when you say why
Gonna look me in the eye when you say why?Rooke really looks to be struggling, fighting with that muscular spasm that'll dash an innocent bouquet across his fragile skull, and shatter something.. maybe not physical, but deep inside, where of course there's something real, where he knows that she really does care.
Jeremy began, originally, to recoil from the smack to, of course, avoid from such a silly fate as being brained with roses. Better than posies, perhaps...but...still. But as time goes on, and he studies her ever going desperation, the good doctor summons up the kind of inner strength he can only access in private. He smiles easily at her, lips spread benevolently to expose sparkling white teeth, the wholesome bastard. He takes a step into her, arms spread wide, eyes focused and steady for once. "I know I love you. -That- is how I dare. And that is what I know. And I know that if you don't love me...well...I charge you to hit me. Just hit me once. Kill me, Rooke Del Reyhart -- I trust you that much. I'm placing my life securely in your precious little hands, darling." He takes another steady breath, his mood subdued some. Silence reigns supreme as he takes another step forward, placing himself in prime smashing range. Finally, he parts those fool lips to let honey coated words fly free. "Kill me, Rooke. Kill me...or love me. That's your choice, because I promise you, I'll never be out of those lovely, precious auburn locks until you agree to do one of the either. Why? One simple answer, girl. I know that at this moment, those are probably the two strongest instincts working in that mind of yours...and the way I figure it -- if I'm gone, then there's none who care. If I live, and you love, then I'm the happiest man there ever was, in truth. So...swing. I charge you. Dash my grey brains and sanguine life-bloods out across this blue wall. Swing that mighty arm of yours, let fly. 'Tis but one cast away...and so come death." His eyes slip peacefully closed, his arms still spread wide...body untensed and unprepared for what may come. Another deep, restful breath in, then held. Then...that deathly still creeps in once more. Perhaps he is mad -- but he is certainly commited to it.
Maybe it's the fearless, stoic confidence that has suddenly infused him.. or perhaps it's just her own bone-deep weariness of the whole matter.. surely it's easier to give in and be done with it, and be.. happy.. with the choice, than to so steadily oppose for the sake of leading a life of little compromise, less ease, and unreachable endings? Her eyelashes flutter downwards slightly, the first subtle sign of a decision made. Auburn... that's /probably/ what did it. Are you blind, man... to call auburn that dark, wine-coloured mane? Red /does/ come in infinite shades, and Rooke knows 'em all, as she so pointedly demonstrated so long ago, when he made the mistake of questioning the 'red'ness of her former wardrobe. And like she replied before, there is rust red. And yes... there /is/ (ug) auburn red. And then there's wine red. Where is this leading, you ask? To the clever, clever, final mention of 'rose red', as displayed by that blur of motion, sweeping at a downwards tilt at the side of his head. A soft exclamation of effort accompanies the impact of delicate wrapping paper, under which bending leaves and stray thorns jar through, scraping across his neck as they pierce the thin covering. Green and red flutter in the wake of the blow, petals and leaves torn away by sheer velocity. Tut tut, poor man.. lesser men have borne such smitings and lived to curse another day.
Rooke lets out a sharp hiss, and draws back in a ragged breath, tears springing to her eyes, face aglow with the colour of her wrath, as her arm follows through, bearing the bouquet down against his jaw, dragging at him.
It would appear that mistakes...have been made, to say the least. Long, jagged, angry wounds open on his neck under the force of the blow, the whipping by the leaves and paper, and the unyielding ouchity of the stray thorns, tearing easily into the untempered, fragile skin of the poor fool. Blood wells to the surface of some, while in others, skin merely rises. Roses break, and leaves are torn off, fluttering and spattering everywhere. Petals float slowly to the ground, accompanied by less graceful leaves, which generally dive and plummet to the carpet. For his part, he seems to recoil explosively from the first, unexpected shot. The second one sends him to the ground, more skin rising in protest, more blood shed in the pursuit of love. Sad green eyes remain shut, albiet more tightly. His arms shoot out to save him from gravity, bracing himself for the fall -- in vain. He falls soundly to the ground, breath lost oh-so-easily. He takes the savage flower whipping valiantly, stoically...almost lovingly, something in him rejoicing to be her source of much needed therapy. The poor fellow could probably lie there for hours, his almost drawn features getting scarred and disfigured, all for the sake of his pretty little birdy. His pretty, rust red birdy.
Rooke follows him down, dropping to her knees and cocking her arm back again swiftly to strike again. The first blow was the most difficult, it seems. But heavens, it got easier after that. With the bunch of ragged stalks, rapidly shedding the rest of their extraneous colour and leafy bits, she beats away at his shoulder, ripping through the shirt a bit, and staining with previously drawn blood, as well as the occasional random tearfall. She seems to be chanting something under her breath, each repeated word an airless punctuation, most of the time accompanying each hit with the disintegrating stems, but on the whole said too fast for the ligament twisting arm sweeps to keep up with. *fwap fwap fwap* "-uck!, fuck!, fuck!, fuck!, fuck!, f-" See?
And now, the good news: This woman is deranged. Good he found out pretty early in his courtship, and can make a clean break of it, hey?
Well, erm, sound advice deary...but the fact of the matter is, our stoic (read: too stupid to run) and fearsome (read: too lovesick to run) hero is a bit tied up (read: being beaten severely) right now. No time for the clean break, really.
