she had asked with all of the gentleness of a flower in bloom. certain in her desire, but delicate in her approach -- she wants to understand the ways of a human to satiate her own want. there'd been nothing wrong with that. nothing inherently intimate, romantic, lustful about this at all.
it is a mantra born from desperation initially. but as he strips off his suit, reminiscent of a snake shedding its dying skin, the fabric slips off and falls to the ground with a thud so ceremonious it echoes against the walls.
it stops as quickly as it starts. he takes a breath. the chill of the air hits his bare body like a freight train before a pink flush brews at the joints of his shoulders and knees. slowly, roland turns around, careful to not meet her eyes.
despite everything, he isn't uncomfortable; nervous would be the right word. for as lithe as he was, there is muscle that ripples across his abs and chest, running down his arms and thighs. with it comes an array of scars, ranging from bullet wounds to notches and cuts that scatter like scars. as roland sinks into the warmth of the waters, a long and heavy sigh breaks through past his lips. ]
Geeeeez. I haven't had a bath like this in for...well, ever, really. Haah... [ he leans back against the tiling of the bath. ] I'm ready when you are. And I can, uh, turn around if you'd like.
[ roland has a really interesting way of recollecting all this. it's true that angela requested it. demanded it, more like, as an experience, or display of kinship, depending on your interpretation of her words. she always speaks like reciting a poem from memory, processes and programs running a million miles an hour in her noggin.
she stands and watches, feeling little more than a strange curiosity at his naked form. every notch in his skin, raised scars and old, deep wounds making laced patterns across his bone white skin. each is committed to the recesses of her brain, locked away and recorded. it's a map of stars, and she stargazes.
angela's head raises a miniscule amount to look him in the eyes. there is barely a hint of shame in her face, merely the robotic recreation of curiosity. ]
Turn around? In the bath? [ it would be illogical. she measures the benefit for a moment. ]
Is that how it's normally done? [ there again peeks the humanity that's crawling it way out of her like a desperate, dying beast. it roars to life in the softness the grows in the corners of her expression. he says this is the first time he's done this, but she makes an observation. it is at least common knowledge to him to ask this. politeness, or the facade of it? she would think he would want to use her. ]
It seems like a good deal of trouble to turn around after getting in. It's too small for you as is. [ another observation, one she makes without a hint of double meaning. still, it coaxes a knowing smirk out of her. ]
Very well, then. You may turn around.
[ it's only then that she peels away each article of clothing, meticulously, religiously, simply. her shoes clatter to the tiled floor, then her overcoat. she hangs it neatly up, something she doesn't offer to his suit. he's a grown ass man, you know. with her frock hung up, angela undoes her pants, pulling them down without much pomp. most people with many days of unresolved tension might take more care to treat this tenderly and emotionally, but angela only removes them, folds them, and then undoes her button down. if he dares to peek, he'll see that despite the fact her body has little need for such things, the director chooses to wear lace undergarments in a dark blue.
when nude, she plunks into the water, back to back with him. ]
Now what? Do we count to three and turn to face each other?
I mean-- most people don't bathe together unless they're... [ another sigh pushes past his teeth. this one weighs heavy with exhaustion. ] I'll put it simply: most people don't see each other naked outside of sex.
[ and now he's shielding his face with his palm, shrinking into the corner with some maidenly bashfulness. christ. ] Eh? I'm barely taking up any space here. Not my fault you're a sprawler.
[ he does not watch, mind you -- he is a gentleman through and through. in the darkness, his mind makes out the shape of her silhouette of its own accord; instinctively, he sinks deeper into the water. the smooth incline of her back brushes up against his. even in the water, her skin runs warm. it is impossibly soft -- a world apart from the coarseness of his own. ]
Alright, alright, I get it. I was being immature. I just haven't revealed myself like this to someone in...a long time, so... [ his shoulders lower with a breath. ] Bear with me, okay?
[ his body moves as if time itself has slowed. it is a grueling 5 seconds, the ones where his torso turns and his head follows thereafter, meeting her face at long last. roland's hair has lost all shape, his fringe wet against his forehead, bangs framed around his face. it makes him look as young as he's acting. he would be lying if he said he had not caught a glance at the swell of her breasts, barely rising above the bath. ]
Don't misunderstand me. [ coolly, she speaks, the warmth of the bath not lost on her. sensation is a curious thing— her body is slick with water and that, too, has a certain feeling to it. warm, comforting, alien... she does this purely for pleasure. she is not like him, she does not do it for any other reason. ] I'm well aware of that. Two people entwined in a sexual relationship need not beat around the bush. They're already aware of the intricacies of each other's bodies.
[ she reaches out to touch him. the tips of her fingers grace his chest. her palm flattens against his chest.
it's gentle, and hot in a different way. her skin lacks human warmth, but the machine is hot with electricity all the same. there is a melancholic swell to her face, a sweet looking sort of sadness that you could write poems about. ]
We are aware of each other's bodily intricacies in a different way... Roland.
[ he has a heartbeat. nude as she is, she processes his humanity more than the nudity. ]
...However. [ she cannot deny it much longer. a smirk curls it's way across her lips. ] Seeing you slosh around childishly has it's benefits.
