Act Fourteen – Interlude:
Different Kind of Style
AN: As you can see, I was pretty busy during ff.net's down
time… I'm already pretty far into part 8, and since I was planning on uploading
through part 7, which is Scene 3, I'll do it all now. I added my website to my
bio, and it's got all the stuff I've got done under the 'fanfiction' section…
(yeah I know that was a really shameless plug but hey) Anyway I'm off to continue uploading and
writing!
"If you
are, indeed, going to return to work, Roger, what will you wear?"
He seemed
surprised at her question. "What do you mean?"
"Your
jacket is still missing. Your coat is fine, but your jacket is nowhere to be
found."
"Oh," he
simply said.
"You have
other jackets, but…"
"No other
jacket will do," he responded in kind, back to his gruff tone for the first
time since his mind and body had flooded with relief at seeing her leaning out
of Big O's cockpit.
"What can
we do about it, Roger?" her voice only held the slightest hint of her pleasant
relief. "You never go out in anything else."
"I do too!"
he slammed his palm onto the table.
"Roger…"
He
glowered. Norman had retired to the repair bay below ground, yet again, to
continue the repairs on Big O, which were substantial. The butler had finally
managed to peel the last of the useless charred armor from the hulking black
robot, only to begin mending it slowly.
While the
thought of a battle without Big O dismayed Dorothy in the manner of Roger's
health being at risk, she thought no more about it. Roger, on the other hand,
suddenly felt himself trapped in the web of responsibility he'd stepped into
long before he even considered the city important to him. Suddenly the
importance of the city had begun to slip away, and that of its citizens had
grown. But gradually, and the beginning of that decline had carried a face now
precious.
And even
that he did not understand. How could the unfeeling, granted recently she had
been more compassionate and genuinely caring at times, android mean anything to
him? She wasn't a pleasant person to be around, her skin pale, hair
monotonously kept day to day, and her body… it wasn't even real! The playboy
did not fall for the young lady that couldn't…
But, during
times like this, when she stares at him coldly or ignored him, he just knows
that it wouldn't be like that with her.
Shaking off
his deeper thoughts, Roger stands and moves towards his closet. He had eaten
breakfast in his robe, since he had deemed it too early to bother with that,
which actually rested at the bottom of his list of rules, and the major one
when Angel was near had long since changed from 'charm her,' to 'harm her,' and
though he didn't act upon that desire, he needn't leap through hoops for his
enemy.
While
stripping off the robe and then his tee shirt, he forgets that Dorothy was in the
room. She catches herself staring at him and quickly turns her back, looking at
the far wall. If she had possessed, at that moment, the capability to blush,
she would have. Her own body was all she knew when it came to the human form,
and Roger's was significantly… different enough to make her just a little
conscious of what humans would call the 'modesty' they normally maintained
between them.
It was not
until he began tightening the belt around his waist that the realization dawned
on him.
"I'm sorry,
Dorothy."
"I am used
to it," she said, voice barely above a whisper and yet still monotone.
"No, not
this, and you shouldn't have to be. Perhaps I really am a louse."
With her
back to him she could allow herself to smile, and so she did.
Ten minutes
later finds them climbing into the Griffon, dressed to impress. Dorothy had
admitted to herself that she accepted his apology when she turned around at
last and saw him. His outfit had caused her to pause. While the Negotiator
obviously had either a love of or a fetish with black, he normally wore a crisp
white shirt to offset the look of darkness he carried with him and gave him an
air of professionalism.
The black
turtleneck under the dark brown jacket made him luck almost thug-like and
unyielding. He still wore his gloves, but they only lent themselves to further
aide his ensemble in the look of rigid personality. Dorothy, on the other hand,
continued to look indifferent and merely sat across the car without saying a
word.
The Griffon
left the garage quietly, its occupants as silent as stone, and headed towards
the downtown area, and a certain tailor.