Jeremy just lies there and takes it like a man, making his shoulders a difficult target. What with all that sobbing, they shake quite a bit. Tears pool up at his tearducts, and his face slips into a rather agonized, almost horrific mask at the continued doctor-abuse. Still, no viable sound slips away from him, aside from his involuntary sobs and labored breathing. Perhaps if he holds his breath for long enough...he'll make her love him.
Maybe he'll just get the hell out of here with his life and what's left of his shirt and good looks. More vicious welts are risen up on his shoulder, more blood pools and trickles down his shirt.
Well. Just for the hell of it, and because it's damned appropriate, the last verse:
Leaving off the awful cursing in favour of added oxygen to complete a few more good hard whacks along his ribs, before every last stem has split, and splintered, and wept off its buds, and all the baby's breath are scattered like marbles. Never has a such a seasonal entity served such a decidedly odd purpose. So the bouquet dies, and quietly trundles off to wherever it is roses go, to fervently request reincarnation to a higher life form, preferably something barbaric and wearing Murderball Gear. They have apparently developed a taste for mindless violence.
Rooke drops the broken twig-things and raises her other hand to clasp at her perhaps sprained shoulder, weeping unwillingly through clenched teeth, desolate sounds. Her eyes, wide and bright, pinpoint on him unrepentantly, unforgivingly as well.
"Still...love you..." state pale lips as he rolls over slowly...coming to a solid stop with his back landing heavily against the ground. Eyelids wet with salty tears slowly part to expose wavery and watery eyes, still as clear and purposeful as they were before -- gazing up at her steadily, despite the ocean and the waves of hatred in the way. Heck, not his hatred...so he won't bother with it. "You never...ah...never answered..." That once light, lilting voice is all choked up now, his throat tight and quavering. He lets out a final few sobs, then smiles hopefully up at her, stating, certainly, "Finish it...I wonder if, ah...you c...can?"
Alack, alack...he can take no more, it seems. No more of this cruel life, no more of this harsh waiting. Piercing pains rip at his neck, chin, and shoulder. His emotional well-being fractures slowly underfoot. His mind screams at him to bandage himself, to run, to hide from you. But...something unplaceable urges him on. So, he'll trudge through this no man's land until that last bit goes on him, too.
How kind -- he even gives her music to kill by, as well. "I love you," he remarks, almost conversationally, were it not for the tension and pain in his voice, joined by a softer, "I love you to death...I love you to death, Lena Oliviere...Rooke Del Reyhart...whoever you are. I love you. I /love/ who you are. I love -you-." A slightly blood-flecked smile spreads warmly up towards her, rows of even teeth waiting to be shattered cruelly.
Whoever said that his year or two of building up that pain tolerance was wasted, ought to be shot. Cruelly, in a rainy alley somewhere, preferably. Jeremy Hawthorne (the Third) is in love, and a few thousand whacks to every part of his body is not going to dissuade him of that.
"Go stuff yourself," Rooke replies candidly, still holding her dangling Arm of Nine Hundred and Ninety Nine Strikes. "Get out, now." Then she pitches forward to measure her length on the floor, crushing the remains of the roses, just when they were getting around to considering undead-ness. She turns her head to the side just in time to avoid breaking her nose on the buff, but thin carpeting, and presses her cheek up against it as her eyes slip closed. Her hair, like red wine by blue moonlight, spills over her face, mercifully obscuring her stubborn mouth and set jaw, even in blissful unconsciousness. The Cleaning Lady will not be amused, come daybreak.
Jeremy sits up slowly...only now allowing himself to slip, to let free that grimace and faint whimper of pain he'd been holding back. An old trick, that one -- though hardly ever succesful. He moves to his knees slowly, then forward to check on his Lady Disdain. "Rooke?" he asks softly, voice trembling and back to unsteady, "Rooke...are you...I mean...are you alright?" He reaches out the bloodstained hand slowly, then hesitantly pokes and jostles at your shoulder. Why hesitant? Because playing dead is a great trick to play before engaging in some serious pounding.
A low whine of discomfort, if not actual pain, answers to the proddings at her shoulder, which happens to be the over-taxed one, just for logic and fun's sake. Otherwise, she's quite content to take her rest there on a bed of roses, as it were. It is kinder thus to let her be, to let /her/ hide away some more. The episode is over, and the actors may now retire to their dressing rooms, and wonder just what in hell went wrong in the damned script.
Jeremy sighs wearily. He's been improving it, mostly. He brushes that hair out of the way, rust or what one will...and just gazes for a long moment. He gazes lovingly with tear-glazed eyes, cheeks wet from the continuing rainfall. His loving mind can only seem to squeak one little thought out. Just one.What a violent bitch. What was I thinking?
A curious little smile finds a place on his lips...which find themselves drawn to her cheek for a brief press. Barring an immediate pulping following that -- he'll leave, take a stem and some petals as a momento, and grab his trenchcoat.
But...why this nonchalance? Why so pleased? He's not dead, is he? Not inside, or outside. Scathed and worse for wear...but certainly not dead. Which means there -is- love for him...deep down, she does care, she just wants to protect him -- and herself. And all is right with the world, for now, and it's time to fetch the hydrogen peroxide, get more flowers, and sleep.
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