... [ in this quietude, he lets her speak -- lets her set her palm to his chest. the heart it's caged beats beneath the synthetic skin of her hand. he can hear it in his ears through the deafening silence of his own mind.
sometimes, he wonders if she understands that magnitude of her words; angela is no idiot, for as naive as she may be. but he likes to think that she doesn't know -- that she doesn't mean it that way. it's easier. makes it ruminate in his mind for a minute less.
but it doesn't change the truth. it never will. and even if that truth will forever remain unspoken, he has made his own peace with it. roland's eyes flutter shut. ] If you wanted to see me make an ass of myself in the nude, you should've told me. I would've posed for you-- [ one eye squints open, the corner of his mouth slanting downwards. ] That was a joke, by the way, I'm not doing that...
[ when his arm suddenly raises, it sends a rift through the water, splashing against his skin as it travels across the bath. carefully, the palm of his hand meets the crevice between her breasts and sits there -- feeling for a mechanical heartbeat, the hum and whirr of a machine.
what is within does not beat, but he feels it all the same. ]
Does it surprise you? It shouldn't. [ it could be an unkind quip, but he should know her. when her hand falls from his bare chest to disappear beneath the surface of the water, it comes with a sigh. there isn't a hint of grief in her monotonous tone, though perhaps it would be more than understanding if there was. ]
I won't bog you down with the details of it all, but you are familiar with the story by now. [ her creation was a scientific benchmark born of grief. she's the corpse crawled out of the coffin, the undead born again. ]
It would be uncommon for an employer and employee to touch like this. Perhaps you should pose.
[ there is an angle of curiosity there. what does roland look like when he's bathing? surely this isn't all of it. ]
It’s more that I’ve never felt skin this soft before. [ a cursory tilt of the head. his eyes are kind when he speaks. ] It’s not like we were well stocked on moisturizer in the City.
[ he pulls his hand away, allowing it to flow back into the water. roland’s back slides against the tiling again. ]
It’s nice. Like petting a reaaaaal fuzzy cat. [ and without much further ado, his fingers pull at one of the rags draped on the ledge before scrubbing it against his cheek. ] Yeah right. You owe me a raise first. And besides, I thought we were past that stage of our relationship, Ang.
[ are you running away from something? is what he means to ask. ]
[ her response is quick. unsurprising, really, with how agonizingly long something as an average as a conversation can seem to her. ]
We lacked in such resources ourselves.
[ it's an unnatural softness. she knows. she is unnatural; inhuman. ]
If we weren't before, we would be now. Still, it would disperse the energy you have created in the room today. [ he's doing the posing she wants, anyway. with great interest, she watches him, then copies him. under the rag, her skin feels like jelly. ]
[ a snort. ] So this was your plan to solidify our friendship? And here I was, thinking that getting my ass kicked by the Head did that.
[ it’s said light heartedly. from the corner of his eye, he notes the mimicry, how she follows his lead like a young hatchling. the rag sweeps behind his neck and ears before he vigorously wipes across his arms. ]
Not feeling it? [ he tosses a bar of soap in her direction. ] Try this.
[ she responds in kind, a playful smirk lightening her expression. ] That? Such an act came with the job description. [ she catches the soap.
...in truth, however, there's something of a curse to processing time like this. everything slows down even further as she watches herself fumble the catch. it slips between her fingers, shoots into the air. angela catches the bar again, frustration peeking out of her expression as her lips turn downward and her brows furrow. it's a strange thing. again, it slips from her grip, but this time it goes rocketing up overhead and onto the floor, where it skids towards the closed door.
[ just shut your brain off, roland. he pushes himself up out of the water by the elbows, sliding back onto the floor. as if he were a sopping, wet dog, he trudges towards the soap and picks it up in what is the most agonizing half crouch humanity has ever witnessed.
and then he splashes back into the bath — and firmly slaps the bar of soap into the palm of angela’s hand. ]
[ she stares at the bar of soap in her hands. while the moon was very full tonight, this is all she can focus on. somehow, the image of roland's asshole is of less importance to her right now.
In times of duress, stress, or exertion. [ she knows.
angela moves forward. shamelessly, she chest rises out of the water jut slightly to give way to the sight of her breasts. water runs down her body in long streaks, and steam rises from the bath. ]
I'll do it.
[ she tries to take the rag from him. yes, the one he's using. ]
Or when you're in a steaming bath that traps heat. [ she's being dramatic.
that is, until she rises without an ounce of reluctance -- roland's eyes dart to the side quickly, and he swallows down a cough, feeling the heat swelling in his face. his attention is pulled back to her in her attempt to wrench the rag out of his hands; he lets himself lose that fight easily. still isn't looking at her. ]
[ with the rag in hand, she begins to rub at his skin.
it's quite simple and too gentle for anything, as if she's still measuring out her own strength. a thoughtful expression follows the streal of suds left behind each stroke, and angela only looks upon his chest. ]
I can perspire, however, it is not the same as what you experience. [ a beat. ] In other words, I do not smell as you do.
[ he stiffens and flinches at her touch; it’s an involuntary response. his eyes are trained on the water, away from her. ]
Sorry. It’s been… a long time.
