Rifts (February)eileen303March 2 2008, 16:28:52 UTC
Her boyfriend never gives her flowers, and it's pretty much her fault.
The trouble with Henry is that he is a romantic who doesn't know how to be romantic. He admitted, ruefully though not particularly embarrassed as far as she could tell, that he'd never been in a serious relationship with any other woman before her. She can easily see how that happened, too shy and never enough hope that he would've asked a crush for dinner or a movie, and so withdrawn as to seem aloof or uncaring, enough to convince any girl who noticed him that chances were slim he'd even give her the time of day. It had worked that way on her, in any case. The guy next door is cute, nice hands and nice eyes, but if he barely even says hello to me, no way he's ever going to pop off a compliment or a "do you like Italian?", no way they'd survive even ten minutes together.
So, lacking any personal experience whatsoever, and lacking a fruitful social life in which he could've picked up observations or suggestions from more romantically- or sexually-successful buddies, there just hasn't been much for the poor guy to go on. Movies and television are shitty relationship tutors as a general rule. So it's always been painfully obvious that he wanted to be a tremendous friend, boyfriend, lover, etc., but he's often been left reinventing the wheel to even find out what constitutes acceptable tremendousness in the first place, much less how to then be that guy himself.
The first time he gave her flowers went favorably. They were thick-stemmed sunflowers, she remembers them well. Henry was embarrassed about it, in what would become a theme. He'd plucked those by hand, he said, saw them when he was walking (read as: brooding) around and thought she'd like them. She had smiled and awww'd at the gesture, he'd looked pleased by her response, and his alternate had nodded to him in approval like some sort of big brotherly thing. Which was slightly bizarre, until she remembered to mentally call them twins. Anyways, it was successful, go him, but this was at the BPRD, most of her face faded to a pathetic squishy smorgasbord of yellow and green, and giving flowers to a girl in a hospital is a little different from flowers in a courting context.
Gifts (February)eileen303March 2 2008, 16:36:53 UTC
The second time was in Portland, and it didn't go quite as well. Walter in his childlike guise had begun to haunt their footsteps again, though he hadn't broken out the heavy weaponry nor banished any of their friends to alternate dimensions yet. Only pledged affection for the mother of his obsessive delusions, and demanded hers in return. Henry walked his friend home from work at night, watched her with worried eyes and sometimes wasn't terribly successful at concealing yearning while he was at it. And one afternoon, he left a prearranged pink cluster of french tulips, bells of Ireland, baby's breath, and lilies on her kitchen counter, the stems still wrapped in shining plastic from the florist. She awww'd again and threw in a "You didn't have to!" He was obviously regretting the move, explaining that she'd been under a lot of stress lately. She put an arm around his shoulders and thanked him. If she'd kissed his cheek as it had occurred to her to do, maybe the reward would have offset the uncomfortable dance on the line between friend and more, and maybe there would've been more blooms in her life.
But the terminal blow was the roses. Three of them, dethorned and lovely, two scarlet reds and a whorl of ivory. He tore himself away from fascination with the freckles speckled in the hollow of her clavicle to retrieve them for her, looking so damned awkward and uncertain that he didn't even hand them to her, just set them down on the bed next to her and then took a step back to wait. She couldn't help it, she laughed. So sue her, she was delighted and he was clueless and cute, and the alternative was cringing in sympathy for his crippling self-consciousness and utter lack of even an iota of suave. He hadn't liked that response much, though, obviously even suspecting that when she promptly drew him down to encircle him in arms and legs, it was meant as a pat on the head for his foolishness. And thereafter, no matter how many times he whispered "I love you" in the dark, no matter how many times she could complete a sentence he was unable to finish, no matter how many funny-looking faces they were unembarrassed of making love in apartments that feel less and less separate, no matter how many photographs she exclaimed genuine admiration for and no matter how many times he surreptitiously included her in one, no matter how many times he tucked his arm around her in public and no matter how many times either of them looked at the other as though they could see God, Eileen expects she'll die with no more blossoms from those hands. And taken in comparison to the rest of that list, she doesn't even care.
The trouble with Henry is that he is a romantic who doesn't know how to be romantic. He admitted, ruefully though not particularly embarrassed as far as she could tell, that he'd never been in a serious relationship with any other woman before her. She can easily see how that happened, too shy and never enough hope that he would've asked a crush for dinner or a movie, and so withdrawn as to seem aloof or uncaring, enough to convince any girl who noticed him that chances were slim he'd even give her the time of day. It had worked that way on her, in any case. The guy next door is cute, nice hands and nice eyes, but if he barely even says hello to me, no way he's ever going to pop off a compliment or a "do you like Italian?", no way they'd survive even ten minutes together.
So, lacking any personal experience whatsoever, and lacking a fruitful social life in which he could've picked up observations or suggestions from more romantically- or sexually-successful buddies, there just hasn't been much for the poor guy to go on. Movies and television are shitty relationship tutors as a general rule. So it's always been painfully obvious that he wanted to be a tremendous friend, boyfriend, lover, etc., but he's often been left reinventing the wheel to even find out what constitutes acceptable tremendousness in the first place, much less how to then be that guy himself.
The first time he gave her flowers went favorably. They were thick-stemmed sunflowers, she remembers them well. Henry was embarrassed about it, in what would become a theme. He'd plucked those by hand, he said, saw them when he was walking (read as: brooding) around and thought she'd like them. She had smiled and awww'd at the gesture, he'd looked pleased by her response, and his alternate had nodded to him in approval like some sort of big brotherly thing. Which was slightly bizarre, until she remembered to mentally call them twins. Anyways, it was successful, go him, but this was at the BPRD, most of her face faded to a pathetic squishy smorgasbord of yellow and green, and giving flowers to a girl in a hospital is a little different from flowers in a courting context.
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But the terminal blow was the roses. Three of them, dethorned and lovely, two scarlet reds and a whorl of ivory. He tore himself away from fascination with the freckles speckled in the hollow of her clavicle to retrieve them for her, looking so damned awkward and uncertain that he didn't even hand them to her, just set them down on the bed next to her and then took a step back to wait. She couldn't help it, she laughed. So sue her, she was delighted and he was clueless and cute, and the alternative was cringing in sympathy for his crippling self-consciousness and utter lack of even an iota of suave. He hadn't liked that response much, though, obviously even suspecting that when she promptly drew him down to encircle him in arms and legs, it was meant as a pat on the head for his foolishness. And thereafter, no matter how many times he whispered "I love you" in the dark, no matter how many times she could complete a sentence he was unable to finish, no matter how many funny-looking faces they were unembarrassed of making love in apartments that feel less and less separate, no matter how many photographs she exclaimed genuine admiration for and no matter how many times he surreptitiously included her in one, no matter how many times he tucked his arm around her in public and no matter how many times either of them looked at the other as though they could see God, Eileen expects she'll die with no more blossoms from those hands. And taken in comparison to the rest of that list, she doesn't even care.
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