Your Song
******
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." (Ewan MacGregor, "Moulin Rouge")
******
The song first started haunting him when he saw them together out on the balcony.
It was like a memory-it crept up on him, circled him for a while, then slowly became clearer and clearer as he watched them, heard her humming softly to her little love.
(My gift is my song...)
He watched them together. Watched him kiss her.
The sun would never rise over Paradigm city again, but for a second, Roger Smith saw it, a ray of light breaking through clouds: R. Dorothy Wayneright smiled.
(...and this one's for you.)
She smiled down at the kitten in her arms and he reached to kiss her again, little pink tongue lapping at her lips and causing them to curve oh so delicately into a rare smile.
Irony bounced all around the scene--that kitten, that boy trapped in the body of a kitten, held the key. In that form, this boy, this kitten that had been a boy, could do all the things that Roger Smith wanted so desperately to do and could not.
Perot could follow Dorothy around the house as she cleaned and mopped and dusted, could be with Dorothy all day and no one would think anything of it. Perot could be held close to Dorothy's ersatz heart and feel the beat shake both their bodies. He could feel her hands all over him, caressing, stroking.
He could kiss her, could reach up and caress her lips into a smile. He could MAKE HER SMILE, a power that Roger Smith did not have and could not obtain, no matter how he tried. He dimly realized that, yes, he wanted to try, had been trying.
Dorothy held the kitten close. She was still a sour girl, a sullen girl. But she was richer for knowing the kitten, for having him near. Even Norman had noticed the change in her.
(How wonderful life is, now you're in the world...)
Perot had changed Dorothy's world, had done in a week all the things Roger could not do.
They were trapped, all three--trapped in the wrong forms, hopeless forms. The kitten, trapped in a body that was not his own, could only purr to Dorothy and snuggle close in her arms, hold on to her as his last anchor in a world that had turned dark and gone mad.
Dorothy was trapped too, and he had a feeling she knew it best of all.
("If neither of us had memories, and we met, then...would you and I fall in love as well?")
He laughed bitterly at the thought, of he and Dorothy trying to enjoy domestic bliss. Matching cars. Two point whatever children. Ri-ight. There would be no white picket fence for such as they. And that was okay. He didn't believe in the white picket fence.
Roger Smith was trapped, perhaps in the most cruel cage of all.
He looked at his hands, remembering all the women, all the empty affairs.
If she WERE human, she wouldn't want him. She wouldn't trust him, because Roger Smith was a playboy who went through women like tissues, and nothing would come of it.
Roger Smith was trapped in an empty shell, unsure if there was still a heart sleeping within.
He raised his head to look at her, sitting on the edge of the balcony, her legs dangling. Music whispered through his mind like a ghost.
(I sat on the roof and I kicked off the moss...well some of these verses, well they, they got me quite cross...but the sun's been kind, while I wrote this song--it's for people like you that keep it turned on.)
"You're a louse, Roger Smith," she'd said. She hadn't been the first--women told him that all the time. But she was the only one who'd said it simply because...it was the truth.
Every time he looked into her eyes, he was reminded! Her gaze was that of the harsh judge, and she only spoke the truth as she saw it.
Was that why? Was that why he kept her near, because she was his truth, the only truth he knew anymore? When he looked into her eyes, all he could see was himself, and they reminded him once again of who he was, what he was.
They were beautiful eyes, because they held the truth. Truth was beauty, and beauty truth.
One could taste the cruelty, the irony, like blood under the tongue. Dorothy, an ANDROID, was the ONLY thing in the city that was REAL.
(So excuse my forgetting, but these things I do--you see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue!...Anyway the thing is--what I really mean-yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen...)
Dorothy was his mirror. Dorothy was his truth.
He contented himself with watching the secret display of her smile. It sparkled through the rain like a little jewel. The kitten in the android's arms was richer than the self-made millionaire who braved the rain without an umbrella, richer by far.
How wonderful Dorothy's life was, now Perot was in her world. She was more complete for having shared her day with him.
