Participants:
| Scene Title | Pray For Us |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | God help the mister that comes between me and my sister. |
| Date | January 16, 2011 |
Dorchester Towers — Russo's Apartment
"Are you Bradley Russo?" the delivery girl at the door twirls her finger around her hair impatiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she chews— no, POPS— her gum. Her little chart is held out and she taps along the digital dotted line.
"I didn't order this," Russo reiterates for the fifth time. He's not in full form today. In fact, there's something oddly on edge about him aside from the casual Sunday clothes he's dressed in.
The woman smirks, "Look buddy. You ordered the fucking medallion. Now sign for the fucking package. I have other deliveries to make." Even with the swear words she sounds bored, chances are she doesn't like her job.
Brad's blue eyes narrow, "Read my lips— " he begins before overannunciating his words, "I. Did. Not. Order. Anything." An irritated, yet well rehearsed smile spreads over his lips.
"Well fuck. Seriously. Sign for the damned package and you're in the clear. All I want is you to SIGN. THE. FUCKING. FORM." She leans against the frame of the door. "Besides you already paid for it."
At this news, Brad's eyebrows tick upwards. Things are beginning to come clearer as the fog lifts. The mystery package was likely ordered by someone else in the house. "I did, did I?" With a heavy sigh, his head shakes and he signs the digital form. Shortly after which Brad begins to close the door only to hear that feminine voice talking to herself on the other side, "Gotta stop deliverin' to this building— famous rich people are fuckin' crazy— "
With a distinct shake of his head, the host opens the package. It is in his name. The piece of jewelry earns a tick of his eyebrows, he turns it over in his hand. This action earns a scowl. A very distinct, very prominent scowl.
With a deep breath he marches down the hall, raps once on Delia's door and then peeks in. "Delia," the word is firm, decisive, and hinges on disappointment.
The kaffufle down the hallway is too muffled for the young redhead in her bedroom to hear. Not that she knows anyone is there anyway, the white earphones attached to her iPad are plugged into each side of her head and she's drifting along with one of the songs that Brad put into the little device. Kiss me~, down by the bearded barley~. She's not singing along, though, she's concentrating on lifting the weights Doctor Brennan perscribed.
Delia's been working so hard on trying to get better. Working herself to the point of exhaustion every day, she wakes every morning with muscles so sore she feels like an aching noodle. She's getting stronger though and when she's brought down to the pool every afternoon, she gains another lap. There's a goal in mind, one that she's only shared with a couple of people.
When the door to her bedroom opens, the young woman's bright blue eyes fix on her visitor and she pulls the plugs from her ears. "Brad?" Then she spies the package. "It came!" The excited breath that expels those two words is a little too quiet for anyone out in the rest of the apartment to hear but Brad will be able to hear it. Much to his chagrin.
The breath that expels actually has the host knocking his forehead against the doorframe. Several times over. On purpose. While his eyes clamp shut. His frown remains while his grip clings to either side of the frame.
THUD THUD THUD
Russo takes in a deep breath rather than lets it out. He twists from the frame of the door, having completed his masochistic ritual, the kind that no one (these days) is really permitted to see. His eyes flit to the redhead on the bed, the pain increasing as he just stares at her. Unfortunately, genetics has a tacit effect in such things, reminiscing the features of a very disappointed Ryans.
Even at the claim of the package Russo stands there. He doesn't relent it. The weight of his stare increases, but with no explanation as to why it could be for any number of reasons—
The weight of the stare, the memories his expression conjures, combined they cause the young woman to wither under his gaze. "I— What?" Sure, she'd asked him if he could use the card, she politly left out the details, allowing him to believe that she was ordering something for herself. Something that he didn't want to know about. All women have those things and all brothers of those women really don't want to know.
So that's where she left it.
Her eyes flit to the opened package again and then to his face. "I asked," she mutters sullenly. She knows she misled him, maybe just a little bit. "I asked if I could buy something," she repeats, just to drive the point home. The point that he's not allowed to be angry with her for the trinket. "Can I see?"
Blink. Blink. Blink. "This isn't what you'd implied and you know it," there's a deadness to his tone. In a lot of ways it would merely be simpler if Russo yelled, if he generally spazzed out, or took to a tantrum. Instead, he just holds the trinket, turning it over in his hand.
His stern expression deepens and his words come out raspy around the lump in his throat. "You… you can't do this. You know that, right? Delia." He actually frowns now while his grip tightens around the door frame. "This is not okay. I— " his own breath expels with exasperation. "It's not— I— " for a man who makes his living in words, he's certainly struggling to put them together.
Furrowing her eyebrows, Delia's lips purse into a small frown as her brother speaks. "Can't do what? Why isn't it okay?" Genuine confusion sets in on the young woman's features and she blinks rapidly to stave the onslaught of frustrated tears.
Whump
One of the little weights rolls off the bed, causing her to jump just a little, glancing quickly to the floor to see what the noise is before refocusing on Brad. "Why, you said before— " Before Eileen's visit. "— You said that he was good. That I was allowed to see him. He's not breaking rules. He's— " Rapid breaths threaten hyperventilation rather than calming the girl. "He's— He's— " Everything that Brad doesn't see.
"He's dangerous," Brad finishes the thought. "His sister advised me to watch him. And before— " he swallows hard as he twists against the frame of the door again, leaving the weight just to sit on the floor, not really reacting to it. "— before he said he didn't want you there," he points to his temple. "That you didn't belong there. I took it— I took it in the normal way. Like— the NORMAL way."
