A/N: Ignore the dates, please; I'm not feeling particularly creative, so bear with me. And yes, the androids and things are inspired by Chobits.
The sleep-talk sequence is incredibly lame. Don't hurt me.
Roger overreacts. Well, what do you want from him? He's a louse! XD;
Disclaimer: I don't own Big O…
&
| X day, X month
I did not believe that old fool had enough thought to curse me with fervent nightmares; however, it seems I have been ignorant towards the boundaries he has crossed.
In some ways, people would think I would—should—be grateful. I have heard from many people, books, and things, that the ability to feel things such as suffering and love is a gift. I consider them raving. I wish not to be a burden to what or whom my affections may be placed upon…on another note; I also wish not to be burdened. But…
Darkness haunts my sleep, and I often find myself staring emptily unto the ceiling, disinterested by unneeded rest. I purchased this journal merely as a simple way to vent my frustrations or state of mind.
When I awaken from a distressed sleep, I seem to have little recollection of the dreams aforementioned. Perhaps I will place more effort into recollecting them, and then grasp a meaning.
That seems wise enough.
-R. Dorothy Wayneright|
-
Roger flinched slightly, gloveless finger brushing lightly against thick, cream-colored pages; he stared at the signature written in a flourish, with an "R" scratched in without the elegant curvatures, as if it was placed there as a mere afterthought.
He stared at the page for a moment. The Negotiator had always been somewhat naïve towards Dorothy's emotions, even up to the point of questioning if she had any. The fingers holding the page corner tensed slightly, and for a moment he considered turning the page. A small something inside his mind wondered if any mention of him was there…
"Roger?"
A tentative voice broke through his mental inquiries, and his head shot up; his mind acting to cover his wrongdoing, he leapt out of the chair and attempted to regain his composure.
"Uh, hello, Dorothy." Roger regained his normal, casual smirk, though you can see his toe shift uncomfortably under her icy gaze. "Just…" His mind searched for a reasonable excuse. He found none, and was quiet.
Dorothy, too, was silent; however, she seemed to be studying him carefully. She was suspicious.
"It's alright," she said finally, barely making any facial expression to prove she really didn't mind. "Although I've never been too fond of the idea of trespassing, yes, Roger, you may come in."
Inwardly, the Negotiator breathed a small sigh of relief that she made no inquiry as to why he was there in the first place, or what he was doing. He didn't dare allow his gaze to be averted, because an unbecoming gesture by Roger would arouse doubt. He didn't need it.
"Well, it's been fun, but I have my own room—good night, Dorothy." Roger rushed out of the room, a small pang of anxiety resonating inside him. He hadn't even stayed for the response. That was rude.
He gently shut the door behind him, and then leaned against it, folding his arms and closing his eyes in thought.
Dorothy had nightmares, apparently.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, brow furrowing slightly. Finally, Roger pushed off the frame, walking indignantly to the window—or some distance between the door and his bed.
Why did he care, anyway? Everyone has their own crap to deal with, and he got all wound up about one person's—no, one android's. He frowned slightly; he was just overreacting. And besides, machines weren't even meant to feel. He glowered at the door as a fist lightly knocked on it in short, rhythmic periods. He stalked over to it and swung the door open.
"What!?" he half-yelled, rather aggravated. Dorothy stood at the doorframe, looking rather taken aback by his outburst, however, her normal expression flickered back as she held up the large robe.
"If I had known returning something that belongs to you would irritate you so, I would have kept it." Dorothy retorted coolly; without awaiting an answer, she turned around and paced back to her room.
Roger watched as Dorothy shut the door behind her, his hands still clutching the robe.
He blinked, and let out a heavy sigh, slowly closing the door behind him and leaning against the wall. His gaze shifted to the ceiling in a "why me?" gesture, his hands raised to glare at the robe. Roger hurled it at the bed and held his forehead with one hand.
