9-11-02
Sight
*AN: this is heavily based on episode 11, Dæmonseed; you'll have to remember the kitchen scenes to fully understand this.*
She lifted a hanger off the rack, letting her fingers glide over the polished pine, wondering briefly how much more tactile the surface would feel to a real human. Carefully, she placed shoulders of the coat on the wood, brushing a small fleck of debris off its lapel before returning the finished unit to her closet. The left sleeve was hanging at a slightly irregular angle, which bothered her, and impulsively she adjusted it. Perfect-as militarily correct as her own impeccable posture.
-you know how love just happens; you've felt that, haven't you?-
She visibly started, unnerved by the painful, unbidden memory. How should she know what love was? How could she be sure that what she felt was truly love? How could she have honestly answered Laura's question, being who she was?
Being what she was.
-Now, you two make a great couple!-
"Oliver, you've got the wrong idea!"
No! No...it did no good to dwell on that louse's comments. He never did consider her feelings; the elevator, at the table, but especially then. Dismissing out-of-hand the mere possibility of her being in a romantic relationship, for in essence that was what he had done. But, she reflected, I'm used to it.
Oliver...Oliver and Laura...they seemed so happy together, and probably were. She realized the humor in their situation: Oliver based his relationship with Laura on lies, or at least undermined it with such. And Laura still loved him, even though she knew he fooled her all the time...even though she knew he loved her at least in part because he could fool her.
Without sight...Laura, she realized, had no idea what Oliver looked like, yet still loved him. Knew she was fooled by him, yet still loved him.
She closed her eyes, trying to envision an existence without sight. What would one miss out on? She began listing items, objects: Her mop...the horrid weight-limit sign in that elevator...the muddy footprints constantly deposited on newly-waxed floors...his face when he laughed at her questions...his eyes when he smirked knowingly at her, safely assured of the fact that he had confused her again...his eyes when...
"Do-ro-th-y-"
Another unbidden recollection, this one more painful than the last, this one of the weighted, mournful look in his eyes as he gazed on her, trapped in her embrace...trapped in a sickly, malicious parody of the embrace she longed to give him...the words she longed to say...
His eyes.
Blind, she would never look on them, nor his tousled hair and petulant features as he stormed out of his bedroom. She would never see his swagger, the way his hips moved just -so- as he walked, confidently settled in his oyster named Paradigm. She would never see...him.
How could Laura stand fetters such as that? How could she bear never seeing the one she adored so?
-I'm so easy to fool...-
Was that it? Heaven's Day was not her birthday, yet he bought her a present anyway...but...then, knowing that it was not in fact her birthday, he still gave her the present...
Will you be giving anyone a present, Roger Smith?
"Preposterous!"
Was...was she being fooled? Appearances are deceiving, all the more so to one who lacked a full grasp of human talents such as sarcasm and intonation. He laughed so easily at her questions...he did tend to answer a bit obliquely...especially that last...why else would he have been so uncomfortable? Why else...
If you and I had no memories, and we met, would we fall in love?
Would indeed. She closed her eyes, and conjured his face to her mind's eye. His countenance rested impassive, the barest quirk of his eyebrow betraying her own doubts. She raised a mental hand, determined to remove his coy, misleading features, and determine the thoughts behind his words. Seemingly sensing her intent, the imagined Roger began trying to distract her, winking, smiling, smirking-now slipping sunglasses on and turning his profile to her, now looking at her as if her hand were on one of his beloved hourglasses. Finding it hard to keep her attention focused on her task and ignore the gleam of his hair, the spark in his smile as he winningly grinned at her, she finally glared at the image long enough to get it to sit still. Now relieved of the challenge of trying to hit a moving (and sexy) target, she slowly, slowly raised an imaginary hand, and began sliding the palm along his features.
One by one, she wiped every aspect out of existence...his strong jawline, his slim nose, his hair...his...she paused, watching his eyes take on the aspect they had when he was in her arms and she was in Beck's control. Their trick almost worked-she all but abandoned her resolve. Gritting her porcelain teeth just a bit, not nearly enough to make them squeak (so where was that noise coming from?) she lifted a mental thumb and laid it over the obsidian jewels. A quick, determined motion wiped them from her mind's eye. She suddenly felt rather lonely.
She left herself one thing, one anchor: his voice. She looked into the blackness of the back of her eyelids, and began to replay his comments of the day.
"There's no logic to my behavior. It comes from emotions you wouldn't understand."
Or would she? Perhaps he was trapped in the same misconception she was...perhaps that explained the weakly cynical look in his eyes as she embraced him too tightly.
"You've got the wrong idea!"
Had he flushed? But she had no face, no features to look at now, so relied only on his intonation...that little gasp as he began speaking...
"I'm about to do something a little out of character."
Bemused, possibly, at himself, his voice was happy, glad to be doing what he was.
"Here, Dorothy. I wish you a happy birthday."
And this is for you, Roger. I got you a present. Merry Heaven's Day, Roger.
She sat for a while, her eyes blissfully closed, listening to words only she could hear. Her lips moved in a hypnotic rhythm, tracing the outline of words she had once said, but could not again utter unless strengthened by an outside force-be it diadem or other beast...
or that odd impulse Laura named love.
