Half-past three,
The lamp sputtered,
The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed:
"Regard the moon,
La lune ne garde aucune rancune,
She winks a feeble eye,
She smiles into corners.
She smooths the hair of the grass.
The moon has lost her memory.
-- T.S. Eliot, Rhapsody on a Windy Night
Roger was renowned as a heavy sleeper within his home for as long as he could remember, and he felt he had always been that way, even more than forty years ago. After a late dinner and hearing both Dorothy and Norman's "good night"s, he had expected everything to go as usual. He had expected to climb into bed and drift into dreams at once. He had not even considered that having his enormous and vague past rush into him within the span of a few months, up until Rosewater's little stunt, might entail a sense of overwhelming. His brain still sought closure in everything that had occurred to him so soon and in such a rapid manner, and thus his thoughts played back scenes without rest. He closed his eyes and refused to open them, even as time crawled and crawled. Soon, the back part of his eyes began to ache. No matter how the night wore on, he could not sleep.
At long last, unable to take it anymore, he opened one eye. From his bed-side desk his watch read somewhere around three-thirty in the morning, and Roger groaned, resigning to lifting himself out of bed. He wanted to punch something badly but instead settled for putting on his robe before exiting his bedroom. He had to resist the urge to slam his door with all his willpower and respect for Norman and Dorothy's sleep, the lucky bastards.
He wandered to the middle of the piano room and stopped, glancing across the dim, motionless space. Moonlight fluttered in from the tall balcony windows, and the sparse curtains washing out its light gave way to a strange, somber effect. Inky shadows claimed the farthest furniture as he stepped around their corners, trudging towards those windows. In the silence of the early morning his every movement made a noise, something he had failed to recognize in his own home up until now. Frowning, Roger gazed out of the windows onto the patio of the balcony, observing the way the moonlight gave a snow-like sheen onto the stone.
His solitude did not last more than five minutes. From the more distant guest bedroom he heard the door creak open and the sure feet of someone stepping out. He heard as she approached; having gotten used to Dorothy as a housemate, a friend, and an occasional business partner, he knew the way she walked in an instant.
Silence passed between them. He peered out of the corner of his eye to see a silhouette standing several feet behind him, close to the ebony piano.
"Roger Smith," she at last addressed.
"Dorothy," he said simply, thinking himself too grumpy to engage in a full conversation.
He waited while he heard her change to walk and stand beside him, and when he saw red hair outside of his vision, he turned his head to face her. Dorothy returned the stare in her simple black nightgown.
"You could not sleep either?"
The clouds shifted. A cool outside breeze leaked through the seals of the sliding glass to waft against the exposed ankles of his slippers. He raised his eyebrows. "Dorothy, I thought your sleeping was shutting down for the night. You can't not sleep in that manner, unless you choose not to shut down."
"I can sleep like you do. It's not as effective, but the process of waking up is much more flexible. I'd decide I'd rather do that."
"Why?"
"Dreams," she said, and he had the notion that she would not elaborate further. He blinked away, knowing that even androids such as her had private affairs that she felt she could not share with him yet. He didn't want to stretch his curiosity this early in the morning, anyway.
"All of the things I haven't said out loud are piling up and running together in my mind so that I am cursed with a sleepless night." He had an even voice, as if he regretted the past a little just for the sake of the burden on his shoulders.
"I do not understand."
"Hm?" Roger asked, though again his voice exposed his partial disinterest.
"Why have you not said these things out loud, then?"
Why haven't I? he thought. If it's such a problem, then I should be able to say it. It's that nagging fear again. No, it's more like apprehension. But what's the point of describing things we already know? What's the point of hypothesizing more about these memories I have if they have no purpose? I didn't ask for this sort of thing.
Narrowing his eyes, the Negotiator rotated on heel and began pacing in the opposite direction toward the circle of couches. "What's the point?"
There was a pause. Roger sighed, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his robe.
"You look to be in a foul mood, Roger," she said. "If even you cannot sleep because of this, then there must be a point. If it will help, you ought to say what's on your mind."
