No Words Will Suffice


delia_icon.gif nicole2_icon.gif russo2_icon.gif

Scene Title No Words Will Suffice
Synopsis In the aftermath of an emotional explosion, words are hard to find.
Date February 6, 2011

The Corinthian: Delia's Room

Crown molding, white ceilings and striped wallpaper in shades of eggshell and pale gold all define this small but fashionably decorated hotel room at the Corinthian. Three hundred square feet, including the attached bathroom with claw-foot tub and shower, is not a lot of space in which to move around, but a pair of French doors painted white lead out onto a small balcony with a wrought-iron rail for guests who desire fresh air or the opportunity to enjoy a cigarette.

An armchair is situated in one corner and a small desk in another with a queen-sized bed and ornate headboard positioned against the wall between. Lighting is provided by two gold lamps build into the wall on either side of the bed as well as one that hangs from the ceiling and imitates the wan, comforting glow of candlelight.

The back office for Chambéry is nothing glamorous. It doesn't have a window to the outside world, or rich mahogany panelling on the walls. It's a faux wood desk, with metal legs that were once shiny, but have long since gone dull over the year since it was installed in the tiny room. It's corkboard on the walls and a flickering fluorescent overhead light that has needed replacing for a month.

And it's Nicole Nichols' private sanctum within the Corinthian Hotel. Gnawing on the end of pen, she's going over tables and reservations. Assigning staff to patrons, and finalising menus. She's been at this for a while, and the restaurant doesn't open for dinner for another couple hours. Everything could be fine the way she has it laid out. But then she'd have to take a—



That's not the TARDIS landing. That's a text message lighting up Nicole's BlackBerry, drawing her gaze from her lists to its illuminated screen. The pen is set down, and the phone picked up with a quiet sigh, murmuring to herself, "Oh, Jester. What's happened this… time?"

Room 504? He's at the hotel? Nicole's gaze slides upward in the vague direction of the fifth floor. She starts tapping her thumb over the keypad with all the swiftness of someone out to set a world record for text message speed. "Be there in… five." Then, she's breezing out of the office. Despite her need for detail, she trusts her staff will take what she has set out for them and shine tonight, as they always do.

It's from a service elevator that Nicole emerges in her sharp white blazer and matching slacks over a dark green blouse. When she knocks, it's with the side of her balled fist, rather than her knuckles.

The door isn't exactly closed. In fact, when Nicole's knuckles come down on it in the forceful knock, it swings off kilter as though it was merely set into a closed position. Swinging down and to the side, the last hinge breaks off and it lands with a crash on the floor, at her feet.

Inside the room, Delia has just managed to wheel out of its way before it fell on top of her. There's a look that Nicole receives. A silent plea for help. A good measure of guilt. More guilt. And a small smile that looks as though the redhead is about to burst into tears.

"H-hey Nicole.." They well up into the lower portion of her blue eyes, blurring her vision of the always gorgeous woman. Seeing her brings a fierce blush to Delia's face and she hangs her head. "Sorry— Sorry about the room… I didn't— I didn't mean it."

"What the hell happened in here?" Nicole asks immediately, staring slack-jawed at the door that's now on the floor, instead of on its hinges. "What the hell are you doing here?" The executive assistant backs into the hall again, pressing her hands to her face, because she just cannot believe what she's seeing.

After a deep breath, she's striding into the room and past the debris and with all the purpose of someone on a mission. And Nicole is definitely on a mission.

"I— Uhm…" Delia's voice is somewhat breathless as she tries to search for an explanation while looking at her surroundings. Not throwing her brother under the bus is tantamount, as well as keeping this hush hush, she's not certain how much her sister-in-law-to-be has been told.

"I've been staying here, Dad put me up. Sort of." How much Nicole knows about her father? Probably more than she's aware. "I've been staying here about a week or so…" Daring a quick meet of blue eyes to Nicole's own, she quirks a small uneasy smile and swallows audibly. "There was an accident— I don't know what to do."

There's a tense breath inhaled through Nicole's nose as she nods her head and takes stock of the wrecked room. "Where is your brother?" she asks through clenched teeth. "The message came from Bradley?" Her gaze does actually shift to the closet for a moment, as though she expects the television host to pop out at any moment.

She crosses to the bed, eager for something to do with her hands. To keep herself busy. Nicole starts straightening sheets, putting things back where they… should be. Or putting what's in pieces in the trash.

Delia's busy picking up the glass and doesn't seem bothered with what Nicole is doing. "Brad is seeing someone out." She doesn't elaborate who or who he's busy with but when she looks up, the redhead blanches and backs her wheelchair up a pace or so. She hasn't learned how to hop, she barely has enough strength to push herself around… which means escape from the room is pretty much impossible.

"H-he should be back any minute," she adds quickly, the worry plain on her face. "You don't have to do that, Nicole, it's okay. I can do it later… Just— "

Still wearing the clothes he'd worn on television yesterday (he definitely didn't go home last night), only now they are extremely wrinkled, and the tie is entirely undone, Bradley Russo steps into the apartment. There's nothing relaxed about him and his hands are perma-tucked into the pockets of his dress pants.

