So.
I wasn't going to post this chapter because it's actually technically only half a chapter. I'm still working on the other half and wasn't sure how long it would be before I'd finished the whole thing. At the urging of a friend, I'm posting it as it is. Unfinished. But his logic was that some of it was better than none of it. All I'm hoping is that your thoughts on this chapter might loose the second half of it out of my head or my ass, as the case may be......
Thanks for all the reviews... I want to make more direct and personal thank you's and whatnots and perhaps answer some of your questions, but I'm tired right now and I want to do it properly so I hope you'll all bear with me. Keep the questions and comments coming, though. They really keep me going. People say that alot and some of them mean it and some of them don't. I'm one of those 'mean it' people.
You've been such friendly folk. You deserve so much better.
I love you.
ssg.x.
Roscoe wrapped his arms about himself, shrugging into his wool coat. Fall was coming and even though the weather on Mars was normally relatively mild year-round, there was still an underlying chill that began to work its way into your bones in early October.
He moved to bring a hand through his hair, miscalculating where it started, fingers closing around air. He'd gotten used to the longer, shaggier hair of his character over the past year. When he'd woken up this morning in his own bed for the first time in what seemed like a millennium, he'd been surprised at how different he looked.
It took a few moments of adjustment before he could begin shaving. Smaller details, like his nose looking rounder and his chin and cheekbones appearing softer, were the changes that really struck him. His lips were fuller and his eyes appeared wider. Silver. Almost making him appear naive. Even though he guessed he was approximately the same age as Spike, Roscoe appeared much younger now.
What couldn't be done with make-up was usually done with lasers. Skin was pulled whichever way it had to to get the look of the character right. While all this easy surgery made his acting range nearly infinite, Roscoe never looked quite the same as before after being readjusted. Some things just stuck. To look at old photos didn't help him put the puzzle back together. He had his first adjustment for a next-to-leading role in a teenage sex comedy at the age of eighteen and if it wasn't for all the surgery since then who knew what he may have grown up to look like.
Readjustment was both a blessing and a curse in the acting universe. There were many parts he knew he wouldn't have gotten simply because he didn't look the part. There were still shitty actors out there getting parts, but the creme de la creme was more likely to go to someone talented now that looks weren't always an issue.
He felt like a cigarette. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to enjoy smoking during the filming. Or maybe he didn't enjoy it. Maybe he just needed it now.
He wondered why he'd been nice to the guy. He wondered why he didn't seem to hate him anymore. Or didn't have the energy to. All this was rather worrisome. Bad enough that his head had been buzzing with thoughts of the Ana situation, which he still hadn't a clue how to handle. He'd resigned himself to his feelings for Faye. He was too far gone to talk himself out of that now.
But now him, too.
He looked back over his shoulder, trying to see into the apartment, but the thick glass doors and the setting sun distorted his view and only allowed him the slanted silhouettes of furniture and lamps. He knew she was in her room. The whole reason he'd come out here in the first place was because he couldn't bear the sounds of her sobbing. A weltering of guttural sounds barely contained by the walls that surrounded and sheltered her now.
He could tell himself the reason he had handled Spike the way he did was to make Faye happy.
But he knew that wasn't truly the case.
He realized he wanted Spike to stay in the picture. Because as long as Spike was in the picture, Roscoe couldn't be. And Roscoe needed to put up as many boundaries around Faye to keep himself out as possible. The integrity of those already existing was coming apart fast.
There was still Ezekiel, though. A wall made from that would be a tough one to take down.
Roscoe hadn't realized how powerful a weapon Ezekiel was, though, until this afternoon. The sheer memory of him thrust Spike from their lives like shrapnel.
He would have to remember that. It might be useful later.
You just never know with these things.
as lucid as hell
and these images
moving so fast
like a fever
so close to the bone
i don't feel too well
When he'd first been given the assignment of watching Faye, which was clearly a bullshit job any yob could do, Roscoe's pride had been slightly injured. He was aware his experience in this field was somewhat limited to the world of make-believe and motion pictures, but still. He resented being relegated to the sidelines when his whole reason for becoming involved in this at all was to do something excitingand real. He'd felt like he had been merely playing himself. Doing things and never feeling anything. Not even the real and intense misery or elation of major events in his life.
He was just the outline of the man he could be. No guts or blood or bones.
Then there was a meeting. And he was given a package. His heart trilled. It was just like the movies. Like meeting a superstar. The mysterious package that had starred in so many spy movies throughout history.
Needless to say, when Roscoe opened it only to discover tonnes of newspaper wrapping and a single cd, he was pretty bummed out. When he listened to the cd during one of Faye's long baths, alone and quietly in his room, he was annoyed that it only appeared to be a music cd. One song. Not even the vaguely interesting suspicion that it may contain subliminal messages could have brightened his spirits. It was like this whole thing was one big joke and he was the butt of it.
"Play it."
"What is it?"
"Play it for her continuously and get out of there. There should be no distractions. Try to get her to relax. Sleep." A new voice. Whenever there was a call, it was always accompanied by a new voice. The only similarities between them thus far had been their refusal to answer any of Roscoe's questions.
So he slipped it into his entertainment system, switching on the built-in wall speakers in every room and keeping the volume low, the music only barely audible as he moved through the apartment.
He insisted to her that she relax, convincing her to spend the rest of the afternoon in bed but arranged to have the cleaning lady, Mrs. Loman, come just to be sure that if Faye needed any sort of medical attention, she would be able to find her and call for help.
He left for the set feeling ill at ease. There was something on that disc. Something meant for Faye that his novice ears couldn't pick up. He was afraid to leave her alone and he felt stupid for casting off the whole thing as a possible joke.