Sight
*AN: this is heavily based on episode 11, Dæmonseed; you'll have to remember the kitchen scenes to fully understand this.*
She lifted a hanger off the rack, letting her fingers glide over the polished pine, wondering briefly how much more tactile the surface would feel to a real human. Carefully, she placed shoulders of the coat on the wood, brushing a small fleck of debris off its lapel before returning the finished unit to her closet. The left sleeve was hanging at a slightly irregular angle, which bothered her, and impulsively she adjusted it. Perfect-as militarily correct as her own impeccable posture.
-you know how love just happens; you've felt that, haven't you?-
She visibly started, unnerved by the painful, unbidden memory. How should she know what love was? How could she be sure that what she felt was truly love? How could she have honestly answered Laura's question, being who she was?
Being what she was.
-Now, you two make a great couple!-
"Oliver, you've got the wrong idea!"
No! No...it did no good to dwell on that louse's comments. He never did consider her feelings; the elevator, at the table, but especially then. Dismissing out-of-hand the mere possibility of her being in a romantic relationship, for in essence that was what he had done. But, she reflected, I'm used to it.
Oliver...Oliver and Laura...they seemed so happy together, and probably were. She realized the humor in their situation: Oliver based his relationship with Laura on lies, or at least undermined it with such. And Laura still loved him, even though she knew he fooled her all the time...even though she knew he loved her at least in part because he could fool her.
Without sight...Laura, she realized, had no idea what Oliver looked like, yet still loved him. Knew she was fooled by him, yet still loved him.
She closed her eyes, trying to envision an existence without sight. What would one miss out on? She began listing items, objects: Her mop...the horrid weight-limit sign in that elevator...the muddy footprints constantly deposited on newly-waxed floors...his face when he laughed at her questions...his eyes when he smirked knowingly at her, safely assured of the fact that he had confused her again...his eyes when...
"Do-ro-th-y-"
Another unbidden recollection, this one more painful than the last, this one of the weighted, mournful look in his eyes as he gazed on her, trapped in her embrace...trapped in a sickly, malicious parody of the embrace she longed to give him...the words she longed to say...
His eyes.
Blind, she would never look on them, nor his tousled hair and petulant features as he stormed out of his bedroom. She would never see his swagger, the way his hips moved just -so- as he walked, confidently settled in his oyster named Paradigm. She would never see...him.
How could Laura stand fetters such as that? How could she bear never seeing the one she adored so?
-I'm so easy to fool...-
Was that it? Heaven's Day was not her birthday, yet he bought her a present anyway...but...then, knowing that it was not in fact her birthday, he still gave her the present...
Will you be giving anyone a present, Roger Smith?
"Preposterous!"
Was...was she being fooled? Appearances are deceiving, all the more so to one who lacked a full grasp of human talents such as sarcasm and intonation. He laughed so easily at her questions...he did tend to answer a bit obliquely...especially that last...why else would he have been so uncomfortable? Why else...
If you and I had no memories, and we met, would we fall in love?
Would indeed. She closed her eyes, and conjured his face to her mind's eye. His countenance rested impassive, the barest quirk of his eyebrow betraying her own doubts. She raised a mental hand, determined to remove his coy, misleading features, and determine the thoughts behind his words. Seemingly sensing her intent, the imagined Roger began trying to distract her, winking, smiling, smirking-now slipping sunglasses on and turning his profile to her, now looking at her as if her hand were on one of his beloved hourglasses. Finding it hard to keep her attention focused on her task and ignore the gleam of his hair, the spark in his smile as he winningly grinned at her, she finally glared at the image long enough to get it to sit still. Now relieved of the challenge of trying to hit a moving (and sexy) target, she slowly, slowly raised an imaginary hand, and began sliding the palm along his features.
One by one, she wiped every aspect out of existence...his strong jawline, his slim nose, his hair...his...she paused, watching his eyes take on the aspect they had when he was in her arms and she was in Beck's control. Their trick almost worked-she all but abandoned her resolve. Gritting her porcelain teeth just a bit, not nearly enough to make them squeak (so where was that noise coming from?) she lifted a mental thumb and laid it over the obsidian jewels. A quick, determined motion wiped them from her mind's eye. She suddenly felt rather lonely.
She left herself one thing, one anchor: his voice. She looked into the blackness of the back of her eyelids, and began to replay his comments of the day.
"There's no logic to my behavior. It comes from emotions you wouldn't understand."
Or would she? Perhaps he was trapped in the same misconception she was...perhaps that explained the weakly cynical look in his eyes as she embraced him too tightly.
"You've got the wrong idea!"
Had he flushed? But she had no face, no features to look at now, so relied only on his intonation...that little gasp as he began speaking...
"I'm about to do something a little out of character."
Bemused, possibly, at himself, his voice was happy, glad to be doing what he was.
"Here, Dorothy. I wish you a happy birthday."
And this is for you, Roger. I got you a present. Merry Heaven's Day, Roger.
She sat for a while, her eyes blissfully closed, listening to words only she could hear. Her lips moved in a hypnotic rhythm, tracing the outline of words she had once said, but could not again utter unless strengthened by an outside force-be it diadem or other beast...
or that odd impulse Laura named love.