He'd disappeared for awhile, even after sending the text. He had some things to attend to. Things. As in stuff. That he doesn't plan to discuss.

The smile is strained, practiced, rehearsed, and nearly painful as it pinches his cheeks, but it's there just the same as he leans against one of the many walls of the hotel room. He grants both of the women a two fingered salute. But he says nothing. He doesn't feel much like explaining things. Or dealing with things. Whatever things they may be.

His smile tightens considerably even if it's already strained. There's a nearly expectant look about him, but he doesn't break his silence almost like he's taken a vow.

When Delia looks up, Nicole is holding onto one of the pillows, fluffing it nervously. Her electric blue matches Delia's cornflower. There's an understanding there. An I know.

There's a very tight swallow as Nicole's attention then moves to Brad. The pillow is resettled on the bed with perhaps a bit more force than it needs to be. Maybe she's picturing smothering someone. "What the hell?" is all she can say, hands coming out to either side of her to encompass the room. But then, shock and annoyance give way to something softer. "Are you both okay?"

Head bowed and shoulders sunk down as Nicole gives her that look and she turns her chair toward another bunch of glass. Bending down, she begins picking up the smaller pieces. She doesn't answer Nicole's question, her cheeks burning crimson and her head reeling. It's quite possible that the young woman is attempting to make peace with God before her death in a few minutes.

"Brad is.. uhm.. Brad's fine," she finally says, not answering for herself. Keeping her head down, she falters over one of the small pieces in her fingers and just stares at it. "I'm sorry." For the room. For the door. For… the pillow.

The question earns an arch of Russo's brows. He stares openly at his fiancée, considering things. Everything. So many things. With a heavy sigh he just shrugs. There's so much to say. And no words to say it. Some things are better left unspoken. His eyes trail back to Delia finally, a silent question. Well?

His arms cross over his chest as he leans against the wall a little heavier. An eyebrow is arched at the notion of being fine, a skeptical look that lingers. He's still not talking.

Nicole approaches Delia's chair and she crouches down in front of it, in spite of the broken glass on the floor beneath her sensible green pumps. She reaches up and takes the girl's face in her hands, holding her gaze as her thumbs brush over her cheekbones, and tears. "It's not your fault," she tells her. "I forgive you." Then, she leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead, her eyes lidding tightly. She will not cry. Not over broken glass, busted doors, or scented pillows.

Delia actually flinches when Nicole's hand cup her cheeks. Though she tries at first to keep her eyes averted from the other woman, eventually they drift up to give a timid gaze back. Judasssss~ that's what the redhead is. Sleeping with her brother's fiancée's boyfriend and trashing one of the rooms at her place of work. All she needs is to be in the middle of one more thing for a hat trick. Almost instinctively her eyes flit toward the open door.

"It is…" she chokes, "It is my fault." While she would tell the woman the reason why it's her fault, her brother is there. Later.

The tears, the words, the interaction only make Brad wish he was just part of the scenery. His eyes flit between them. His jaw tenses while his smile fails, melting into a distinct purse of his lips. His arms tighten further around him. He's unsettled. Where he was just perplexed, now he's outright perplexed.

One more kiss is dropped on Delia's forehead before Nicole offers her a genuine smile. "It doesn't matter. I forgive you." Then she rises to her feet again turns to march over to Russo. "Don't shut me out," she demands of him quietly. "Why did you call me up here if you didn't want to talk?" Though she's close enough to touch, she doesn't. Her hands form determined fists at her sides, for all that she wants to reach out.

"I'm not Kristen. You can't just call me to make things go away. That's not what this ring is about. You don't pay me for this."

Nicole. Kristen. Delia. Lina. September. Brad isn't speaking. No matter which woman is in his life he regards her with silence. Complete and total silence. There are some adages he lives by, some things he stands by, and some habits so ingrained since birth that his very will is altered by it. There's a tired nature to his eyes, a solid stare, not unkind— oddly soft in his silence. His lips press together as he attempts to meet her gaze.

There's something nearly apologetic in his face.

That he looks so apologetic, while offering nothing just makes Nicole mad. "Tell me what the fuck is going on here! I care about you, you ass. I care about you and your little sister! Say something!"

Then, one arm lifts from her side, all the nervous energy culminating in the open-palm slap she intends to lay across the man's face. "Snap out of it!"

The arm is caught as it angles towards his face. Brad issues her a flicker of a smile, sad, tired, weary. Yesterday's events rolls over his thoughts as well as today's events, and those of the month that have gone by. His blue-grey eyes narrow a little as his head gives the slightest shake. No. She's not going to hit him.

Instead, her hand is drawn to his lips, issued with the faintest kiss on her palm, following which he tugs her forward. His hand drops from her own as both hands rise to her cheeks, brushing her hair from her eyes and tucking the wisps gently behind her ears. He may be a man of few words at this moment, but action he still has. His blue-grey eyes seek hers with a distinct fervency. Right now, at this moment, words will never suffice.

