dancing with me

Title: Within The Blue
Characters: Roger
Words: 1,164
Summary: Roger has one strange mind...and he's dying.
Notes: This story is esoteric and dreamy and weird.

  
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I'm re-watching season one of Remington Steele, and I'm craving Remington Steele/Murphy Michaels slash but can't find it anywhere. Somebody MUST have written something? They make the cutest couple. So much chemistry! Does anybody know?

I just canceled my Time subscription. I'm now waiting anxiously for the refund they say they'll send if you cancel. The prompt that reminded me I'd been planning to cancel it was checking my account and seeing that it had auto-renewed, pulling money from my checking account that I didn't have and almost sending me into over-draft. *wince* Thankfully my bank gives me two numbers, a "current balance" and "impending balance" sort of thing, and it was in the "impending balance," so I managed to transfer money in from savings before it became part of the "current balance" and I was officially in trouble. I think I'm not in official trouble, anyway.

Along with what they pulled being five dollars over the amount I'd designated as my food money for next week (which is why it was almost an over-draft situation), my roommate and I had been talking for a while about how Time seems to have just gone down the drain. Not one big drastic thing, but... little things that, overall, make it less fun to read anymore. When she confessed that she, too, was no longer reading most of the articles, just the columns and reviews, I decided it wasn't worth it.


In other news, I've been reading The Arabian Nights recently. See, one of the boys in the Public Safety office with me one night had it for class. When he finished his reading assignment, I picked it up and started paging through, because I've never really read it before. I got halfway through before the shift ended and I had to give it back, and promptly went to order a copy off Amazon. Beth teased me about it when she heard, because in Romanticism class I've been making a list of all the things we've read excerpts of that I want to eventually buy and read in full, too. LG: collecting the pre-1900s Western literary canon one book at a time?


Off to the store to buy things for kitty! And cheese, since I ran out this morning and it is a rather horrible state of affairs to be without cheese.

This isn't me, darling, it's the other guy, the guy you read on the page, the one who knows what to say and has half a chance of being romantic without sounding like a drunken stuttering fool. This isn't me telling you the truth, this isn't me lying to you, this is the featherpen and inkwell, the guy I keep in store so people can be disappointed when they actually get to know me. Hey babe, you asked me to introduce myself, and this is it. Allow me to introduce my best friend... I don't really run with the big guy, I'm just his wingman. I just sit here and try to feed off his success.

I think you've already met him, actually. That's the strange thing. He's the one who met you, who told you about everything that happened before. He's the one who garnered all the laughs and impressed you with his intellectual nobility. I was the awkward, anxious silence between your every word, waiting to hear your voice and waiting to hear what he would say in return. He doesn't show himself to a lot of people, you know. You should feel proud. I think he likes you, darling. I think he loves you. You have no idea how much that tears me up inside. I can't stand up to him, I can't beat him at anything and I wouldn't want to. Everything good in my life has come from him. I love him to death and I want him to be happy, but I have to fight him on this one. I don't think I have any other choice. If I have to go back to back with my alter ego, take ten paces, and blow his brains out to win a scrap of your attention, I'll do it. I'm just afraid of what happens if I can't beat him at his own game.

If I were playing God, could you bear to be created from nothing? Could you bear to let me sculpt you from the clay and blow you a soul from my own omnipotent lungs? Could you bear to let me be so arrogantly assertive of my own potency? I couldn't. I'd rather bow to you, I'd rather scrape my knees to the bone. I couldn't care less if you were a Goddess or something else entirely- cruel or caring, subtly raking over my skin with your infinite touch. No torch you could have would blind me so long as I were allowed to look upon you. But why play that game at all?

Words are words, nothing more, but they're all I can give you. I could build you a house, I could sing you a car and speak you a world in which your every desire was met at the drop of a note but that seems pointless when I wake up and realized I am still in the same place with the same blankets and the same pop tarts for breakfast. I could write you the greatest love song you could imagine, but when it came down to it and we lay together in our bed with the mattress springs assaulting our unprotected backs no combination of words would put you in God's arms, nothing I could say could have you moaning and weeping from love and joy if I couldn't follow it through. All I have are words, dear. Are you prepared to play along with the endless sonnets and sestinas and such that would constitute my only contribution to your perfection? Because I'm fully prepared to spend the rest of my life writing them. I'll probably do it whether you want me to or not.


