It was the weekend. Dooku had a small garden in his backyard, and he took advantage of it being a sunny, temperate afternoon to harvest what was ripe and ready - kale, spinach, beets, broccoli. He wore khakis to work in the garden, and though he was a physically active senior he had a touch of arthritis, his knees twinging as he was down on his hands and knees pulling up the yield.
Even with the occasional bit of pain, it was still relaxing to him to be out here in his little piece of paradise, hands and bare feet in the earth. He came from old money - his family had been counts in Romania, he'd seen what had once been his ancestral land on a trip overseas years ago. Though they had been wealthy landowners and had help, his family had been proud and insisted on doing work themselves as well, feeling that working the land built character and was good for one's health. Even in London, his mother kept a garden, and though Dooku didn't otherwise think much of his family, having endured verbal and physical abuse as a child, the connection to land was something that stayed with him. Something strangely comforting about the dirt, the green, the smell of fresh earth, the smell of leafy greens.
He was in the zone mentally. It felt good.
And of course, it had to be ruined. Dooku heard music next door. He swore under his breath. He filled his first basket of produce, wiped his feet and took it in through the back door to sit on the kitchen counter, then came back out. Sören Sigurdsson was sitting in a chair in his backyard, reading, with a portable stereo playing that infernal rap music.
Well I'm peepin', and I'm creepin', and I'm creep-in'
But I damn near got caught, 'cause my beeper kept beepin'
Now it's time for me to make my impression felt
So sit back, relax, and strap on your seatbelt
You never been on a ride like this before
With a producer who can rap and control the maestro
At the same time with the dope rhyme that I kick
You know, and I know, I flow some ol' funky shit
To add to my collection, the selection
Symbolizes dope, take a toke, but don't choke
If you do, you'll have no clue
On what me and my homey Snoop Dogg came to do
It's like this and like that and like this and uh
It's like that and like this and like that and uh
It's like this
And who gives a fuck about those?
So just chill, 'til the next episode
Sören had a pitcher of some dark-colored liquid with ice cubes floating in it, on a small table next to his chair. He poured himself a glass.
Dooku narrowed his eyes. The music wasn't particularly loud, especially compared to Sören's car stereo the other day, but Dooku could still hear it, and hearing it at all was not what he wanted out of his Sunday afternoon.
Dooku tried to ignore it, getting back on his hands and knees in the dirt, working on filling his second basket. Trying to re-immerse himself in the experience, bringing leaves to his nose to breathe deeply before putting them in the basket. But try as he might, the music was putting him on edge. Dooku didn't know how anyone could find that relaxing, looking as Sören did calmly reading a book, sipping whatever that beverage was.
Finally Dooku picked up his basket, brushed himself off, and stood there for a moment, glaring. Sören glanced up from his book as if he could feel Dooku's eyes on him, then he rolled his eyes and went back to reading. That little eyeroll made something snap inside Dooku's brain and he loudly cleared his throat.
Sören's eyebrows raised. He put his book down.
"Your music is bothering me," Dooku said.
"It isn't even that loud," Sören said.
"It's still obnoxious."
Sören slammed his book down on the table next to him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, man. I don't know what to tell you. It's broad daylight on a weekend. I'm not violating any laws. I pay good money every month to rent this place because it has a yard, so I can do things like come outside when it's nice, chill the fuck out after a long week. I really don't want to get into an argument with you, I just came out here to read my book, drink my iced tea -"
"Your what." Dooku cringed. "That..."
"You heard me. Iced tea?"
"That... that's not tea." Dooku couldn't help the outburst, horrified. "You don't put ice in it..."
"Ice and lots of sugar. It's delicious, you should try it."
"That's not tea. That's some... barbarian... concept of tea."
Sören chuckled. He shook his glass, making the ice cubes rattle, and took a sip. "Can't insult me by calling me a barbarian, my ancestors were Vikings."
"My point still stands. It's bad enough you listen to awful music, but you also ruin tea. What the bloody hell is wrong with you?"
Sören threw his head back and laughed. Then he glared daggers. "You seem to be way, way too interested in what I'm doing as of late. Why don't you get a hobby?" He sneered. "Oh right. It isn't time for you to be Mall Santa yet."
Dooku wasn't even fat. It was a cheap shot, and Dooku wasn't going to stand here and let this insolent brat keep insulting him. "I am not going to even dignify that with a response." He sniffed, and turned on his heel to go back inside.
As he washed his hands, he tried to tell himself to not let that man get under his skin. You shouldn't be this worked up. That infuriatingly attractive man, with his noise and his ruined tea. Of all the people to move in next door to him, it had to be that. Sören had always been annoying, but lately it seemed moreso. Or maybe I really do need to find something to do.
Dooku growled, washing the freshly harvested broccoli, some of which he'd use over the coming days, some of which he'd freeze. "Bloody... sodding..." He scrubbed at the produce like he was trying to scrub sense into that man's face. His lovely, sullen face.
"Damn you to the Hells, Sören Sigurdsson," Dooku muttered.