That halted him clean in his tracks. Biting back a scowl, he turned and started towards the windows again where Dorothy stood. "Fine, there is a point!" He spat, struggling to keep his voice low enough not to wake Norman. "I just don't want to."
They stood about a foot apart, and although Dorothy did not say anything in return, her face tensed just the slightest, enough for him to know that in it, she conflicted between disappointment and understanding. He watched her carefully, all the while feeling his sanity wane as lack of sleep caught up with him. He felt far from sleepy, however.
Now she wore that stare, the stare that became so intent on him that he knew she wanted to pry things out of him. She's just trying to do the best for me, just like Norman, he thought, and he was relieved when some of his annoyance left him with that perception in mind.
"What is it?" He sighed, trying to make up for his rudeness. He had to admit, he was acting the asshole, and every lady deserved gentlemanly conduct. Furthermore, Dorothy looked prepared to blackmail him if necessary, though he wondered if Dorothy would ever do something to that effect to him in his own house – despite how he deserved it.
"It's nothing," she said. "I just do not understand such behavior."
"Who knows? You might understand it one day, Dorothy," he offered. "You are impressively well-built."
"Now, I have never understood what you mean by that, Roger."
"I'm saying you're beautiful, Dorothy."
The words surprised him as soon as they came out of his mouth, as he said them without thinking. He supposed each time he had said, "You are impressively well-built", it was different, and now he was no longer sure – maybe conscious - of its meaning.
"Why? I am not biologically advanced like you."
"If you're trying to say that I'm more beautiful than you, then thanks, but you're much prettier, Dorothy."
What in the world was this? He had used smooth talk before, and he tried now to get on her good side, but with Dorothy? No, the fact made him nervous, maybe even terrified him, but he was telling the truth to her as he felt it. This would not come to good, he was sure of it.
Her expression softened. "You answered my question."
His breath hitched in his throat as he diverted his eyes. No doubt that she was not talking about her question concerning the "well-built" comment crossed his mind. He recognized almost at once what she had high-jacked the conversation for. Each second that passed challenged him to break the silence.
"What question?"
"The one I asked you about, whether if the circumstances were different, we would have fallen in love. You answered it while I was lying unresponsive without a memory core."
"Dorothy!"
He remembered. How could he forget? He had been explaining the truth to her too, then. He had said yes. Hell, they probably…they probably would have fallen in love with different circumstances. What was the point of lying about it? His anger sizzled down just thinking about the sincere explanation he'd given her that day, but he didn't like the use of this incident in conversation and it's unknown destination. He could hear his unsteady breath through his nose in the quiet.
His view of her changed at once. She appeared so bright and white in the moonlight, like the frosty stone of the balcony outside, and all around her, the space of the room, the space by the piano that he could see over her shoulder, opened up as with the effect of a large mirror in a room. All of a sudden when he leaned on the edge of his heels toward her, her eyes had that spark like Angel's had that day, and just like that day, he could hear Angel saying, "What's holding you back?"
What's holding you back, Roger Smith?
The sensation slammed into him: he felt himself on that skin-tingling, heart-hammering line between two choices, the first to kiss and hold her in his arms until dawn, and the second to stand there grounded forever with poised breath. He desired to hold her with every ounce of him, but both unlike and like that time with Angel, the consequences of such an action had intimidating implications that jarred him. He might have spotted dark clouds coming over the horizon, and with luck, they could yield a little snow or drizzle and nothing more, but maybe those clouds held a thunderstorm.
But those eyes were dark and so secretly, so furtively, so barely hungry against the pale of her skin and the burning locks of her hair that tickled her cheeks.
"Why are you staring?"
She was impressively well-built. Impressively, impressively. If things had been different. How much had things changed? How had their lives changed? He could be an android, albeit one so close to a human due to his advanced technology – as Dorothy had said – that he hadn't known himself. He didn't know, but he could be fabricated, just like Dorothy-- no-no-no, this is dangerous thinking, this is absurd, Roger Smith. You don't know what you're doing. You haven't slept yet, that's why you are thinking this way.
That's not an excuse at all!
"Roger? Roger?"