//It's been a long day.//
Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, the Negotiator stumbled to his bed. He could think through this tomorrow, or maybe not give it any more thought—besides, he had a client tomorrow! If he continued to dwell on it like that, he might…fail a mission. Right.
His mind cascaded with thoughts, however, as soon as he unenthusiastically flopped into the large comforts of his bed.
I wonder how Dorothy's doing… I wonder if Dorothy's dreaming… I wonder if Dorothy is having a nightmare? Almost, almost unwillingly these notions ran through his mind, and he found he could not rest much at all.
Damn her. Damn her. He pressed a pillow over his head, like a poor insomniac trying to drown out outside noise. He needed to sleep, he didn't need to—…Perhaps he was partly to blame. It was his own damn fault he had read that journal. He silently swore at himself. He didn't need an android's burden.
Slowly, he sat up, hair disheveled from tossing and turning in bed—he was tired, not sleepy, and there is a difference. He pulled on his robe and walked slowly out of his room and towards the kitchen. Maybe he would have a drink or something, and then go to sleep.
Roger stopped in the middle of the hallway, eyes shifting to Dorothy's door against his better judgment.
The same cool breeze emanated from the fleeting space between the door and the tile, which indicated that Dorothy hadn't fixed or at least attempted to seal the shattered window. Roger grimaced slightly and stalked over to her door. His hand grasped the doorknob, but immediately, his motions quieted. Dorothy would hear him if he made too much noise.
He slowly crept in, timidly hoping his entrance went unnoticed; instead, Dorothy merely stirred in her bed, her hand releasing a small, simply designed teddy bear in her slight movement. The bear stumbled to the floor.
Why was he doing this again? Roger pressed one hand to his face, wondering what in the hell he was doing. Dorothy would kill him.
He glanced upwards as a soft murmur escaped from Dorothy's mouth; she twisted around in bed, head crushed against the pillow. Her fingers tightened around the small bit of blanket she held onto for dear life.
//What's her problem?//
Her brow furrowed and teeth clenched achingly, and her grip on the cloth tightened; a small swear emitted between short breaths made a hard impact on Roger's ears. Dorothy didn't swear. She never felt the need to swear.
"…Not true…"
What in the hell was going on? Tentatively, Roger stepped towards the bed where Dorothy's closed eyes set the stage for a despairing—and rather livid—expression. So she was having nightmares. He made a motion to reach over, perhaps wake her up, but stopped as she took another shuddering breath.
A whisper wanting to be a scream… "…Wherever he goes?…"
Silence. Roger recoiled slightly, scratching his arm and fixing his gaze on the figure lying on the sheets, resembling an untainted china doll.
"…I'll follow him…"
Roger froze, beginning to feel heat creep up from behind his collar; he stumbled backwards, slightly dizzy all of a sudden. He was never good at dealing with emotions—well, not all emotions, just those kinds of emotions, and this was proven; obviously in a state of bewilderment, Roger slowly stumbled away from the bed. This couldn't be happening…wait, what couldn't be happening?
Dorothy's glassy eyes shot open as Roger's efforts to disclose any noise failed pitiably; she sat up immediately, looking alarmed. Her eyes reallocated to Roger, and they widened for a fraction of a second, but then relief flickered across her face.
"…What are you doing in my room, Roger Smith, at this hour?" she asked flatly, back retaining a strict kind of straightness and frowning slightly.
"I, uh…heard you talking in your sleep." All right, it was a lie, but it wasn't too far from the truth, at least. Roger placed his hands in his pockets, but after a while one gets the sense he puts them there whenever he suffers from… discomfiture.
"About what?" Dorothy's expression flickered with a miniscule bout of panic, and her grip on the blankets tightened ever so slightly.
Roger was quiet for a moment, pondering the consequences.
"About what, Roger—"
"Who was it you'd said you would follow?" Roger questioned, fingers shifting in his pockets. That's right, Roger; stay calm. Slowly, he regained his poise and stared at his android companion, awaiting an answer. Dorothy's response, however, was certainly unexpected.
