Not very original of me, but this is my attempt at a Roman reflects-while-drinking-his-finale-martini one-shot. Writing one of these has got to be a canon event for all RomanGerris/Romangirlies, am I right?
Also, I have wanted to write something inspired by this song since I first heard it a couple weeks ago, and finally got around to it with this! I actually think this is one of my better works.
This could be the ending of us
It could be the falling sun
could have been a classic
fatally attractive, suicidal, kind of love
I was just a kid from nowhere
never knew where I belong
You were in the family,
house up in the country
blue-blooded American
I'm leaving before the sunrise
no need to say our goodbyes
I will be on my way
Baby, I hope you understand
always seem to want what I can't have
then I hit the road when it gets bad,
baby, I will be on my way.
- My Way, Young the Giant
It burns. The drink, as it slides down his throat. The wound. And yet, the flame in him has just about gone out.
Hey, hey, motherfuckers. He thinks back to that crisp birthday eve, rolling back into the Waystar offices, Ken looking worried, Frank clearly annoyed. One last gleeful moment before he unwittingly returned to the cage that had never quite fit. What would the Roman of yesteryear think of the corporate cock-suck he'd morphed into out of sheer dumb luck and circumstance? What would he think of everything that had come to pass: Matsson and that cornfed cunt Tom taking away the Roy family birthright, the death of Logan, the death of romance on the most depressing boat in America?
He has the sneaking suspicion that it was all bullshit. That's what he'd told Kendall after all, because he knew it, could feel it in his bones, in the threads of his undone stitches. He doesn't know if he knew it was bullshit way back when, but he definitely knows it now. If only he didn't have to ride the fucking Brightstar rollercoaster that had been the past fourteen months of his life in order to learn this fundamental fact.
He can't make any of it cohere. None of it makes sense. Why did it have to happen like this? He can't help but feel as if the whole ordeal was penned by some woke schmucks on an acid trip at the Waystar studios in LA, desperate to meet a pitch deadline. Let's throw in a rocket ship explosion, a rousing game of boar on the floor, a terrifying hostage situation, a sleazy Swede, the retired janitors of fuckin' Idaho. Oh, and while we're at it, why not add a a sixty year old MILF to the mix, who participates in our protagonist's degradation kink? That's what every truly great story needs!
Somehow, he can't help the crooked smile that comes unbidden to his lips at the very thought. All of it has been a shit-show. Nonetheless, a very memorable shit-show. Never in his life did he think he was capable of feeling so much in so short a time span. The intent of military school had been to beat the weakness, the emotion out of him, and it had failed spectacularly. A buzz-cut, homo-erotic aggression, and rigid disciplinary measures were no match for the effusive stylings of Roman Roy.
The smile falls off his face though, when he realizes that it's all over. The execs got to the end of the script. There was nowhere else to go from here but a martini, because that's all he has left anymore.
No Ken, after that absolutely embarrassing scene, after a cog built to fit only one machine falls out of the machine and into the cracks in the pavement.
No Shiv, after she tied her fate to the empty suit, the empty suit's soon-to-be-child, and Judas Hirsch (by extension).
No more Logan, backhanding him and inspiring backflips of fear and love that he'd never quite understood.
No more Marcia, lurking about his dad's apartment, gaunt and guarded as always.
No more Tabitha, since she's given up on solving him or his broken dick and has moved on to the best Rhomboid has to offer.
No more Mencken, because he'd decided Roman wasn't red-pilled enough to be a worthy ally in vote corruption, all because he'd shed some tears at his fucking father's funeral instead of giving off alpha-white male vibes on the dais.
No more Nan Pierce. Well, okay, he doesn't really care about that woman and her dying company, her family's collective orgasm for Shakespeare, or the sub-par bathrobes provided at Tern Haven. Nan makes him glad to have had the pleasure of jizzing on her property, if only as a 'fuck you' to the pretentious nerds who'd attempted to humiliate him by way of Timothy Lipton's Electric Circus. Which he should actually write one day, given that he's experienced the anxiety of modern life in spades lately.
And of course. No more Gerri Kellman. Geraldine. Gerr-bear. This is the one that hurts the most, maybe even more than the loss of his father, who has thus far occupied the most enigmatic and forceful role in his development. The loss of Gerri is one that he can't swallow down the same way, maybe because he knows that his siblings and him may re-connect one day when Shiv finally goes back to just being a normal level of fat when Wambsgan's child is born and when Ken decides to use some of his payout from Gojo to self-produce a shitty rap song about underlined and crossed-out names and the tragic destiny of eldest sons (which he is decidedly not, even if Connor is delusional). The Cold War will only last so long.
Logan is dead and there is nothing he can do about that. But in some awful, fitting way, his death opens avenues for Roman that weren't there before. The name will haunt him and his brothers and sister to their own graves. (Although, just thinking about being buried in that mansion of a mausoleum makes Roman sick all over again).