He blinked and retrieved his attention. The lust in his half-moon eyes dissipated, and his face sharpened into a mask of irritation that hid the vulnerability underneath. For a moment, he could believe that Dorothy's voice had broken a spell induced by tiredness, but his logic sent that one right out the window.
To hell with this, he thought, Before I get myself into something I'll regret later. "Whatever. I'm going to bed."
"How can you do that if you cannot sleep?"
"I'll figure out something," he mumbled, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He let his arms hang stiff against either side of his robed body while he paced back in the direction of his bedroom.
"Roger."
He did not answer but rather disappeared behind his door with several long steps, and at this Dorothy's brows furrowed a little, but mostly she could not comprehend this change in Roger. Perhaps she should have made clearer what she wanted to say? She made to stand at the foot of his door, but as she placed a hand on its knob, she recalled the house rules. The interaction that Roger had just abandoned left her desiring to know the problem, but she respected her privilege to stay here.
Behind his door, Roger had busied himself with shrugging out of his robe, but once he had hung it in its rightful place in his closet, he wondered as to what Dorothy decided to do. Hesitating, he moved his gaze to the crack underneath his door, and sure enough, her feet blocked part of the dim light coming from the other room. He frowned at this but otherwise continued to ignore her as he collapsed onto his mattress, making several noises akin to growls. He about man-handled his pillow until it was fluffed and fixed to his liking near the headboard of his bed, and then…
"Are you alright, Roger?"
It wasn't her fault. She was just concerned for him. Still: Dorothy! R. Dorothy Wainwright! Love with an android. That didn't sound so ridiculous now that he thought about it, but he didn't know himself as well as he thought, did he? He thought he could get some sleep and tomorrow he'd be good as new with no serious boggling over Dorothy, but how in the hell could he guarantee that? Damn it, and there he went, already acting like he had fallen for the girl.
Sure, they could have fallen in love if things had been different, but they weren't. Everyday life in Paradigm City repeated itself; there were some days he felt a sense of déjà vu while working a job eerily similar to one he had finished in the past. Who was to say anything had changed except the factors involved?
And this was how he repaid Dorothy? His own counteractive thoughts surprised him, but considering how he had almost kissed her back there, they shouldn't have. On the brink of Paradigm's destruction, he had been ready to give up plenty for her, in some cases, more than just on a friend-to-friend basis. He didn't know for certain now, but he might have given his life for her if the situation had called for it. He would have kissed her then, too, if he had had the chance. So when he had negotiated the saving of the human race and returned their lives back to some level of normality, he had just left those feelings behind? Good God, could you contradict yourself anymore, Roger Smith? Alright, this city's protection comes first, but what does Dorothy get after all of that? Where do you and her fit in?
Where do you and her fit in? He lingered on that question for some time, and came up with the one answer he could not work with: I don't know, but I wanted her to love me minutes ago.
Groaning, Roger lay down on his side and tossed the other pillow over his exposed ear. Once more, he glanced down at the crack underneath the door, and the shadows were still there. Knowing he might regret this but also that he failed at upholding the gentlemanly image he held so high in respect, he turned the pillow away from his ear and raised his head. "What is it, Dorothy?"
He sensed the hesitation in the air, and it was not something he ever remembered feeling from her.
"I wanted to ask," she began, "if there was anything I could do to help you sleep."
His whole body stiffened. He didn't know what his face looked like, but he must have looked comical with his jaw dropping and his face gathering heat.
He thought of the what-ifs separating them. He thought about how typical this reaction was of him and yet how much he hated that fact. He thought about a lot of things, but mainly he thought about the way she looked earlier against the moonlight. It couldn't hurt, could it?
"Come in."
He sat up and ran a hand through his hair, attempting to comb it to some decency. He waited while the door clicked, and as it swung open Dorothy stepped in, narrowly closing the door just behind her. She shifted to stand straight with one hand on the handle, and in that moment he had the distinct impression his vision might not be trustworthy; this was too unreal.
He had to take a moment to back-track, because in the early morning darkness he could barely see her. Then he heard her plain voice ring out from the shadows.
"Roger, what do you want me to do?"