"And who are you to make an inquiry on my dreams—no…my nightmares, Roger Smith?" she seethed, fists clenching and spite flaring in her eyes. Roger staggered backwards, rather overwhelmed by the reaction lined with abhorrence. "I'm not human, in case you have forgotten the point you seem to stress upon so lightly. Obviously whatever I said was simply a byproduct of that old man's experimentations upon trying to mold me into a human. And obviously I did not speak that loudly, so if you will…"
Roger was silenced for the moment—Dorothy seemed so offended by the question… He stared at her for a moment, examining her irate expression, and then he stared at the floor fixedly. His eyes shifted to the small bear that had fallen to the ground, and he knelt down, picking it up from the ground and avoiding her infuriated glare carefully.
"You dropped your bear." Roger said quietly, staring at the small object and then setting it on the bed. He let out a short sigh and turned around, walking back to his room.
Dorothy stared at the bear for a moment, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes closed slightly, and the voice still rang clear in her head…
Roger stumbled into bed blindly, from rage or despair; he sat up in bed, fists pressed against the mattress. Her reaction towards his question was so strong… Perhaps the one she would follow, the one she said she would follow…wasn't him?
How could he have held the faintest glimmer of hope for that idea? A dream was a dream. Dorothy… Dorothy was too independent to trail along after Roger…
And…she wasn't human…
He sighed—a low, shuddering sound, testing the extremities of his capability to feel misery; he sat in bed for a while, wondering who else was there—who Dorothy cared for in the complex maze she had woven as her mind. Who she would follow, wherever they went…
Roger felt a pang of emptiness strike him, begrudgingly recalling her words and angered expression.
He crawled into bed, propping his head onto his arms. Her words had a rigid impact on him…why? When he thought that Dorothy could care for someone else… Dorothy was having nightmares… Dorothy was unhappy… Another twinge made itself known in the pit of his stomach—no, his heart.
He still couldn't sleep.
The sleep-talk sequence is incredibly lame. Don't hurt me.
Roger overreacts. Well, what do you want from him? He's a louse! XD;
Disclaimer: I don't own Big O…
&
| X day, X month
I did not believe that old fool had enough thought to curse me with fervent nightmares; however, it seems I have been ignorant towards the boundaries he has crossed.
In some ways, people would think I would—should—be grateful. I have heard from many people, books, and things, that the ability to feel things such as suffering and love is a gift. I consider them raving. I wish not to be a burden to what or whom my affections may be placed upon…on another note; I also wish not to be burdened. But…
Darkness haunts my sleep, and I often find myself staring emptily unto the ceiling, disinterested by unneeded rest. I purchased this journal merely as a simple way to vent my frustrations or state of mind.
When I awaken from a distressed sleep, I seem to have little recollection of the dreams aforementioned. Perhaps I will place more effort into recollecting them, and then grasp a meaning.
That seems wise enough.
-R. Dorothy Wayneright|
-
Roger flinched slightly, gloveless finger brushing lightly against thick, cream-colored pages; he stared at the signature written in a flourish, with an "R" scratched in without the elegant curvatures, as if it was placed there as a mere afterthought.
He stared at the page for a moment. The Negotiator had always been somewhat naïve towards Dorothy's emotions, even up to the point of questioning if she had any. The fingers holding the page corner tensed slightly, and for a moment he considered turning the page. A small something inside his mind wondered if any mention of him was there…
"Roger?"
A tentative voice broke through his mental inquiries, and his head shot up; his mind acting to cover his wrongdoing, he leapt out of the chair and attempted to regain his composure.
"Uh, hello, Dorothy." Roger regained his normal, casual smirk, though you can see his toe shift uncomfortably under her icy gaze. "Just…" His mind searched for a reasonable excuse. He found none, and was quiet.