[ preparing himself with an exhale, roland’s shoulders relax and melt into her hands. it’s an embarrassing realization, really: he’s touch starved, no better than a dog searching for a trough. he can only barely meet her gaze at surface level, but he skirts a glance at her, as if signifying that he’s still engaged. ]
Angela. [ his eyes harden as he speaks. ] You don’t have to. I can take care of myself.
[ selfishly, she's doing this for herself. doesn't she always, though? ]
File them correctly if you have complaints. As for me, I am collecting information. [ then, blithely: ]
You have a wound here from being shot at. [ she continues. ] A healed scar on the back of your upper thigh. Someone tried to incapacitate you from behind. Is that it?
[ he was an open wound, festering into nothingness. his body had emptied itself into the gutters of the alleyway; the drug induced haze, casting a blanket of fog over the expanse of his mind, reduces into soberness slowly and surely. the aches, the pains, the grief hits him in numb waves, sloshing about in his head and cementing him to the ground.
his mask cracks just enough to catch a blinding glimpse of the sunlight.
the world fades into black silence.
he sees it, now; stacks of books, piled high enough to rival the ceiling. this is a familiar sight. but the room — it’s different. it’s imbued with a morning dew, an ethereal glow even, that separates it from the dull greys he once knew.
there’s a throne. and—
his breath hitches.
he blinks. breathes in again. and out. slurring his words— ]
If this is a trick… I’ll fucking kill you…
[ when was the last time he spoke coherently? the prospect alone is a vague memory. but she is still here — seated on this throne that lies before him. he is on his knees, grasping for the ground, groping around for feeling in an attempt to decipher if this is reality. ]
She’s— dead. [ his eyes are burning furiously. since when did enkephelin do this to the human body? ] She’s dead, goddamn you! I killed her, she’s dead! [ roland’s fists thrash violently against the ground; a pure display of helplessness. ] S..Stop it… I can’t — can’t live like this… I know I deserve to but… I can’t— fuck…!
[ sunlight doesn't reach the deepest, grimiest parts of the library. it would be a lie to say it ever did, that the library was ever graced with the promise of the sun's golden rays. it could have been, once, but that's lost to the library now. this is her domain, her birthplace and her very tomb all in one. it doesn't matter if she ever feels the warmth of the sun on her human skin anymore— maybe it never did. ]
Oh?
[ the dingy, grey, lonely, monochrome library is blinding bright for a moment. something is spat out at her with all the ceremonial respect of a used napkin being thrown into a trash. angela, on her lonely throne, body wrapped in the cold, freeing feeling of bird's feathers, muses out loud as a memory floods her mind. ]
A truly nostalgic thing to see. A mere fragment of the invitation process. To me, now, ...it's almost like seeing a ghost.
[ how long has it been? years upon years, stacked up like books, teetering on the edge, ready to tumble and break apart. is this the moment, finally? all the same, she hasn't sent out an invitation. she doesn't much care. a problem is barely something angela can muster up the energy to care about; a tiny spider scuttles along the cover of an old, worn book. it lives here as much as she does. ]
Receiving guests in this manner feels new again... [ from her throne, she barely looks for more than a moment before a chill reaches up her spine.
a pause.
her gaze roves over the image before her; a figure cloaked in black and the agony of their own existence. the sunlight has never touched down within the lonely walls of the library, but— ]
... [ a noise escapes her. it is too tired to be surprised. too wrapped in grief and perhaps a touch of hesitancy, but... it is there. she blinks. angela only speaks when she realize she has forgotten to breathe. ]
As I sit here now, I can't help but imagine that you're not really living at all.
[ spoken as if she knows the feeling herself, spoken with breathlessly and winded from lungs that she killed for. spilling his blood gave birth to the pale librarian, the vision cloaked in raven's feathers. she's nothing more than a caged bird.
and yet, looking at him writing on the ground... the pale librarian even wonders if she should be calling herself angela. ]
[ a characteristically soft voice, and yet it digs its heels into the fabric of his mind, drawing the cloak of fog back; his brain is raw and aching from the exposure to this distant world he'd once known.
roland stumbles onto his feet. he reeks of alcohol, and blood and vomit and all things vile and natural to the lowest depths of the backstreets; he is a walking wastebin of a man, with that sullied black suit and smatters of blood for embellishment. he lugs Durandal behind him and staggers towards the woman drunkenly. he is, much to his surprise, completely sober; it makes the ache deepen all the more. ]
You... I see you, sometimes... no-- everyday... [ his mask is still fixed to his face, concealing his contorted expression of pain, but the brokenness with which he speaks gives him away. ] Your body, dangling... headless, like you were in that moment... but every now and then... your face is there too -- and you're smiling, just like before... why did you smile at me...? [ he chokes back something reminiscent of a sob. ] Why did you show me that expression? I'll always loathe you for that...
[ he stands at her throne now, shoulders firmer than they have been in months. this face -- those singed feathers, the ash blue hair, the probing golds of her eyes... yes; he wishes he could forget this beloved ghost of his. but here she sits before him, as lifeless as he is. ]
Angela. [ roland raises his blade, pointing it to her and allowing its tip to graze against her shoulder. he can feel the weight of her flesh beneath its touch. ] I have to see if this is a dream... show this dog one last trick, will you...