If there was a moment I could have told you everything, I wouldn't need a journal or a pen. You have no idea how much I write about you.If there was a moment I could have compromised and been the artist and the real Brandon at once, it has left and refuses to return my calls. If I could be in love and believe it unconditionally without the sacrifice of an innocent ideology, without destroying an aspect of my personality, than this entire metaphor would be entirely unnecessary and I could go without


This isn't me, darling, it's the other guy. It's the man you see on the page, it's the author who seems so much more perfect than the real me, it's everything I want to be and he is confined in a separate space beyond my reach. I wish you the best. I won't be attending the wedding.

Yes, you would see me walking down the street and say that I was fat. Either that or you would say "Shit honey, we'd better cross to the other side of the road, that guy looks like riff-raff."

Whatever.

Doesn't matter.

I was looking through some magazines today and I noticed a trend towards normal looking people. That's right, I said normal looking people. You know, like the girl next door or that old guy and his wife down the street. People who look like everday average people.

People with a little fat on their bodies.

Not everybody can look like those models in the magazines. Those anorexic women with their high cheekbones and exposed ribcages. I can't even imagine what those women go through to look like that. It must be a terrible burden to have to long for a small morsel of food all day long only to get a celery stick or carrot shavings.

Or an eight ball.

Like I said before, whatever.

In the meantime I am going to ask you all to do a favor for me. This is for everybody. For all you fat haters out there, or you chubby chasers, or you regular joe's.

Stand up and take off your clothes. Yes, right now dammit. I'm not going to look, for chrissakes this is the fucking internet. Take off all your clothes, I'll wait.
*waiting

Ok, doesn't that feel much better? Now, reach down and.....oh wait, that's for later. Sorry. Go into the bathroom now. Don't be scared, yes you can put your clothes back on in a minute, just do what I say. Go into the bathroom.

Good. Now, you see the mirror there? Yes THAT mirror, the one you look into everyday, day in and day out. Go stand in front of that mirror. That's right, there's nothing to be afraid of, go stand there and take a very close look at yourself. Look at all the curves, drink in the essence of your body. Women, take a quick look at the toilet and wonder when the last time your man cleaned it was. Men, stop looking at your penis, it's not gonna get any bigger no matter what the people at Enzyte or Viagra told you.

LOOK AT YOUR BODY.

Do you see any fat? Don't lie. You do, don't you. There's a little down by your waistline isn't there? There's a little on those arms of yours too. Maybe there's a little right where the curve of your buttocks meet your legs. There might be some on your thighs, there probably is. What about your chest? Any fat there? There could be. You would know if it was there, you would be looking at it right now.

Let's all breath a collective sigh.

Ready?

*sigh

Ok. Now think about how you feel about yourself. Are you happy? I am. Are you content with your lot in life? Bad question I know, but if you said no, you'd probably be normal. Do you think you could stand to lose a little weight? Probably, but who doesn't? Unless you are a muscular freak or Jack Lalanne (google it if you don't know who he is), You probably do need to lose a little.

I need to lose alot. But for some reason a certain amount of the female population out there digs big guys. Not that I'm looking because I'm not, but still If I were single I'd be dating alot. An awful lot.

But I digress.

Don't worry about that little bit of fat hanging around your middle. Stop obsessing about the spare weight that seems to be gripping your thighs.

Revel in the fact that you are normal in most every way, except for you guys with the really small peni. It's you guys that have to worry. Just kidding of course. Even the small peni guys are normal. Hehehe.

Don't worry about the fat. It's normal. Hell, up here in Upstate NY you have to have a little fat on your body just to get through the damn winter. There are no skinny people here, we are all beasts with hairy chests and no necks. It's how we survive.

Don't we have enough to worry about with all the crooked politicians and conspiracy theories and personal relationship crap that we go through. Isn't there enough stress in our lives without having to worry about that little bit of extra weight we carry around.

Be normal.

Have a little fat.

And smile more. Everybody looks better when they smile. Remember, it takes 47 muscles to make your face frown, but it only takes me 4 muscles to reach up with my right arm and slap that shitty frown off your face.

Enjoy life. You look great even if you don't think so.

And women, stop worrying about the size of your breasts. We like them no matter how big or small they are.