Dorothy, too, was silent; however, she seemed to be studying him carefully. She was suspicious.
"It's alright," she said finally, barely making any facial expression to prove she really didn't mind. "Although I've never been too fond of the idea of trespassing, yes, Roger, you may come in."
Inwardly, the Negotiator breathed a small sigh of relief that she made no inquiry as to why he was there in the first place, or what he was doing. He didn't dare allow his gaze to be averted, because an unbecoming gesture by Roger would arouse doubt. He didn't need it.
"Well, it's been fun, but I have my own room—good night, Dorothy." Roger rushed out of the room, a small pang of anxiety resonating inside him. He hadn't even stayed for the response. That was rude.
He gently shut the door behind him, and then leaned against it, folding his arms and closing his eyes in thought.
Dorothy had nightmares, apparently.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, brow furrowing slightly. Finally, Roger pushed off the frame, walking indignantly to the window—or some distance between the door and his bed.
Why did he care, anyway? Everyone has their own crap to deal with, and he got all wound up about one person's—no, one android's. He frowned slightly; he was just overreacting. And besides, machines weren't even meant to feel. He glowered at the door as a fist lightly knocked on it in short, rhythmic periods. He stalked over to it and swung the door open.
"What!?" he half-yelled, rather aggravated. Dorothy stood at the doorframe, looking rather taken aback by his outburst, however, her normal expression flickered back as she held up the large robe.
"If I had known returning something that belongs to you would irritate you so, I would have kept it." Dorothy retorted coolly; without awaiting an answer, she turned around and paced back to her room.
Roger watched as Dorothy shut the door behind her, his hands still clutching the robe.
He blinked, and let out a heavy sigh, slowly closing the door behind him and leaning against the wall. His gaze shifted to the ceiling in a "why me?" gesture, his hands raised to glare at the robe. Roger hurled it at the bed and held his forehead with one hand.
//It's been a long day.//
Rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, the Negotiator stumbled to his bed. He could think through this tomorrow, or maybe not give it any more thought—besides, he had a client tomorrow! If he continued to dwell on it like that, he might…fail a mission. Right.
His mind cascaded with thoughts, however, as soon as he unenthusiastically flopped into the large comforts of his bed.
I wonder how Dorothy's doing… I wonder if Dorothy's dreaming… I wonder if Dorothy is having a nightmare? Almost, almost unwillingly these notions ran through his mind, and he found he could not rest much at all.
Damn her. Damn her. He pressed a pillow over his head, like a poor insomniac trying to drown out outside noise. He needed to sleep, he didn't need to—…Perhaps he was partly to blame. It was his own damn fault he had read that journal. He silently swore at himself. He didn't need an android's burden.
Slowly, he sat up, hair disheveled from tossing and turning in bed—he was tired, not sleepy, and there is a difference. He pulled on his robe and walked slowly out of his room and towards the kitchen. Maybe he would have a drink or something, and then go to sleep.
Roger stopped in the middle of the hallway, eyes shifting to Dorothy's door against his better judgment.
The same cool breeze emanated from the fleeting space between the door and the tile, which indicated that Dorothy hadn't fixed or at least attempted to seal the shattered window. Roger grimaced slightly and stalked over to her door. His hand grasped the doorknob, but immediately, his motions quieted. Dorothy would hear him if he made too much noise.
He slowly crept in, timidly hoping his entrance went unnoticed; instead, Dorothy merely stirred in her bed, her hand releasing a small, simply designed teddy bear in her slight movement. The bear stumbled to the floor.
Why was he doing this again? Roger pressed one hand to his face, wondering what in the hell he was doing. Dorothy would kill him.
He glanced upwards as a soft murmur escaped from Dorothy's mouth; she twisted around in bed, head crushed against the pillow. Her fingers tightened around the small bit of blanket she held onto for dear life.