[ he's a feral man, wild and untamed and lost and the pale librarian feels her heart skip a beat as he stumbles towards her. it's an uneven shuffle full of desperation, a pitiful display: a molting peacock that can't put it's money where it's mouth is. she rests her elbow on her throne built from the ground up on a bed of bodies and books and knowledge. balances her chin upon her pale, just barely pink skinned knuckles. her golden gaze rests on the smudge of black hobbling toward her.
his weapon touches her. she says nothing of it. she fears nothing. if this is the end, she can rest knowing she got to hear his voice at the end. it's enough to hear it spill out of his mouth; his truth, his world, the life he came to live.
the pale librarian sighs. angela breathes, slow and even. ]
A trick? In that vein, I have nothing for you. Books, perhaps, knowledge, yes... May you find that which you seek, dear guest.
[ she plays the role, reads the script, but something sits so heavy on her heart. her blood is pumping. he's still masked; somehow, it hurts. ]
I made a mistake a long time ago. I won't be making it again.
[ before she can be quiet for too long, she continues, her voice a river that can't stop flowing. ] Roland...
Is the mask... because I can't remember your face? Or do you no longer wish to meet me?...
[ she speaks to him gently -- with longing. with remorse. he swallows down a wail. gnashes his teeth hard enough to stress his jaw. the fingers wound around the hilt of his blade quake violently, and before he realizes it, Durandal has fallen and clattered against the floor. it echoes throughout the hollow of this cavern, of this wretched nest. ]
Why are you saying my name like that... [ his hands brace against his head, cradling it desperately. ] No, I killed you... I lied to you... spat the cruelest words imaginable at you like venom... I wanted you to kill me... but you smiled instead. Even now...
[ one of his hands maneuvers towards the mask; his fingers stop shy of one of its ridges. they're still shaking, as if he were a child. ]
I don't know how to take it off anymore. [ a minute stretches out between them as if it were an eternity. roland slumps forward, inclining his head towards her. ] ...
[ he gives her an option -- offers her a neck to crush beneath her fingertips or a face to unveil. a pathetic, filthy, ragged face, but the face of her former servant no less. ]
[ it is a set of options she could only ever indulge in when dreaming, when wishing, when praying. the loneliness and the ghost of him and his hatred haunting her— he had died like this before. mask on, face concealed. a "thing." an "absence." lacking. in that way, she could have projected anything upon that mask. anger, misery, pain... but they were her own feelings.
she never really knew roland's feelings.
in her chest, her heart is a bird. wings fluttering desperately, fighting against the cage, wanting to flee and explore. it's painful, deeply so, agonizingly so. angela's heart beats with fear. does she deserve this? it's true; he had died crying out the most loathsome things he could... but it was easier before... to simply make her own selfish decision.
would it be a disgrace to roland if she looked? it's a neat play. easy, simple. straight to the point. wrap her hands around his throat, squeeze, crush his windpipe, watch him die again. wouldn't it be a better apology than this?
when angela raises her hand, it is with a decidedly human grace. more ballerina than robot, and it is with that graceful movement that she slips her fingers under the lip of his mask, finding the skin of his face in her palm. warm, bony. alive. she could wretch in anxiety. ]
As I said before. I am not making the same mistake, Roland...
[ she was going to pick this. angela removes the mask to expose his naked face to the world again, to let the dusty, ghostly air of the abandoned looking library caress his cheeks. it is not where they ever planned to end up, but after years of solitude—
roland and angela look at each other's faces. a little older, sicker looking, but it is the two of them. ]
I wanted to see it at least once more... now that I have it in my grasp, I'm not letting it go.
[ his face? perhaps. she means him; her precious, dearest friend. ]
[ in the pits of his heart, he knew she would do this. time slows, inch by inch, as she delicately rips his mask away. would she be revolted? deny him once as she already had, allegedly? he could hardly envision what remained.
but the light floods into his periphery, and her eyes bore into his, claws coveting his jaw. he is a weak man; always has been. and so a weight spatters against his own cheek, and he realizes there are tears flowing from his eyes in a neverending stream. ]
I regret it everyday. [ he says in a quieted breath. ] My choice. The loss of you. O, my sorrow... you are better than a well beloved.
[ as the tears gradually slow, he looks to meet her gaze blearily. there is warmth emanating from her body; so it seems she had achieved her wish. and yet her cheeks are pale with death. ]
...In the end, it's just you and me again, isn't it? [ a weak, miserable laugh. ] Okay. I'll take it.
[ empathy is a strange emotion. the release that comes with seeing someone like him, someone so dear and precious to her, weep like this before her hits angela like a bat to the face. her other hand comes up to cup his cheek, to let his tears rain down over her metacarpus like baptism waters. her amygdala shudders. she's almost afraid to hold him too close, to listen to his voice. as if this were a confessional, she speaks again, eyes watery and gaze misty as his face, hollow and empty, swirls and blurs like melting watercolors before her. ]
It's been thirteen years... a human mind doesn't remember as well, but it's almost to the day now, isn't it? [ another beat passes, an echoing sort of silence full of absolutely nothing but them two in their aging agony and grief. ] Roland. I'm sorry, too.