Even if they have a little fat. Especially fat ass butts.

Any straight guy that says different is a liar.

Really.

I noticed that her hair smelled of cinnamon right before I killed her.

Afterward, as I gazed down on her still, lithe form, I wondered what she'd been in life, besides an assassin. Did she like Classical music? What was her favorite color?

I took one last look at her, paying special attention to the sharp, unnatural bend to her neck, then walked out of the alley. She was the first female I'd had to take down. Even then, with her body still warm, I was pretty sure that I'd never forget her.

The particulars of the mission are unimportant to my story. Suffice it to say that I encountered no more serious obstacles in its completion. After my debriefing, I go back to the small, unremarkable rat-hole that's the closest thing that I presently have to a home, only to discover that the stray cat I'd spontaneously adopted three weeks ago had been captured, tortured and finally killed by someone.

No one knows me here and I spent a minute wondering why someone would take the time to throw the poor beasts' carcass onto my minuscule, second-floor balcony. I left his broken body where he'd landed; I needed a drink.

My freezer contains two things: a half-empty bottle of vodka and a mostly-empty pack of cigarettes. I don't smoke but my sister does; she left them there the last time she visited. She said keeping them there helps seal in the flavor. I haven't seen her in almost a year.

I grab the bottle and go outside to sit with Jacob. The night sky is clear, but the city lights make it hard to see the stars. I remember how bright they used to be when I was young. I could sometimes read by their light.

My first sip burns going down. He's still dead. Something's bothering me, but I can't quite figure out what. It's gotta be about the woman, but that doesn't make any sense. I've been the cause of so many people's demise and I've never lost sleep over any of them; not even my first.

I let my mind wander and take another sip of vodka. Sooner or later, my subconscious will let me in on the big secret; I've just got to let it tell me in its own time. My eyes are drawn up to the dimly glimmering stars again. Cinnamon echoes in my nostrils.

Suddenly, a story pops into my head; an old one. Something I read when I was very young. 'Friday' by Robert A. Heinlein. Like most of his work, it's a beautifully-crafted character study masquerading as a science-fiction-esque action/spy story. I think I was twelve, the first time I read it, and I adored the main character.

She was smart, she was ruthless, she was funny. Most of all though, she was loving; at least, to those few who were worthy of it. Every time I read that book (and I read it many, many times), I would always ask myself if I was the sort of person that Friday might like. Deep in my soul, though, I always knew that the answer was no.

I'm highly intelligent, quietly implacable and many would say that I'm pretty entertaining, when I want to be. But I'm not loving, by any means. No, in my most perceptive moments, I know that cruelty calls to me far more than kindness. I may admire and serve those who strive to uphold Order, but I'm far more comfortable with the sublime rage that darkness breeds.

I try to take another sip from the bottle, only to find that it's empty. I set the bottle down beside me, then absently run my fingers through Jacob's blood-matted calico fur. He was a good cat. I briefly think about torturing one of the neighborhood kids until he tells me who killed my pet, but soon discard the idea. Attention is not something that I need right now.

Once more, my mind circles back to the woman in the alley, but this time I know why. My profession is a difficult discipline for anyone to follow and doubly so for a female. Even though I ended her, she was no amateur. I could tell that by the way she shadowed me before I trapped her in the alley that would soon be her deathbed. Even when she realized that she was well and truly cornered and that there wasn't anything left to do but die, she never wavered.

Our Dance was short and silent; as most serious fights are. I felt the snapping of her neck with every ounce of my tattered soul and I held her up for the briefest of moments after life fled from her body. I didn't realize it then, but I had just killed my own personal Friday.

My kind tend toward solitude, but we (or, at least, I) always hold out hope that, someday, the isolation will end. I suppose that's foolish; there's nothing but the thrill of the hunt and a never-ending road to walk alone for me. Honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's only sometimes, like when I'm sitting next to a dead friend or have just snuffed out a life that I could've maybe loved a little bit, that I wonder what might have been, had I reached out to those cold, uncaring stars a little less.

The last guest at the party, she sat in the chair farthest from him, drinking rum from a plastic cup. He was talking about old high school friends—who was still living with their parents, who was an alcoholic, who was engaged. She managed to respond coolly in spite of the fact that all she could think about was how they were drunk and alone in the early hours of the morning, and he still had the body of a 17-year-old football star.