And he felt the same way.
About her.
******
Dorothy's arms were empty. She once again dangled her feet over the city. He leaned against the rail beside her, listening as her humming mingled with the love song still curled up in his mind.
"Who do you think it belongs to?" she asked. "This song inside me. Is it the real Dorothy's?"
He was unsure at first of how to answer. She didn't seem to grasp the idea that she WAS the real Dorothy, that there was no other but her. The concept of "real" and "unreal" blurred so in the city of amnesia.
"It's yours," he finally said. "It's your song. You should cherish your memories of Perot, and all your memories, for as long as you can."
She shifted position slightly, her fingers brushing across his ever so gently.
With that one touch, he remembered the rest.
(And you can tell everybody, this is your song...it may be quite simple, but now that it's done, I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words...)
He moved his hand slightly, curling his fingers over her hand. No more than that, but she still beat across his skin like a pulse, like the ghost of some remembered thrill.
(How wonderful life is, now you're in the world...)
She looked at him, and suddenly her lips curved up, oh so slightly, the semblance of a smile. He couldn't help but return it.
How wonderful life was.
******
Okay, I have no idea where that came from. My little Perot was miaowing at me to put him in another story, and this came. Songfics are so hard, you know? I mean, there's such a fine line between good and cheesy. So I apologize if this was cheesy, but it DEMANDED to be written, and I'll tell you why: When I first heard this song, for one wild second I believed I was the only girl in the theater, and he was singing just to me--I was his chosen, his special one. And any song that can make anyone believe THAT, is a love song, a REAL love song.
I'm ranting. I'm sorry; I'm tired. Please review, but remember my rule. But be truthful, I want people to tell me if it sucked! (Nicely... *smile*)
And do me one favor if you dare: listen to the song, at least once. I swear I'm not the same since, and that's what good songs, like good stories, do--you're not the same, once you've experienced them.
Thanks for listening, both to love songs, and to me.
Serena
******
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return." (Ewan MacGregor, "Moulin Rouge")
******
The song first started haunting him when he saw them together out on the balcony.
It was like a memory-it crept up on him, circled him for a while, then slowly became clearer and clearer as he watched them, heard her humming softly to her little love.
(My gift is my song...)
He watched them together. Watched him kiss her.
The sun would never rise over Paradigm city again, but for a second, Roger Smith saw it, a ray of light breaking through clouds: R. Dorothy Wayneright smiled.
(...and this one's for you.)
She smiled down at the kitten in her arms and he reached to kiss her again, little pink tongue lapping at her lips and causing them to curve oh so delicately into a rare smile.
Irony bounced all around the scene--that kitten, that boy trapped in the body of a kitten, held the key. In that form, this boy, this kitten that had been a boy, could do all the things that Roger Smith wanted so desperately to do and could not.
Perot could follow Dorothy around the house as she cleaned and mopped and dusted, could be with Dorothy all day and no one would think anything of it. Perot could be held close to Dorothy's ersatz heart and feel the beat shake both their bodies. He could feel her hands all over him, caressing, stroking.
He could kiss her, could reach up and caress her lips into a smile. He could MAKE HER SMILE, a power that Roger Smith did not have and could not obtain, no matter how he tried. He dimly realized that, yes, he wanted to try, had been trying.
Dorothy held the kitten close. She was still a sour girl, a sullen girl. But she was richer for knowing the kitten, for having him near. Even Norman had noticed the change in her.
(How wonderful life is, now you're in the world...)
Perot had changed Dorothy's world, had done in a week all the things Roger could not do.
They were trapped, all three--trapped in the wrong forms, hopeless forms. The kitten, trapped in a body that was not his own, could only purr to Dorothy and snuggle close in her arms, hold on to her as his last anchor in a world that had turned dark and gone mad.
Dorothy was trapped too, and he had a feeling she knew it best of all.
("If neither of us had memories, and we met, then...would you and I fall in love as well?")