[ she is silent for a moment longer before blinking and looking away, down, ashamed. ] Even though my wish came true... the first thing I ever felt as a human was regret. This body lacks meaning without the person who fought with me by my side.
[ a sparkling resolve lights up her face for just a moment, her voice quick and cutting. ] I've seen enough.
[ she pauses a moment, her taloned fingers flexing on his cheeks, watching him sob. ]
[ he relishes that comfort — nuzzles his face into her embrace, trying to capture every inkling of her warmth. her touch was real. different, but real. ]
I don’t know how the hell this happened, [ his palm settles over her black hand, and his fingers clasp around it as if to hold her against him. ] But I’ll be thankful for this miracle, this one time… [ his breath hitches on the verge of a sob — but he stops himself, and musters the strength to smile faintly. a light that has been smothered by the darkness, but has been revived with the smallest of embers. ]
…It’s been less time for me. I just… [ a breath. ] Lost my mind is all. But you’ve… you’ve been alone this whole time. [ again. he left her to be alone again. and despite everything — she forgives him. wants him. ] … I’m here now, Angela.
[ it takes her a moment to consider it, how he's here despite it all. to one another, the other is dead, killed by their own hands... for revenge, for freedom, to not be held down. in her silence, however, she accepts it as much as he does. this miracle is something they could only have now. ]
The library brings those here who are searching for something. A wish great enough to span time and space. I wonder what it would look like? [ like this? is implied in her tone. ]
You asked why I smiled. [ her hands fall, fingers curling gingerly. she's become human, but something else, too. a star; something grander than anything and yet... ] ...If I had the chance to do it over... that's what I would have done. Smiled, and accepted your anger. It was the only way to ask for forgiveness.
[ even now, she thinks, maybe that is the only way. ]
I should have known better, [ he speaks through a labored breath. ] I knew -- that killing you wouldn't have done anything for me. But I was afraid. Afraid that the pain and joy would have meant nothing if I didn't. I was a... [ he clenches his jaw, eyes lowering. ] Fucking idiot. I should have forgiven you. Maybe we... should have forgiven each other. But I guess that's why we're here now, huh?
[ roland finds his footing, stumbling backwards and rising up on his heels. he extends a gloved hand -- beckoning it towards angela. with what little strength in him that remains, he cobbles together just enough for the corners of his mouth to curl upwards, eyes softening. ]
Not sure what we should do but... you're human now. Might as well make the best of it.
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croftmanor2022-06-11 10:53 pm
no subject
she had asked with all of the gentleness of a flower in bloom. certain in her desire, but delicate in her approach -- she wants to understand the ways of a human to satiate her own want. there'd been nothing wrong with that. nothing inherently intimate, romantic, lustful about this at all.
it is a mantra born from desperation initially. but as he strips off his suit, reminiscent of a snake shedding its dying skin, the fabric slips off and falls to the ground with a thud so ceremonious it echoes against the walls.
it stops as quickly as it starts. he takes a breath. the chill of the air hits his bare body like a freight train before a pink flush brews at the joints of his shoulders and knees. slowly, roland turns around, careful to not meet her eyes.
despite everything, he isn't uncomfortable; nervous would be the right word. for as lithe as he was, there is muscle that ripples across his abs and chest, running down his arms and thighs. with it comes an array of scars, ranging from bullet wounds to notches and cuts that scatter like scars. as roland sinks into the warmth of the waters, a long and heavy sigh breaks through past his lips. ]
Geeeeez. I haven't had a bath like this in for...well, ever, really. Haah... [ he leans back against the tiling of the bath. ] I'm ready when you are. And I can, uh, turn around if you'd like.
no subject
she stands and watches, feeling little more than a strange curiosity at his naked form. every notch in his skin, raised scars and old, deep wounds making laced patterns across his bone white skin. each is committed to the recesses of her brain, locked away and recorded. it's a map of stars, and she stargazes.
angela's head raises a miniscule amount to look him in the eyes. there is barely a hint of shame in her face, merely the robotic recreation of curiosity. ]
Turn around? In the bath? [ it would be illogical. she measures the benefit for a moment. ]
Is that how it's normally done? [ there again peeks the humanity that's crawling it way out of her like a desperate, dying beast. it roars to life in the softness the grows in the corners of her expression. he says this is the first time he's done this, but she makes an observation. it is at least common knowledge to him to ask this. politeness, or the facade of it? she would think he would want to use her. ]
It seems like a good deal of trouble to turn around after getting in. It's too small for you as is. [ another observation, one she makes without a hint of double meaning. still, it coaxes a knowing smirk out of her. ]
Very well, then. You may turn around.
[ it's only then that she peels away each article of clothing, meticulously, religiously, simply. her shoes clatter to the tiled floor, then her overcoat. she hangs it neatly up, something she doesn't offer to his suit. he's a grown ass man, you know. with her frock hung up, angela undoes her pants, pulling them down without much pomp. most people with many days of unresolved tension might take more care to treat this tenderly and emotionally, but angela only removes them, folds them, and then undoes her button down. if he dares to peek, he'll see that despite the fact her body has little need for such things, the director chooses to wear lace undergarments in a dark blue.
when nude, she plunks into the water, back to back with him. ]
Now what? Do we count to three and turn to face each other?
no subject
[ and now he's shielding his face with his palm, shrinking into the corner with some maidenly bashfulness. christ. ] Eh? I'm barely taking up any space here. Not my fault you're a sprawler.