"I should go to bed. Are you going to stay here?"

"I'm going to stay until the buzz wears off." Of course she wanted to stay. She'd had multiple fantasies about this exact situation since high school, and each one was hot as hell. "I need water."

She filled her cup at the kitchen sink and turned to face him, leaning against the wall.

"Do you need to wash up? You can use the bathroom down here, I can get you a towel or a toothbrush or something."

"No."

"Why are you smirking?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're giving me a look."

"I'm not giving you a look."

He wouldn't take his prying black eyes off her face, so she turned around and headed back to her chair. He climbed the first step to his bedroom and flicked off the lights, and she immediately felt the weight of disappointment.

"Psst."

She squinted through the black. "What?"

"You can either share my bed, or..." but he was already leading her upstairs by the hand before he finished his sentence.

Her eyes were immediately drawn to the guitars, glistening in the blue beam that shined in through the bedroom skylight. "You play guitar?"

"For a couple years now. I like to write my own songs."

Well, that seals the deal.

"Do you want some shorts? Or a sweatshirt?"

She grabbed a pair of gray shorts from his outstretched hand and unabashedly stripped down to a barely-there thong while he watched. She laughed at him.

"What's so funny?"

"You aren't ravaging me."

"Why should I be?"

"Uh, because you can."

What happened next was a blur, but time slowed down when she had his shirt pulled up over his mind-melting, hard brown abs. He was solid everywhere.

"Oh my god," she practically whimpered. "Do you still run?"

He mumbled an answer with his tongue in her mouth and reached into the pair of shorts he'd lent her. He remembered how she liked the spot on her abdomen massaged, that the tension of having her hips restrained against his body turned her on. He pushed a finger inside and she was putty in his hands, writhing with pleasure.

"You never used to like this."

"It hurt, I was a virgin."

"I get it, I'm just reminiscing the good old days."

"We were boring in high school," she snickered in a voice husky from booze and arousal. She tugged at his shorts, dying to see and feel everything she never did in high school. What did he look like? What did he taste like? Her impatience made her clumsy, and the shorts tangled around his waist. He pulled them down and, to the shy 15-year-old inside her, it was like finding buried treasure. She licked him gently, but he grabbed her by the head, needy, pushing his cock into her throat.

"Why are you so randy?" he gasped.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"I didn't say that, but...where did this come from? Remember when you were a good girl? My parents still love you."

"That's what makes it so hot! You don't think nailing your high school sweetheart ten years later is like something out of a porno?"

"You should try harder to keep it in your pants. And we are not having sex tonight."

"We aren't?"

"My roommate is sleeping right there on the floor."

"Oh. Maybe he's into this kind of thing." She bit his ear and rubbed her firm, perky, glorious tits against his bare chest.

"I was traveling with my friend a couple weeks ago, and he brought a girl back to our hotel room...and they had sex while I was there...and it was the worst situation I've ever been in."

"That's the most traumatic thing that's ever happened to you? In your life? Do you live in a bubble?"

"I don't want to wake him."

"I promise I'll be good. I won't make a sound. I'll be very, very quiet." He was driving his fingers in her like no tomorrow, grinding against her ass while she stroked him.

"I'd have to get up for a condom. The floor might creak or something."

"You're serious? I'm hot, drunk, naked, and begging for your sex with your hard cock in my hand, and you don't want to screw?"

"It wouldn't be decent."

"Uh. Well, okay."

Three hours later she was woken by the morning sun and didn't hesitate to find her clothes on the floor, fearing the detonative roommate-sex formula. He hushed her clunky heels as he walked her down the stairs and to the door.

"It was good seeing you again," he called as she stepped into her car.

"You too. But you should know that last night, I found your behavior very inappropriate." She pulled the car door shut and headed down the driveway as he stood open-mouthed on the stoop.

It started with a smile. We like to think that smiling symbolizes happiness; joy. The wolf smiles before dinner. Its smile promises rent flesh and crimson savagery. This is the story of a little red riding hood. I am the wolf. My actions have precluded any further meaning of time. And so, after this moment, now that moment, nothing else matters. Let me tell you what did matter. Love mattered. Early on a Summer day, the wind stirring the trees mattered. My lips against hers mattered. I was never very romantic, but I could still feel something on those days. It was pure, not a fake red rose, nor cheap white wine. It was an instant beyond the phony laughter and the trite conversation. It is our great curse that a single moment can hold more meaning than any day, any month, any year. We dedicate ourselves to those perfect seconds. The dedications are our poetry, our songs, our tears. How bittersweet it is.