"But she… I was told to watch him closely. CLOSELY Delia. Do you realize how fragile you are right now? As it turns out I can't be everywhere at once and do everything, I'm not freakin' Superman. I'm not even close."
Hurt. That's the expression that Delia wears on her face. Hurt and betrayal. "You don't know him— " she begins slowly, picking her words and enunciating them properly, even using proper grammar instead of the choppy sentences she's hurried out before. "No one knows him the way I know him. Even he doesn't see."
She turns her head to the shaded window and then lets it sink, an almost visible aura of gloom passing over her entire being. "He is not dangerous. Not to me. He— " she closes her eyes and curls her hands under the blanket to try to warm them. "— He saved me. He kept me alive and let me stay. He didn't want to… but I raped him."
"But his sister does," Russo virtually hisses. He's oddly detached in all of his as his knuckles whiten around the frame of the door. "His sister knows him. She advised. And you don't know people as well as you think. You might get their heads— or whatever— " it is that she does. Whatever. That's what the idea of mind abilities is relegated to.
"— but just because a person thinks or feels one way doesn't mean they're not dangerous. It doesn't mean that their actions follow those ideals— and it doesn't mean that they're not… destructive. NOT nuclear. Not…" He sighs, somewhat deflated. "And you didn't rape him. Rape is a physical act. Physically forcing yourself on someone else. You couldn't have."
"I did!!" Delia shouts across the room at him, tears already welling in her eyes. "He wanted me out, because he said I shouldn't— Because he— "She sniffles loudly and brings her blanket up to her face to dry her eyes. "You don't understand, Brad… He— " She pauses and closes her eyes, cuddling the blanket close to her face and muffling her own disappointment.
"When do people suffer enough? Why can't he have just one person that believes in him?" She pivots her head to catch her brother's eyes. Her rapid blinks spread the tears over her own, creating a sheen. "Even he doesn't think he deserves it… It's not right."
There's another slow suck of breath, especially at the tears, but on this one, Brad stands his ground. "It's not about suffering." And it's not. Not in his case, anyways. Particularly as he doesn't know why he was instructed as he was. "It's about you. It's about your safety. Can't you see that?" His hand finally moves from the frame to be pressed tightly to his forehead.
His hands now shove into his pockets. "I am capable. I own a gun. I know how to use it. In fact I'm a pretty good shot. I could shoot someone between the eyes if I needed to. I can throw a good punch. I can keep you safe while you get better. But I can't be here all of the time!" As evidenced by yesterday. "And I can't— I can't trust other people to do it. It's my responsibility. My duty." Despite his insistence at his own destructiveness, there's something painfully loyal about him.
"I'm safe with him!!" Her cry of anger is punctuated with an exasperated huff of breath. Delia keeps her eyes fixed on Russo, shaking her head just a little. "Please Brad? Just trust me? I know he's not perfect, but I— " She takes a huge gasp of air and lets it out in a shuddering breath. "I need to see him, I need to know he's safe." He's a risk taker though, safety isn't exactly a concern of the agent's. Especially not an agent with an invincibility complex.
Looking down at her own legs, her shoulders sink a little. Her eyes close and she swallows audibly. "I don't want to fight… I want to get better… He makes me want to get better."
"I— " there's an escalation in Brad's tone, but with a deep breath, he shakes his head, deflating it. There's a sad smile, so broken, that no amount of rehearsal could win out. There's a strange twinkle in his eye, as he turns back to the frame, with a heavy sigh that smile remaining. "I don't have any fight left in me. Not now."
He takes a slow breath as he begins to turn from the door, slow steps dragging along the floor, leaving his back as the only indication of any emotion at all.
"Brad— " Delia attempts to pause the man's escape, she can't exactly run after him or chase him down. "Brad can you come here? I want to tell you." She gives him a pleading look, neither of them want to fight, so why do it. She's an adult, he's an adult… they can talk it over. And he can agree with her.
"I understand," she says in hopes of winning him back toward her door, even to the edge of her bed. "I understand why Eileen told you to watch him and thank you for wanting to keep me safe. Really." She pauses then, hoping that he'll at least give her the benefit of coming back. "When I was in his head, I saw … he's so hopeless. His dreams are a horrible place, not… " She pauses again, furrowing her brow and looking down to study the blanket. "Not scary… sometimes scary… but they're so… bleak."
The words are said to the cold back of Bradley Russo.
And it gives him pause.
Enough pause to hear.
He swallows, lingering just shy of the door with half of his frame within sight. And from there Delia can see his shoulders bob, a soft exhalation of air the only physical indication of his current thoughts and feelings. He's frozen there. Stuck. Watching himself rather than experiencing what's going on.
If she could see his face, she might catch the closed grey blue eyes and the long-gone smile, only there for her benefit in the first place. His hands retreat into his pockets, if only because he has no other use for them, or perhaps some other reason.
His throat clears, "There's nothing to talk about." And there isn't.
He disappears from view. But there's a sound down the hall. A Thunk followed by a CRACK. And then the sound of the door unbolting, opening, and then closing again.
There's a tiny message left on the coffee table in the living room, wordless as it is but written in silver:
St. Jude, patron of the lost souls, pray for us.