[ he does not watch, mind you -- he is a gentleman through and through. in the darkness, his mind makes out the shape of her silhouette of its own accord; instinctively, he sinks deeper into the water. the smooth incline of her back brushes up against his. even in the water, her skin runs warm. it is impossibly soft -- a world apart from the coarseness of his own. ]
Alright, alright, I get it. I was being immature. I just haven't revealed myself like this to someone in...a long time, so... [ his shoulders lower with a breath. ] Bear with me, okay?
[ his body moves as if time itself has slowed. it is a grueling 5 seconds, the ones where his torso turns and his head follows thereafter, meeting her face at long last. roland's hair has lost all shape, his fringe wet against his forehead, bangs framed around his face. it makes him look as young as he's acting. he would be lying if he said he had not caught a glance at the swell of her breasts, barely rising above the bath. ]
Taa-da.
no subject
[ she reaches out to touch him. the tips of her fingers grace his chest. her palm flattens against his chest.
it's gentle, and hot in a different way. her skin lacks human warmth, but the machine is hot with electricity all the same. there is a melancholic swell to her face, a sweet looking sort of sadness that you could write poems about. ]
We are aware of each other's bodily intricacies in a different way... Roland.
[ he has a heartbeat. nude as she is, she processes his humanity more than the nudity. ]
...However. [ she cannot deny it much longer. a smirk curls it's way across her lips. ] Seeing you slosh around childishly has it's benefits.
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sometimes, he wonders if she understands that magnitude of her words; angela is no idiot, for as naive as she may be. but he likes to think that she doesn't know -- that she doesn't mean it that way. it's easier. makes it ruminate in his mind for a minute less.
but it doesn't change the truth. it never will. and even if that truth will forever remain unspoken, he has made his own peace with it. roland's eyes flutter shut. ] If you wanted to see me make an ass of myself in the nude, you should've told me. I would've posed for you-- [ one eye squints open, the corner of his mouth slanting downwards. ] That was a joke, by the way, I'm not doing that...
[ when his arm suddenly raises, it sends a rift through the water, splashing against his skin as it travels across the bath. carefully, the palm of his hand meets the crevice between her breasts and sits there -- feeling for a mechanical heartbeat, the hum and whirr of a machine.
what is within does not beat, but he feels it all the same. ]
...Didn't realize your skin was this soft.
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I won't bog you down with the details of it all, but you are familiar with the story by now. [ her creation was a scientific benchmark born of grief. she's the corpse crawled out of the coffin, the undead born again. ]
It would be uncommon for an employer and employee to touch like this. Perhaps you should pose.
[ there is an angle of curiosity there. what does roland look like when he's bathing? surely this isn't all of it. ]
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[ he pulls his hand away, allowing it to flow back into the water. roland’s back slides against the tiling again. ]
It’s nice. Like petting a reaaaaal fuzzy cat. [ and without much further ado, his fingers pull at one of the rags draped on the ledge before scrubbing it against his cheek. ] Yeah right. You owe me a raise first. And besides, I thought we were past that stage of our relationship, Ang.
[ are you running away from something? is what he means to ask. ]
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We lacked in such resources ourselves.
[ it's an unnatural softness. she knows. she is unnatural; inhuman. ]
If we weren't before, we would be now. Still, it would disperse the energy you have created in the room today. [ he's doing the posing she wants, anyway. with great interest, she watches him, then copies him. under the rag, her skin feels like jelly. ]
Strange...
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[ it’s said light heartedly. from the corner of his eye, he notes the mimicry, how she follows his lead like a young hatchling. the rag sweeps behind his neck and ears before he vigorously wipes across his arms. ]
Not feeling it? [ he tosses a bar of soap in her direction. ] Try this.
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...in truth, however, there's something of a curse to processing time like this. everything slows down even further as she watches herself fumble the catch. it slips between her fingers, shoots into the air. angela catches the bar again, frustration peeking out of her expression as her lips turn downward and her brows furrow. it's a strange thing. again, it slips from her grip, but this time it goes rocketing up overhead and onto the floor, where it skids towards the closed door.
she stares. ]
Go get it.
[ she already saw his ass. who cares. ]
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Why me?
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[ just shut your brain off, roland. he pushes himself up out of the water by the elbows, sliding back onto the floor. as if he were a sopping, wet dog, he trudges towards the soap and picks it up in what is the most agonizing half crouch humanity has ever witnessed.
and then he splashes back into the bath — and firmly slaps the bar of soap into the palm of angela’s hand. ]
Here. Just rub it somewhere. Anywhere.
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actually, what angela is thinking is: ]
We don't have towels?
[ or did he forget he could use one? ]
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Certainly, I've learned a lot. There was a great deal of data to collect, as I hoped.
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[ back to washing it is. this time, he is scrubbing intently beneath his underarms. ]
The thing about humans is that they sweat… a lot.
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angela moves forward. shamelessly, she chest rises out of the water jut slightly to give way to the sight of her breasts. water runs down her body in long streaks, and steam rises from the bath. ]
I'll do it.