In any case, she mattered. Every freckle on her face mattered. You might think that you understand, but you don't. We met in the rain, underneath the slight awning of a bus stop. We huddled together, seeking respite from the falling moisture. Just the two of us there, it was more like respite from the world. It began with a smile, that was it.

That was everything.

There was something else that mattered: fear. Perhaps it didn't actually matter, but it was important. Semantics aside, fear is the antithesis of love. Hate may be the obvious choice, but it cannot oppose love. Hate is frivolous and meaningless. It's misdirected passion on the path of futility. Fear is much more powerful. Fear is the only emotion that can dare to challenge love. It drags at love at all times, seeking to bring it to waste within the mire. This is our true weakness. I feared the cold when she was gone. I feared fading. I was greedy for my precious moments. I only mention this because I want you to understand that this was not perfect bliss. It was a slight departure from a flawless romantic fantasy.

It ended where it began, at that same rainy bus stop. As every moment from the end of time reaches towards me, I find the middle has faded. It ended with a kiss. Our lips were parted by the car slamming into her body, throwing me aside. I can still see her eyes, they flash as she's ripped away. She was gone before I made it to her crumpled body. Her limbs were twisted, but her face pointed at the clouds. This was all that was left to me. The blood dripping from the car pooled into her parted lips. One last smile. What did this one mean? I walked home afterwards, my fists shaking under the relentless sky. I wondered what she was thinking about as finality embraced her. I like to imagine the last thought before death stretching to infinity. Immortality in a day-dream. This is mine. I've severed this existence with the question at the end of a rope. There is no answer, just a fading echo, and a smile.

But I'll get to that in a bit. Let's see, yesterday... Beth drove me to work to get my check. But apparently I wasn't allowed to get it til 2, so I went back to my original plan to walk to the bank today. But I did buy some new socks yesterday. Trying them on now. Not bad. What else? After work watched How I Met Your Mother and Reaper. Good stuffs.

This morning slept in later than usual, which was something I wanted to do, but still it means I don't have much time to do anything, since I want to leave early of course. Bank, comic shop, maybe post office. Maybe some time to sit in the park and read before catching the bus to work. I was also thinking of walking to Shaws to get some things, but... so little time, and already plenty of other walking to do, so I guess I won't do that today.

Went down cellar to do laundry, discovered the machine is out of order, so... no laundry today. Ah well.

Probably forgetting all sorts of dreadfully important things, but whatevs, I wanted to get to this epiphany I had last night. See, I don't think things like social anxiety, depression, etc., were nearly as bad when I was a kid as they are now. Probably got a bit worse in high school, college, and later... so, aside from a few brief gaps where my mental state improved, I think it's been getting progressively worse, slowly, imperceptibly, throughout my life. So it makes me think maybe in the future, say 10 or 20 years from now, it could be full blown, unbearable... so I won't be able to get by in life at all. And I have mixed feelings about that. It scares me, but on the other hand, it's also something I've occasionally wished for....

Of course, I also think it might be nice to be a Spacer, like in Asimov's robot novels...

Anyway, I also wanted to mention that last night at work I had a cup of chamomile tea, which gave me the idea for this Hilarity 'n' Suze comic....

Does anyone have any spare tickets for the next couple of weeks? My boyfriend is on leave from Iraq and we're both big fans. I was able to get tickets once last year but it ended up that we would not be in New York at the time. I only learned his leave dates about a month and a half ago and haven't been able to get tickets. If anyone has extras they want to share or anything, I would be forever grateful.

Guessing that I will probably get no bites, with that, for those of you who have tried, how difficult is it to get in on standby?

And so ends the first chapter of... probably the second book of my life.

It's been fun, graduate school... thanks for all the good times and fantastic people. I'll miss you. :)

Does anyone know where there is Gangs of New York slash? Especially the Bill/Amsterdam pairing. It's just too freakin cute.

has anyone here had to cancel tickets? i am strongly considering canceling some that i have for June 23rd and i was wondering how you do so? thanks in advance for the help!