Disclaimer: Take your pick.
Summary: Kinda angsty-ish, Root mourns the collapse of his marriage and Holly inadvertently helps out.
* Mourning Sickness.
Root props his feet up the crisp white tablecloth, his boots leaving dirty bruises on the soft fabric. Two years ago he would have cared. Rebelliously, he puffs on an enormous cigar. Two years ago he would have gone outside to smoke.
He wife is on vacation to Atlantis. That's what he tells inquiring associates at any rate. What he doesn't tell them is she has been gone two months instead of ten days. And she is never coming back.
Eighty years they were married. Eighty bleeding years. He jabs the cigar viciously into the offensive white cloth. Her cloth.
She had known what she was getting into, marrying a LEP agent. She had said it didn't matter to her. She had said she would always love him. And now she was gone, off with some young, blue-tanned sprite most likely. She might as well have taken his heart along with her in her handbag. At least she and her friends could have gotten a good laugh looking at it, broken and bleeding on the living room carpet. Not like it's doing much good here with him.
Lighting another cigar, Root chugs half a bottle of sugary fruit juice. Times like this he almost wished he were human so he could drown himself and all his sorrows in cheap whiskey.
She had wanted children. He hadn't had the time. She had wanted comfort when her father died. He hadn't had the time. She had wanted to wake up beside the man she loved. He hadn't had time. He hadn't had time for anything but his career. Yes, he thinks miserably, just like all those shyte-for-brains mud movies Foaly shows him.
Sometimes he wishes he could just curl up on a ball and never wake-up again. He also wishes he wasn't quite so pathetic. Sometimes he even wishes he could share his problems with someone. This idea is always shot down faster then the others.
There's a knock on his door. The little plasma screen beside the toaster shows Holly's frowning face. Holly. The last person on earth he wants to see. With her red hair and big brown eyes and fiery temper she could be the little girl his wife always wanted. The one he'd never let her have. Just goes to show someone up there has a lovely ironic streak.
Sighing, he pushes himself out of his chair and goes to open the door.
"What, Short?"
"Great to see you too Commander."
"Save it Short, I'm not in the mood."
Her frown softens and for a moment her eyes hold the pity he always scorned. "Sorry sir. Just wanted to see if you were still alive. You don't usually miss a week of work, sir. You all right, sir?"
No, no I'm not all right he wants to say. Instead: "Of course. I'm perfectly fine, don't be such a wuss, Short. I just had a slight flu."
The pity is replaced by a seversly non-plussed glint. "Unfortunately." Holly mutters. Louder she replies: "Sorry to have bothered you, sir. Good night." She turns, stepping back onto the sidewalk.
Root frowns. "Wait! Holly!"
She turns, eyebrow raised.
"Thanks. For coming to check up. I appreciate it."
The other eyebrow goes up. "Sure, whatever, Commander. No problem."
"Good. Well? Don't just stand there like an imbecile Short, aren't you on duty tonight? Get bloody going!"
"Yes, sir." Her mouth tilts up at the corners, giving him a mock salute. She rolls her eyes discretely as she walks away.
Julius Root smiles at her back before closing his door to the night, returning to the kitchen. He swallows the rest of the juice, dusts off the tablecloth and snubs out his cigar in the dish.
Wandering into the bedroom, he flicks on the lights, wrestles his way into some pajamas and shuffles into bed. Before turning off the lights he pauses to run a finger down the silver picture frame of his wife's portrait. That blue tanned whippersnapper had better treat her right or he'd hang up by his testicles.
With this charming thought, he flips off the lights and manfully snuggles into the covers. After all, if he's going back to work tomorrow he needs a decent night's sleep to get rid of this pesky flu.
-Finis
Summary: Kinda angsty-ish, Root mourns the collapse of his marriage and Holly inadvertently helps out.
* Mourning Sickness.
Root props his feet up the crisp white tablecloth, his boots leaving dirty bruises on the soft fabric. Two years ago he would have cared. Rebelliously, he puffs on an enormous cigar. Two years ago he would have gone outside to smoke.
He wife is on vacation to Atlantis. That's what he tells inquiring associates at any rate. What he doesn't tell them is she has been gone two months instead of ten days. And she is never coming back.
Eighty years they were married. Eighty bleeding years. He jabs the cigar viciously into the offensive white cloth. Her cloth.
She had known what she was getting into, marrying a LEP agent. She had said it didn't matter to her. She had said she would always love him. And now she was gone, off with some young, blue-tanned sprite most likely. She might as well have taken his heart along with her in her handbag. At least she and her friends could have gotten a good laugh looking at it, broken and bleeding on the living room carpet. Not like it's doing much good here with him.
Lighting another cigar, Root chugs half a bottle of sugary fruit juice. Times like this he almost wished he were human so he could drown himself and all his sorrows in cheap whiskey.
She had wanted children. He hadn't had the time. She had wanted comfort when her father died. He hadn't had the time. She had wanted to wake up beside the man she loved. He hadn't had time. He hadn't had time for anything but his career. Yes, he thinks miserably, just like all those shyte-for-brains mud movies Foaly shows him.
Sometimes he wishes he could just curl up on a ball and never wake-up again. He also wishes he wasn't quite so pathetic. Sometimes he even wishes he could share his problems with someone. This idea is always shot down faster then the others.
There's a knock on his door. The little plasma screen beside the toaster shows Holly's frowning face. Holly. The last person on earth he wants to see. With her red hair and big brown eyes and fiery temper she could be the little girl his wife always wanted. The one he'd never let her have. Just goes to show someone up there has a lovely ironic streak.
Sighing, he pushes himself out of his chair and goes to open the door.
"What, Short?"
"Great to see you too Commander."
"Save it Short, I'm not in the mood."
Her frown softens and for a moment her eyes hold the pity he always scorned. "Sorry sir. Just wanted to see if you were still alive. You don't usually miss a week of work, sir. You all right, sir?"
No, no I'm not all right he wants to say. Instead: "Of course. I'm perfectly fine, don't be such a wuss, Short. I just had a slight flu."
The pity is replaced by a seversly non-plussed glint. "Unfortunately." Holly mutters. Louder she replies: "Sorry to have bothered you, sir. Good night." She turns, stepping back onto the sidewalk.
Root frowns. "Wait! Holly!"
She turns, eyebrow raised.
"Thanks. For coming to check up. I appreciate it."
The other eyebrow goes up. "Sure, whatever, Commander. No problem."
"Good. Well? Don't just stand there like an imbecile Short, aren't you on duty tonight? Get bloody going!"
"Yes, sir." Her mouth tilts up at the corners, giving him a mock salute. She rolls her eyes discretely as she walks away.
Julius Root smiles at her back before closing his door to the night, returning to the kitchen. He swallows the rest of the juice, dusts off the tablecloth and snubs out his cigar in the dish.
Wandering into the bedroom, he flicks on the lights, wrestles his way into some pajamas and shuffles into bed. Before turning off the lights he pauses to run a finger down the silver picture frame of his wife's portrait. That blue tanned whippersnapper had better treat her right or he'd hang up by his testicles.
With this charming thought, he flips off the lights and manfully snuggles into the covers. After all, if he's going back to work tomorrow he needs a decent night's sleep to get rid of this pesky flu.
-Finis