[ she tries to take the rag from him. yes, the one he's using. ]
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that is, until she rises without an ounce of reluctance -- roland's eyes dart to the side quickly, and he swallows down a cough, feeling the heat swelling in his face. his attention is pulled back to her in her attempt to wrench the rag out of his hands; he lets himself lose that fight easily. still isn't looking at her. ]
...Do what? What'd you need the rag for?
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it's quite simple and too gentle for anything, as if she's still measuring out her own strength. a thoughtful expression follows the streal of suds left behind each stroke, and angela only looks upon his chest. ]
I can perspire, however, it is not the same as what you experience. [ a beat. ] In other words, I do not smell as you do.
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Sorry. It’s been… a long time.
[ preparing himself with an exhale, roland’s shoulders relax and melt into her hands. it’s an embarrassing realization, really: he’s touch starved, no better than a dog searching for a trough. he can only barely meet her gaze at surface level, but he skirts a glance at her, as if signifying that he’s still engaged. ]
Angela. [ his eyes harden as he speaks. ] You don’t have to. I can take care of myself.
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[ selfishly, she's doing this for herself. doesn't she always, though? ]
File them correctly if you have complaints. As for me, I am collecting information. [ then, blithely: ]
You have a wound here from being shot at. [ she continues. ] A healed scar on the back of your upper thigh. Someone tried to incapacitate you from behind. Is that it?
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his mask cracks just enough to catch a blinding glimpse of the sunlight.
the world fades into black silence.
he sees it, now; stacks of books, piled high enough to rival the ceiling. this is a familiar sight. but the room — it’s different. it’s imbued with a morning dew, an ethereal glow even, that separates it from the dull greys he once knew.
there’s a throne. and—
his breath hitches.
he blinks. breathes in again. and out. slurring his words— ]
If this is a trick… I’ll fucking kill you…
[ when was the last time he spoke coherently? the prospect alone is a vague memory. but she is still here — seated on this throne that lies before him. he is on his knees, grasping for the ground, groping around for feeling in an attempt to decipher if this is reality. ]
She’s— dead. [ his eyes are burning furiously. since when did enkephelin do this to the human body? ] She’s dead, goddamn you! I killed her, she’s dead! [ roland’s fists thrash violently against the ground; a pure display of helplessness. ] S..Stop it… I can’t — can’t live like this… I know I deserve to but… I can’t— fuck…!
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Oh?
[ the dingy, grey, lonely, monochrome library is blinding bright for a moment. something is spat out at her with all the ceremonial respect of a used napkin being thrown into a trash. angela, on her lonely throne, body wrapped in the cold, freeing feeling of bird's feathers, muses out loud as a memory floods her mind. ]
A truly nostalgic thing to see. A mere fragment of the invitation process. To me, now, ...it's almost like seeing a ghost.
[ how long has it been? years upon years, stacked up like books, teetering on the edge, ready to tumble and break apart. is this the moment, finally? all the same, she hasn't sent out an invitation. she doesn't much care. a problem is barely something angela can muster up the energy to care about; a tiny spider scuttles along the cover of an old, worn book. it lives here as much as she does. ]
Receiving guests in this manner feels new again... [ from her throne, she barely looks for more than a moment before a chill reaches up her spine.
a pause.
her gaze roves over the image before her; a figure cloaked in black and the agony of their own existence. the sunlight has never touched down within the lonely walls of the library, but— ]
... [ a noise escapes her. it is too tired to be surprised. too wrapped in grief and perhaps a touch of hesitancy, but... it is there. she blinks. angela only speaks when she realize she has forgotten to breathe. ]
As I sit here now, I can't help but imagine that you're not really living at all.
[ spoken as if she knows the feeling herself, spoken with breathlessly and winded from lungs that she killed for. spilling his blood gave birth to the pale librarian, the vision cloaked in raven's feathers. she's nothing more than a caged bird.
and yet, looking at him writing on the ground... the pale librarian even wonders if she should be calling herself angela. ]
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roland stumbles onto his feet. he reeks of alcohol, and blood and vomit and all things vile and natural to the lowest depths of the backstreets; he is a walking wastebin of a man, with that sullied black suit and smatters of blood for embellishment. he lugs Durandal behind him and staggers towards the woman drunkenly. he is, much to his surprise, completely sober; it makes the ache deepen all the more. ]
You... I see you, sometimes... no-- everyday... [ his mask is still fixed to his face, concealing his contorted expression of pain, but the brokenness with which he speaks gives him away. ] Your body, dangling... headless, like you were in that moment... but every now and then... your face is there too -- and you're smiling, just like before... why did you smile at me...? [ he chokes back something reminiscent of a sob. ] Why did you show me that expression? I'll always loathe you for that...
[ he stands at her throne now, shoulders firmer than they have been in months. this face -- those singed feathers, the ash blue hair, the probing golds of her eyes... yes; he wishes he could forget this beloved ghost of his. but here she sits before him, as lifeless as he is. ]
Angela. [ roland raises his blade, pointing it to her and allowing its tip to graze against her shoulder. he can feel the weight of her flesh beneath its touch. ] I have to see if this is a dream... show this dog one last trick, will you...