He laughed bitterly at the thought, of he and Dorothy trying to enjoy domestic bliss. Matching cars. Two point whatever children. Ri-ight. There would be no white picket fence for such as they. And that was okay. He didn't believe in the white picket fence.
Roger Smith was trapped, perhaps in the most cruel cage of all.
He looked at his hands, remembering all the women, all the empty affairs.
If she WERE human, she wouldn't want him. She wouldn't trust him, because Roger Smith was a playboy who went through women like tissues, and nothing would come of it.
Roger Smith was trapped in an empty shell, unsure if there was still a heart sleeping within.
He raised his head to look at her, sitting on the edge of the balcony, her legs dangling. Music whispered through his mind like a ghost.
(I sat on the roof and I kicked off the moss...well some of these verses, well they, they got me quite cross...but the sun's been kind, while I wrote this song--it's for people like you that keep it turned on.)
"You're a louse, Roger Smith," she'd said. She hadn't been the first--women told him that all the time. But she was the only one who'd said it simply because...it was the truth.
Every time he looked into her eyes, he was reminded! Her gaze was that of the harsh judge, and she only spoke the truth as she saw it.
Was that why? Was that why he kept her near, because she was his truth, the only truth he knew anymore? When he looked into her eyes, all he could see was himself, and they reminded him once again of who he was, what he was.
They were beautiful eyes, because they held the truth. Truth was beauty, and beauty truth.
One could taste the cruelty, the irony, like blood under the tongue. Dorothy, an ANDROID, was the ONLY thing in the city that was REAL.
(So excuse my forgetting, but these things I do--you see I've forgotten if they're green or they're blue!...Anyway the thing is--what I really mean-yours are the sweetest eyes I've ever seen...)
Dorothy was his mirror. Dorothy was his truth.
He contented himself with watching the secret display of her smile. It sparkled through the rain like a little jewel. The kitten in the android's arms was richer than the self-made millionaire who braved the rain without an umbrella, richer by far.
How wonderful Dorothy's life was, now Perot was in her world. She was more complete for having shared her day with him.
And he felt the same way.
About her.
******
Dorothy's arms were empty. She once again dangled her feet over the city. He leaned against the rail beside her, listening as her humming mingled with the love song still curled up in his mind.
"Who do you think it belongs to?" she asked. "This song inside me. Is it the real Dorothy's?"
He was unsure at first of how to answer. She didn't seem to grasp the idea that she WAS the real Dorothy, that there was no other but her. The concept of "real" and "unreal" blurred so in the city of amnesia.
"It's yours," he finally said. "It's your song. You should cherish your memories of Perot, and all your memories, for as long as you can."
She shifted position slightly, her fingers brushing across his ever so gently.
With that one touch, he remembered the rest.
(And you can tell everybody, this is your song...it may be quite simple, but now that it's done, I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words...)
He moved his hand slightly, curling his fingers over her hand. No more than that, but she still beat across his skin like a pulse, like the ghost of some remembered thrill.
(How wonderful life is, now you're in the world...)
She looked at him, and suddenly her lips curved up, oh so slightly, the semblance of a smile. He couldn't help but return it.
How wonderful life was.
******
Okay, I have no idea where that came from. My little Perot was miaowing at me to put him in another story, and this came. Songfics are so hard, you know? I mean, there's such a fine line between good and cheesy. So I apologize if this was cheesy, but it DEMANDED to be written, and I'll tell you why: When I first heard this song, for one wild second I believed I was the only girl in the theater, and he was singing just to me--I was his chosen, his special one. And any song that can make anyone believe THAT, is a love song, a REAL love song.
I'm ranting. I'm sorry; I'm tired. Please review, but remember my rule. But be truthful, I want people to tell me if it sucked! (Nicely... *smile*)
And do me one favor if you dare: listen to the song, at least once. I swear I'm not the same since, and that's what good songs, like good stories, do--you're not the same, once you've experienced them.
Thanks for listening, both to love songs, and to me.
Serena