//What's her problem?//
Her brow furrowed and teeth clenched achingly, and her grip on the cloth tightened; a small swear emitted between short breaths made a hard impact on Roger's ears. Dorothy didn't swear. She never felt the need to swear.
"…Not true…"
What in the hell was going on? Tentatively, Roger stepped towards the bed where Dorothy's closed eyes set the stage for a despairing—and rather livid—expression. So she was having nightmares. He made a motion to reach over, perhaps wake her up, but stopped as she took another shuddering breath.
A whisper wanting to be a scream… "…Wherever he goes?…"
Silence. Roger recoiled slightly, scratching his arm and fixing his gaze on the figure lying on the sheets, resembling an untainted china doll.
"…I'll follow him…"
Roger froze, beginning to feel heat creep up from behind his collar; he stumbled backwards, slightly dizzy all of a sudden. He was never good at dealing with emotions—well, not all emotions, just those kinds of emotions, and this was proven; obviously in a state of bewilderment, Roger slowly stumbled away from the bed. This couldn't be happening…wait, what couldn't be happening?
Dorothy's glassy eyes shot open as Roger's efforts to disclose any noise failed pitiably; she sat up immediately, looking alarmed. Her eyes reallocated to Roger, and they widened for a fraction of a second, but then relief flickered across her face.
"…What are you doing in my room, Roger Smith, at this hour?" she asked flatly, back retaining a strict kind of straightness and frowning slightly.
"I, uh…heard you talking in your sleep." All right, it was a lie, but it wasn't too far from the truth, at least. Roger placed his hands in his pockets, but after a while one gets the sense he puts them there whenever he suffers from… discomfiture.
"About what?" Dorothy's expression flickered with a miniscule bout of panic, and her grip on the blankets tightened ever so slightly.
Roger was quiet for a moment, pondering the consequences.
"About what, Roger—"
"Who was it you'd said you would follow?" Roger questioned, fingers shifting in his pockets. That's right, Roger; stay calm. Slowly, he regained his poise and stared at his android companion, awaiting an answer. Dorothy's response, however, was certainly unexpected.
"And who are you to make an inquiry on my dreams—no…my nightmares, Roger Smith?" she seethed, fists clenching and spite flaring in her eyes. Roger staggered backwards, rather overwhelmed by the reaction lined with abhorrence. "I'm not human, in case you have forgotten the point you seem to stress upon so lightly. Obviously whatever I said was simply a byproduct of that old man's experimentations upon trying to mold me into a human. And obviously I did not speak that loudly, so if you will…"
Roger was silenced for the moment—Dorothy seemed so offended by the question… He stared at her for a moment, examining her irate expression, and then he stared at the floor fixedly. His eyes shifted to the small bear that had fallen to the ground, and he knelt down, picking it up from the ground and avoiding her infuriated glare carefully.
"You dropped your bear." Roger said quietly, staring at the small object and then setting it on the bed. He let out a short sigh and turned around, walking back to his room.
Dorothy stared at the bear for a moment, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes closed slightly, and the voice still rang clear in her head…
Roger stumbled into bed blindly, from rage or despair; he sat up in bed, fists pressed against the mattress. Her reaction towards his question was so strong… Perhaps the one she would follow, the one she said she would follow…wasn't him?
How could he have held the faintest glimmer of hope for that idea? A dream was a dream. Dorothy… Dorothy was too independent to trail along after Roger…
And…she wasn't human…
He sighed—a low, shuddering sound, testing the extremities of his capability to feel misery; he sat in bed for a while, wondering who else was there—who Dorothy cared for in the complex maze she had woven as her mind. Who she would follow, wherever they went…
Roger felt a pang of emptiness strike him, begrudgingly recalling her words and angered expression.
He crawled into bed, propping his head onto his arms. Her words had a rigid impact on him…why? When he thought that Dorothy could care for someone else… Dorothy was having nightmares… Dorothy was unhappy… Another twinge made itself known in the pit of his stomach—no, his heart.
He still couldn't sleep.