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his weapon touches her. she says nothing of it. she fears nothing. if this is the end, she can rest knowing she got to hear his voice at the end. it's enough to hear it spill out of his mouth; his truth, his world, the life he came to live.
the pale librarian sighs. angela breathes, slow and even. ]
A trick? In that vein, I have nothing for you. Books, perhaps, knowledge, yes... May you find that which you seek, dear guest.
[ she plays the role, reads the script, but something sits so heavy on her heart. her blood is pumping. he's still masked; somehow, it hurts. ]
I made a mistake a long time ago. I won't be making it again.
[ before she can be quiet for too long, she continues, her voice a river that can't stop flowing. ] Roland...
Is the mask... because I can't remember your face? Or do you no longer wish to meet me?...
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Why are you saying my name like that... [ his hands brace against his head, cradling it desperately. ] No, I killed you... I lied to you... spat the cruelest words imaginable at you like venom... I wanted you to kill me... but you smiled instead. Even now...
[ one of his hands maneuvers towards the mask; his fingers stop shy of one of its ridges. they're still shaking, as if he were a child. ]
I don't know how to take it off anymore. [ a minute stretches out between them as if it were an eternity. roland slumps forward, inclining his head towards her. ] ...
[ he gives her an option -- offers her a neck to crush beneath her fingertips or a face to unveil. a pathetic, filthy, ragged face, but the face of her former servant no less. ]
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she never really knew roland's feelings.
in her chest, her heart is a bird. wings fluttering desperately, fighting against the cage, wanting to flee and explore. it's painful, deeply so, agonizingly so. angela's heart beats with fear. does she deserve this? it's true; he had died crying out the most loathsome things he could... but it was easier before... to simply make her own selfish decision.
would it be a disgrace to roland if she looked? it's a neat play. easy, simple. straight to the point. wrap her hands around his throat, squeeze, crush his windpipe, watch him die again. wouldn't it be a better apology than this?
when angela raises her hand, it is with a decidedly human grace. more ballerina than robot, and it is with that graceful movement that she slips her fingers under the lip of his mask, finding the skin of his face in her palm. warm, bony. alive. she could wretch in anxiety. ]
As I said before. I am not making the same mistake, Roland...
[ she was going to pick this. angela removes the mask to expose his naked face to the world again, to let the dusty, ghostly air of the abandoned looking library caress his cheeks. it is not where they ever planned to end up, but after years of solitude—
roland and angela look at each other's faces. a little older, sicker looking, but it is the two of them. ]
I wanted to see it at least once more... now that I have it in my grasp, I'm not letting it go.
[ his face? perhaps. she means him; her precious, dearest friend. ]
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but the light floods into his periphery, and her eyes bore into his, claws coveting his jaw. he is a weak man; always has been. and so a weight spatters against his own cheek, and he realizes there are tears flowing from his eyes in a neverending stream. ]
I regret it everyday. [ he says in a quieted breath. ] My choice. The loss of you. O, my sorrow... you are better than a well beloved.
[ as the tears gradually slow, he looks to meet her gaze blearily. there is warmth emanating from her body; so it seems she had achieved her wish. and yet her cheeks are pale with death. ]
...In the end, it's just you and me again, isn't it? [ a weak, miserable laugh. ] Okay. I'll take it.
[ a long, long beat. ]
I'm sorry. For all of it.
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It's been thirteen years... a human mind doesn't remember as well, but it's almost to the day now, isn't it? [ another beat passes, an echoing sort of silence full of absolutely nothing but them two in their aging agony and grief. ] Roland. I'm sorry, too.
[ she is silent for a moment longer before blinking and looking away, down, ashamed. ] Even though my wish came true... the first thing I ever felt as a human was regret. This body lacks meaning without the person who fought with me by my side.
[ a sparkling resolve lights up her face for just a moment, her voice quick and cutting. ] I've seen enough.
[ she pauses a moment, her taloned fingers flexing on his cheeks, watching him sob. ]
...because I am certain you will never leave me.
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I don’t know how the hell this happened, [ his palm settles over her black hand, and his fingers clasp around it as if to hold her against him. ] But I’ll be thankful for this miracle, this one time… [ his breath hitches on the verge of a sob — but he stops himself, and musters the strength to smile faintly. a light that has been smothered by the darkness, but has been revived with the smallest of embers. ]
…It’s been less time for me. I just… [ a breath. ] Lost my mind is all. But you’ve… you’ve been alone this whole time. [ again. he left her to be alone again. and despite everything — she forgives him. wants him. ] … I’m here now, Angela.
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The library brings those here who are searching for something. A wish great enough to span time and space. I wonder what it would look like? [ like this? is implied in her tone. ]
You asked why I smiled. [ her hands fall, fingers curling gingerly. she's become human, but something else, too. a star; something grander than anything and yet... ] ...If I had the chance to do it over... that's what I would have done. Smiled, and accepted your anger. It was the only way to ask for forgiveness.
[ even now, she thinks, maybe that is the only way. ]
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[ roland finds his footing, stumbling backwards and rising up on his heels. he extends a gloved hand -- beckoning it towards angela. with what little strength in him that remains, he cobbles together just enough for the corners of his mouth to curl upwards, eyes softening. ]
Not sure what we should do but... you're human now. Might as well make the best of it.