As he lay there on his elbows, lost in some semblance of thought, he wondered if she considered for herself the fact that he could request something romantic. She knew very well his reputation with women, and it both bewildered and frightened him; the dark circles under his eyes did not help the partial, dazed deer-in-the-headlights expression on his face. However, his actions began to carry away from his overbearing judgments again, and as a result, his intolerance at what he planned to do started to fade.
"Come here, Dorothy."
He heard footsteps against the plush flooring, and then she emerged from the shadows a few feet away from him, the closed-blind window near his bed providing just enough nighttime light. His stomach churned despite his better coolness and experience.
"What now?" She asked.
The riddle solved itself in her face as he slid over to the far right of the mattress, leaving her room. He then proceeded to rearrange the pillows and pull up the comforter, though he imagined she wouldn't care anyway. Dorothy did not move from her position, however, and for a second he thought she had rejected his request until he noticed her eying the black bed.
"Don't worry," he said, "the mattress should hold up."
Her eyes lingered on his gentle, reassuring smile for several seconds longer, though he did not notice. Finally, Dorothy nodded at his silent instructions and slid into the bed beside him. The area of the mattress she lied on sunk an inch down with her mechanical weight, but otherwise, the springs seemed to support her.
Blood-boiling, Roger Smith swallowed and felt a lump in his throat he hadn't known had been there, could be there. "Now, scoot closer towards me…and, uh, wrap your arms around me," he instructed, and as he spoke, he lifted up his arm.
She did not move. They lay there, captured in a moment of truth, an unbearable silence between them. They stared at each other, Dorothy's eyes staying upon his face the entire time, her expression unreadable. She sat up on her knees to better look at him, and in this moment of truth he understood some revelation had dawned within her, something that softened the black of her eyes but still made no promises. He swallowed again as he waited on baited breath, sweating under her prying gaze.
"What? Dorothy?"
"By 'wrap your arms around me', do you mean an embrace?" She at last asked.
He felt his stomach sinking. "Um, yeah. You could call it that…"
The red-haired android suddenly turned her gaze, rotating her head to survey her surroundings and the situation she had entered into. At the end of it, she returned her look to Roger, who twitched and frowned with wide, edgy eyes.
"I am not as aware of the social standards of humans, especially without the original Dorothy's memories now, but don't lovers engage in embraces on beds?"
Roger's expression fell, and the heat in his face swelled as if he had leaned down in front of the opening of an oven. "That's…that's…!"
"Preposterous?"
He sighed, connecting the palm of his nearest hand to his brow, and swallowed. "Yes…"
"It is alright, Roger Smith." With that, Dorothy lied on the black bed next to him again, and the mattress bounced a little, joggling Roger from his nervous stupor. He had not expected her to agree so soon, not to mention after such a conversation, and the action worried him into wondering whether she considered them lovers now. She wouldn't assume such a thing, would she? Other girls might be shallow, but Dorothy—
She closed the gap between them in an instant by snaking one arm underneath his back – a little forcibly, he might add – and stretching the other over his middle. Where her hands met on the opposite side of him from her, she laced them together against his ribs. Her skin pressed deep into the fabric of his night clothes, and he clenched his teeth with the abrupt chilliness of her touch.
"Am I too cold?" She asked, a concerned inflection to her voice.
"No, just a little cool, that's all, and that's because you get that way at night. I'm sorry, I forgot."
"It's alright. You don't need to apologize."
"Just--" He shifted his lifted arm so it laid above Dorothy's head, about parallel to the horizontal length of his pillow. He supposed he ought to thank her for not deciding to rest her heavy head on any part of his body, in particular his chest. "Just…not so tight."
"Oh. I'm sorry." She loosened her hands from their intertwinement, which in turn loosened her arms around him.
"Thanks."
Seeing him satisfied and no longer asking her of anything, Dorothy lowered her head to rest below Roger's out-stretched arm. She stared at him with an attentiveness of scrutiny and then at the rising and falling of his middle in front of her, but once he got over this, Roger had to admit, he was starting to find himself comfortable. His own uncertainties over the embrace swarmed his mind, and he asked himself over and over what in the name of Hell he was thinking. Once he had focused on the girl against his side, however, a sense of contentment rushed to meet him, and his head cleared.