But even if he cannot escape the Roy name, Logan's actual physical presence is no longer looming over every room that he is in. Roman will never sit through uncomfortable car rides with the man or witness his rare moments of levity ever again. He will never have his hair ruffled or hear that ever-familiar bark of Romulus! pierce his ears like an affectionate arrow. He will never be humiliated, get hit, get called a moron, be swatted away again. And that makes him feel funny. Like the world he knows has just been turned upside down and hung on his shoulders.
And yet, for the first time in his pathetic life, he feels free. The very word makes him cringe. What is he, some self-reflective normo who thinks he's unlocked the key to flourishing because he's finally out from under Daddy's oppressive thumb? Someone had better alert Aristotle.
But Gerri. Gerri is a different story. He had really and truly fucked it with her. And it had begun not in Milan, as one might think, but far earlier, when he'd fallen for her harder than he had ever expected.
Truthfully, the hospital was not the first time Roman had felt a frisson of connection towards Gerri, but her sheer presence had felt like a warm hug in that sterile environment. Ken had had Rava, and Shiv had her meat puppet, and he had...no one. He knew things would never work out with Grace, though the kid was nice enough. Ironically, Gerri, stone cold bitch that she was, had made him feel marginally better about the fact his dad might be dying one room over, by tolerating not just his admittedly vulgar conversation-starter about how he liked to just lube up and fuck, but also his lack of memory of her late husband Baird save for the man's strange attachment to his pet tortoise.
Of course he'd known Gerri had been married. (And had produced two daughters, which presumably meant she was capable of fucking Baird or whomever). But it had never fully computed in his head until that moment that she was a real, actual person with a life outside of Waystar. She did have that filing cabinet quality to her. But of course, that wasn't her true essence, just like his wasn't that of a so-called rockstar moron.
He'd gotten to know her as the days passed and he began to notice her big eyes and plump little lips more and more. It didn't help matters that she seemed to be drawn to him. Certainly not because she was attracted to him, he'd thought. After all, she was geriatric, and he was a matador. (More descriptions that didn't really fit their true essences, since Gerri was certainly far more capable of getting some if she wanted than he was given his whole fucked up sexual deal.) It was much more likely to be a kind of motherly pity. Which she'd demonstrated when she'd done up his shirt buttons when he was too hungover to, and when she'd repeatedly given him advice that he only sort of took. He still didn't know the price of a gallon of milk, and he'd be damned if he ever did.
But he'd also heard the little clearing of her throat when she'd been doing up the buttons, and sometimes caught her looking at him at the exact same time he was looking at her. There were times when they exchanged knowing little smiles when Shiv said something particularly dumb or Ken was being an asshole.
On the whole, Gerri kept her cards close to her (ample) chest though. Which is why it shocked Roman when he got home from management training, failed at phone sex with his girlfriend, and ended up on the line with his father's general counsel, having her debase and insult him to a very pleasing climax, perhaps the best he had ever experienced in his near forty years of life. Hearing her call him a slime puppy, a revolting little worm in that angelic voice, was nothing short of breath-taking.
And it hadn't ended there. There'd been the night cap at Tern Haven, again a result of his inability to stick it in his actual model of a girlfriend. Granted, Tabitha hadn't exactly made him feel confident about the dreaded act given that she'd broadcasted their lack of a sex life to all of the liberal Pierce freaks in addition to Gerri, who'd been seated right across the table from them and whose poker face at Tabs' revelation was fairly unreadable, though he thought he saw a hint of disbelief there. Maybe he was just projecting.
But it had felt real when her breathy whisper into his ear after a few drinks in Japan had sent a shiver down his spine. It had felt real when she'd rolled her eyes at him during the whole thumbs apology tour, but when he'd overheard her telling Logan how great he was doing at making up for the launch failure. It had felt real when he realized he'd forever associate cherry blossoms with her, and when they'd done work together on the private jet there and back (well, it was more her doing work and Roman incessantly bothering her with stupid questions late into the night).
In any case, she'd said stick with me Roman, and he had, because he would go anywhere with her and do anything for her. Well, that was. Until the Italian countryside. Tuscany. And scene.
The first time Gerri had mentioned Laurie, he had half a mind to jerk off in her office during the work-day on the off chance that she might bring him in one day. What would he make of that? Of course, even he wasn't that dumb.
But when Gerri had become interim CEO, everything had changed. Suddenly, there were no more "special conference calls." She was hell-bent on business as fucking always. And she made it abundantly clear to Roman, even though he'd thrown herself at her feet more or less begging to lay her badly but gladly, that nothing had happened between them except of a professional nature.
And he had to admit, that had stung. He wonders now why he didn't just throw it back in her face. Getting me off by calling me a useless little prick sometimes is hardly professional, don't you think, counselor?
The more lines she drew, the more he became determined to cross them. She couldn't just leave him hanging like that. Like it or not, she was the magic solution to his lack of sexual arousal. And it wasn't just that.
Roman found himself thinking about idiotic normo shit with her. Like holding her hand or absolutely roasting the hell out of Sandy Furness with her over a coffee. He found himself looking forward to coming into the office, if only to spend time with her, and to impress her with his ability to seduce business partners with his offbeat charm and blunt wit. Worst of all, he found himself thinking about jetting off with her on a honeymoon.