All the while the redhead in the chair is watching the exchange with baited breath. This is definitely better than Mean Heat. Her blue eyes widen as Russo's hands brush past his fiancée's cheeks, she leans forward a little, just a touch, chewing on her lower lip nervously. She's scared to make a noise, any noise.

Nicole looks… confused when Russo presses that kiss to her palm. When she pulls her in closer, she straightens up, back as stiff as a rod. Her eyes grow wide, and her lips tremble around words she can't find. She stares back at him, and her chest rises and falls with a shuddering breath. Two words fall from her lips in a whisper:

"I.. can't."

There's no judgment on his part. No obvious sign of anger. And no real resistance. Brad studies her eyes a moment longer, his strong fingertips brushing tenderly against her skin. There's something distinctly different about the touch. It's not aggressive. It's not demanding. It's soothing. Oddly supportive. And strangely unwavering. His gaze doesn't move. His eyes don't flinch. And he doesn't blink. His bearded face just watches her eyes, notes her trembles, and grants her space— although no more than he'd given earlier.

His head tilts slightly while his fingers crawl along the lines of her face. His thumb brushes against her bottom lip.

Now this is just getting awkward for Delia, her head tilts down to look at the floor but all she sees are tiny little mirrored images of the two not-lovers-that-should-be-in-love. It's frustrating? A good word for it. If only she had something to throw at them that wasn't scented like Nicole's lover… who Delia just happened to share for one night.

He doesn't ask her why. He doesn't push her away. He doesn't get forceful. Instead he just… seems to know.

And you know what they say about knowing.

The emotional walls she's erected between herself and the man she's intended to marry begin to crack. And then they're obliterated entirely as reaches up to wrap her arms around him, fingers grabbing at the wrinkled suit coat at his shoulders as Nicole crushes her lips to Brad's. The first tears cling to her lashes when her eyes squeeze shut, falling fat from their ends and trailing faint lines of mascara with them.

Eyes squeeze shut as her lips meet his. His hands remain where they are and Brad's lips welcome Nicole's. Even as she provides such passion there's an undeniable softness in his undemanding touch. His hands cradle her face. A sweet position in his continued silence.

As Brad and Nicole have their magic moment~, Delia backs into the bathroom to give them a measure of privacy. What greets her there is nothing she wanted to see at all. The mirror. Unable to look herself in the eye, she busies herself with other things. Namely, a shower.

Nicole tries unsuccessfully to break away from Russo several times. Each time the fault is her own. She keeps reconnecting with soft, needy kisses. But finally, she finds her will and succeeds. Though her forehead stays resting against his, side of her broken nose brushing his for all that it makes her wince. "I don't want to be with you if you don't love me," she whispers. "I'm so tired of giving my soul to men who don't love me." Silently, she begs him. Tell me you're different.

He has no answer. No whispered words. Just that support. That gentle, continued support. Brad's thumbs follow the trail of her tears, catching their lines with the curve of each thumb, brushing away the trail of mascara as best he can. He plants a soft kiss on her forehead before allowing his forehead to meet hers. His breath remains warm against her skin, even as his eyes close. But his support remains. That touch remains.

Nicole sniffles and it accompanies a hissing intake of breath. "I wish I were a telepath," she chuckles shakily against his skin, her breath like a physical tremor. "I don't know how to read you. I don't know what you're thinking. I don't know what's going on in your mind."

The next request could be say something, or say anything. Instead, Nicole says, "Show me."

The request as Brad's jaw setting tighter. Show her. He sucks in a slow breath as he finally lowers his hands and strolls over to the bed. But possibly not in the way Nicole wants. Instead, he lays down on his side, fully clothed, and pats the little bit in front of him. It's not about passion at this moment, it's about something more important. He'll spoon her. He'll be the strong able continued support she needs whenever she's ready. Just to hold her. Just to be there. That's what he offers: a warm body to cuddle— to soothe— without any other motivations.

Nicole watches Brad move to the bed, the tears still welling up in her eyes until they spill down her cheeks and leave fresh trails of dark make-up in their wake.

This is the moment of truth.

This is the moment when Nicole has to decide do I trust him? She stares at him, and the empty space on the bed he's offering her. With no strings. Nicole, who's had to be strong, and who's been slapped in the face every time she's really opened up to another human being, has to decide if Bradley Russo is the person she'll break down in front of. She sits down on the edge of the bed, shoulders quaking from silent tears, and silent fears.

She tugs off her blazer, wadding it up into a ball before she grabs a fistful of the pillow on Delia's bed and flings it across the room to land harmlessly in a corner. The white jacket takes its place, and then she lowers herself down on the bed next to her fiancé.

Curls up so small, facing him so she can bury her face against his chest and sob unabashedly for all the times she hasn't let herself fall apart. For all the times that she's been let down, and left out, and all that she's lost. And in this moment, with his body next to hers, and his arms around her…

It says more than his words ever could.

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