He stayed on his back, gazing up at his ceiling the majority of his time but also lowering his head to glance at her every now and then, his lips often growing a smile. Sometimes she met his smile with something bordering on a gentle uplift of the corners of her mouth, the extent of that emotion she could show, but every second of it was worth it. They stayed like that a long while, and though Roger could not feel the warmth of a woman's flesh or the heartbeat in her chest against him, his body heat and her metal core more than made up for it. Gradually, Dorothy's skin warmed, and this warmth hung between them, bounced off each other until he felt hot and a little uncomfortable, but he did not want to change their position. He was sure Dorothy felt the same way. His skin tingled. He wanted to touch her but he refrained.
In truth, he had not expected an embrace with Dorothy to work as a sleeping mechanism. To be completely honest with himself, this entire thing had come about when he had encountered an opportunity and took it against his better judgment, all in order to get closer to the girl he was…attracted to. Yes, he could admit he was attracted to her at least, but that did not mean he loved her more than as a good friend, or so he tried to tell himself. His train of thought meandered so far into its path that he didn't notice when his eyelids began to droop.
"Is that it?"
Though he felt her around him, he blinked in the dim, trying to see her face clearly. "Hm?" He tilted his head down in her direction and caught a whiff of rainy days and a little oil, of a sharp copper smell so strong that you could barely taste it in your mouth.
"Is that all I must do to allow you the sleep?" She asked, curiosity in her eyes.
"You make it sound so easy."
"That's because it is," she answered, and as she moved her gaze down to stare straight at his middle, her nose brushed his shirt. "I could do this every night if I wanted to, if you wanted me to."
His eyes widened through a yawn, and for once, he looked both as eager and embarrassed as a young boy. "You would?"
"I would, if you wanted me to."
He opened his mouth to speak, but he struggled to say the difficult words he had in mind. It would have amused her greatly, if she were capable of such an emotion.
"I…uh…would you? Y'know…how about…you…do this when I'm having trouble sleeping? And…if you're having trouble too…"
Having understood what he strove to ask, she nodded her answer.
"Great! I mean, uh, that's good." He mentally kicked himself for sounding so keen on the idea; when he next woke up, he wasn't so sure he'd like it as much as now. Nevertheless, he sighed at himself and put on a smile for her, from which she gave a purposeful look.
"Dorothy? You want to ask me something, don't you?"
She did not say it for a minute, and then, just as Roger was about to tell her to spit it out, she said, "Why did you evade the subject, Roger? Does my mentioning of if would we have fallen in love bother you?"
Roger's eyes narrowed for a split second, but in this moment, he lacked the ability to keep anger at her. He breathed out through his nose, the tension in his jaw numbing. "I'm sorry, Dorothy," he reconciled, their noses a mere inch apart as he leaned a little toward her. "It's not your fault. It's just…complicated."
"You make many things complicated, Roger Smith."
"Now that's something I swear I've heard before, too."
"But I suppose I am not one to talk, as humans like to say, because to humans I am probably just as or more complicated."
"You are who you are, Dorothy."
"As are you," she said, and he could not figure as to whether she meant that as a defense or a simple matter-of-fact. As are you and I love you the way you are, he deep down wanted her to say.
"So, am I forgiven?" He asked, a teasing, curvaceous hint to his voice.
"You are forgiven, but you are a louse, Roger Smith."
He smirked and blew it off, as usual. "Nothing new."
"Does that mean you will not reply to the subject if I mention it once more?"
"Dorothy, you know my attitude on memories."
"I know it clearly."
They settled into silence again, and Roger felt the whole of his weight sinking deep into the mattress and heard the quick thumming of his heart. The warmth of these minutes engulfed him and cast a spell upon his sleepless state; he understood himself drifting away and smiled with his strange pleasure. He bent his elbow and touched his hand to her upper arm, where it lay for the rest of the morning.
"Good night, R. Dorothy Wainwright."
"Good night, Roger Smith."