Sure enough, a call from the Mrs. Loman's head office came in on his phone that evening.
"I'm sorry, sir. Mrs. Loman was unable to get into the apartment for this afternoon's cleaning."
"Ms. Valentine didn't answer the door?"
"No, sir. Mrs. Loman knocked several times but there was no answer."
Panicked, Roscoe excused himself rather brusquely from dinner with several other cast and crew members, practically stopped a cab by throwing his entire body in front of it, and rushed home. All the while he told himself he was probably worrying for nothing. Perhaps Faye had just fallen asleep. He did tell her to take it easy, after all.
He checked in with the concierge who informed him that several complaints from the older gentleman who lived next door to him had come in about the shouting coming from Roscoe's apartment. The concierge told him rather apologetically that the man had taken matters into his own hands and called for someone to come and check it out and that they would probably be arriving shortly.
"What sort of shouting?" Roscoe's fingernails dug into his thigh through the lining of his pockets. He jangled his keys in the other hand, impatiently waiting for the concierge to offer more information.
"A couple arguing. A man and a woman."
And then the madness ensued.
And now. Now there was another package waiting for him beneath his mattress. It had been quietly slipped to him just after his surgery smoothly while he was still suffering from post-procedure grogginess. He'd only had the time to peel back just enough of the thick brown paper to see that it was another disc before Spike waged war on Roscoe's door.
On seeing the disc, he'd immediately wanted to throw up, his stomach roiling and his tongue feeling like it was going to swell up in his mouth and block off the oxygen to his lungs.
He hadn't looked at it since.
and i will go anywhere you say
just tell me the sure secrets of your house
Roscoe didn't hear the door slide open, but suddenly he could feel her standing not five feet away from him. Through the corner of his eye he could see that she was standing near the rail of the balcony they stood on holding a blanket around her shoulders, knotted in a fist pressed firmly against her heart.
"Are you hungry? I can re-heat your soup if you'd like." He offered inanely. He wanted to hear her voice.
He wanted to know how badly he'd managed to mess her up to better gauge how shitty he should be feeling.
Faye seemed to almost smile as she shook her head and her dark hair blew across her face, cheeks still raw and red, lips still swollen.
Roscoe turned back to watch the sky changing colour. October always brought ruddy dark skies the colour of brick with its sunsets. He liked this time of year best. All the people around him running from offices, factories, and schools to get inside before night dropped from space like a rich velvet curtain. So many people.
But he would take his time getting home. And it didn't escape him that it was because he didn't look forward to being at home like so many of these people passing him in the street did. That acting like he had a purpose in life was a reasonable enough facsimile that when the day was over he was sorry for it.
And now. Now night and darkness took away from him just like it did everyone else. She would retire to her room and he wouldn't get to see her again until morning.
"Roscoe." Softly.
"Hm?" Dreamily.
"What do you know about me?"
Roscoe closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Please don't let her know anything. It's too soon.
"Nothing." He said too quickly. Then gentler, "Well, I mean you haven't told me anything. But..."
"But...?" She pulled gently at the blanket, coaxing it further up over her shoulders. She never looked his way and waited patiently as he filed through his thoughts.
Roscoe moistened his tongue in his mouth and swallowed, hoping the sound of it was much louder in his head than in her ears.
"I can guess things about you. Like, from the things you do and say. But that's all just -"
"Tell me." She said.
"Well." Roscoe began. He dropped his head back from his shoulders, the cold suddenly refreshing against the hot skin of his throat and temples. "I'd guess you aren't from here. Mars I mean. But...more than that. It's like...okay, like how you look at different things. When I see you look at things you have this look in your eyes. Like you're trying really hard not to get too excited. There's this child inside you and she's scared and awestruck and curious and you try so hard..."
He stopped because he could see a tear moving rapidly along her face and his hand instinctively came out to brush it away. Her hand got there first, though, and his fingers touched hers for a fragment of a second. She seemed rather unaffected by it but he couldn't speak for a moment afterwards.
"Try so hard...?" She whispered.
"To hide her. You try so hard to hide her."
"She makes me do stupid things." She said.
"Like what?"
"Get attached to things that can't last forever. Want to save people who don't want to be saved. Trust." Her mask seemed to slip and he could see so much pain on the sliver of truth that was revealed to be beneath it that he almost choked.
He cleared his throat softly. "Those don't sound like entirely stupid things to me. And not terribly childish, either." He hoped anyways. Otherwise he was truly dead and the game was really over. "Except..."
His throat tightened. He closed his eyes.
He could hear Faye turn slightly to encourage him to speak.
"Except that last one."
He hoped that if by finally looking straight into her eyes this way now and risking her seeing the soul of whatever it was he was feeling for her he could, at the very least, convey to her the importance of his next few words.
Looking into her eyes he could almost forget all that was going on around them and inside him. He could almost want to stay alive long enough to make sure she eventually found her happiness. Even if it would never be with him.
But he stared past her beautiful face and concentrated on his message.
"Don't trust anyone, Faye. Don't ever trust anyone."
Faye looked as though she were going to run back into her room for a moment before her face softened. Her hand reached gently along the railing and touched the sleeve of his coat at his elbow. Her thumb and forefinger gingerly pressed against him and he felt a tremor run along his spine and through his legs.
"Is it bad that I think I might be starting to trust you?"
Roscoe pulled back and slipped through the open door back into an almost suffocating warmth from his livingroom ignoring the curious glance from those powerful green eyes he could make out even in the swiftly pressing darkness .
"Don't." He whispered under his breath. Then over his shoulder, to Faye, "Don't trust anyone."
Lyrics taken from Crowded House's Pineapple Head and Time Immemorial.