Which is why the marriage proposal just sort of slips out in Dundee. He's half-joking and half-serious. She's his Everest and he's hell-bent on becoming Edmund Hilary even if it kills him.
He never imagined it would happen to him, but he thinks he maybe loves her. And that's only just the beginning of the fuckery.
When Gerri shows up with Laurie on her arm for his mother's sham of a wedding, he feels every emotion in the book. Resentful, that she'd dangle this senile, balding geezer in his face, and that she'd rather have him than a strapping young lad with a monstrous crush on her. Jealous, that Laurie sleeps with her each night and wakes up with her in the morning. Sad, that whatever their disgusting mess is, it means so little to her that she can parade her partner without a hint of remorse.
If he's honest with himself, she doesn't seem particularly keen on the man, and he has seemed to be useful in terms of the DOJ nonsense. But the irrational part of Roman is aching with pent-up frustration. His heart actually hurts too. As if it wasn't bad enough that Mummy dearest is making off with the goddamn social climbing Onion and Ken is deep in the pits and Kerry is apparently trying to birth another Roy devil with his clearly crackpot old father, now Gerri is probably getting hot and heavy with this mediocre chap who has less personality than a mote of dust.
He's been sending her pictures of himself. It's a habit that's quickly gotten out of hand. The first few times were kind of in jest. But increasingly, this was becoming his way to signal to her that he wanted her attention, he wanted her to appreciate him. Her slime puppy.
When he kills it in Milan, Gerri seems genuinely proud of him. And for the first time possibly ever, so does his dad. But because he's Roman fucking Roy, he finds a way to screw things up and excitedly sends Gerri a photo of his dick. It's not meant maliciously. And he hates the thought that anyone would perceive it that way, vehemently denies it, even when his dad later offers that possibility to him as an out.
He really just wants her to notice him, to care, to tell Laurie to shove off and for a relationship to have an angle that isn't just about business for once in his sad existence.
Of course, things don't go well after that. It's all downhill from there. He has the faint sensation that he was Pinocchio getting closer and closer to becoming a real boy under Gerri's tutelage, until he absolutely fucked it and was doomed to be a wooden puppet forever.
There are sharks circling the water. Shiv, with her eye on the throne, cunning as ever. Matsson, coming for the company that Roman has now all but handed to him on a platter. That grifter, Tom.
He watches Gerri watch him beg his father not to sell. He comes with love, something he seems not to have inherited from anyone in his fucked up family. Logan spurns his request and Roman flinches at the thought that Shiv was right. There was something wrong with him, unloveable about him.
In a moment of stunning vulnerability, he gets on his knees in front of Gerri and pleads with her to help. And she glances down at him from behind those stern glasses, as if to say, get away from me you nauseating imbecile, and asks him a question that will take what's left of his dignity, and crush it: How does it serve my interests?
From there on out, the events become even more vivid. A summer spent in the sweltering heat of LA with his siblings developing the ill-fated business venture The Hundred. No words exchanged between him and Gerri until Connor's wedding, when he's instructed to fire her. His dad probably dying from the sheer shock of Roman calling him a cunt on the phone. Gerri ignoring his bids for comfort in the immediate aftermath, flitting back and forth between rooms on the cursed boat in her curvy gray get-up. Telling Ken he's done helping old ladies cross the street, telling Gerri his dad had soured on her. Norway. The unceasing echo of I could have gotten you there but nope. No. A scoff that will ring out in his dreams forever. Weeping. Protestors. Barbados and Peter's cheese. Screwy limericks.
God, he was tired. Was there no end to the absurdity of it all?
And just a couple hours ago, he'd seen her for what had perhaps been the last time. Or at least that's how he'd dramatized it in his head, anyways.
What's she doing here?
Her passing form cut into him through a glass door, seemed to remind him of all the scars he'd incurred not just on his forehead, but on his soul too, if he even had one.
Gerri Kellman.
He worked in LA long enough to know that less talented script writers might ruin the ending of the movie with the heroine walking into the bar and joining him just about now. Catching on to his choice of drink. There might even be a second-hand embarassment inducing kiss that makes everything all right.
And yet he can't help but want this ending for himself.
But he doubts she knows or cares where he is. After all, she couldn't even be bothered to offer any real support after his father passed. All she'd said was he was a weak monarch. Minding shop. Not his father. He was nothing to her.
Maybe it was best that way. Maybe he didn't deserve her.
And yet, you and me. We run it to fuck.
Gerri Kellman.
He was a wretch for her. His desperate, ragged heart in tatters. It was not a feeling Roman was used to.
Would he be drinking martinis, looking over his shoulder for her for the rest of his days? It seemed so. Gerri Kellman was embedded so deeply in his story that it was inconceivable to imagine a future without her blonde wisps of hair, her matronly yet sexy suits, her head-tilts.
Was there a way back to Gerri? It was perhaps too early to tell.
Roman closed his tab and left the bar. Cheers to you, Molewoman.