Her first stop after she turns is to look in on Alaric, to watch him squeeze a fist around his ring until his finger turns purple. Then she slips into her office for...nothing anyone would miss. Her favorite earrings, a backup of her research, a pocketful of wolfsbane.
She won't quite let herself run out of excuses that push him to the bottom of her list - her last stop before Thailand will be a at the end seat of the third row of some dusty old bleachers which haven't changed since well before the early nineties - but she knows she won't not go, just as surely as she knows he won't turn her away.
His apartment tells a flavorless tale of impersonal success, with western-facing windows reaching up to a high ceiling and just enough furniture of a dark mahogany set.
God, this could have been my life, she thinks, and only manages to avoid a sigh of relief by virtue of not needing to breathe.
He hands her a glass of bourbon. He's not hostile, but not kind. "What's going on, Isobel?"
Everything. Also, nothing, ever again.
"John, do you love me?"
"I did," he says.
*
She stays in Thailand exactly as long as expected and avoids getting too restless on the Orient Express. She sees Cairo and Johannesburg, and savors the ability to stay room temperature through every month and climate.
Still, she finds herself back in Nashville, knocking dully on a door that hasn't changed. She's only slightly paler than him; he's only a little more alive than her.
He's learned his way around women since they were kids. She doesn't know what she expected, and she'll never need anything again, but this is something she's almost capable of wanting.
"Do you love me?"
"Of course," he says dully.
That's not their agreement, the frosty accord they reached when he let her into this dark, dustless room.
She should let him remember this time. Make him remember. Just out of spite.
He does another line before prying his eyes away from the coffee table. "Are you done here?"
That shit'll kill you, she almost says. But that's not their agreement either, so she just nods.
"Just a tip from an old friend," she does say as she collects her bra from his floor and her image from his brain. "Lay off the cheap stuff."
"Good idea," he scoffs. "Show yourself out."
*
"John, do you love me?"
He runs a thumb across her temple, over the veins that are always hard and tight just beneath her skin, and then down to her open mouth, taking her in with his eyes and his touch.
"Not like this."
"Pretty ballsy for you." Even for you, she thinks, he's always been as hard as ice. As hard, and as unrelentingly, stickily cold. "I could kill you so easily, you know."
He twists up a shrug and curls out a sneer, and means them both. "I don't give a fuck what you do."
"Good." She nods as she takes it all back. "That's good."
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branchandroot
and baby, heaven's in your eyes (mature - mentions of compulsion and drug use)
Date: 2013-03-07 01:49 am (UTC)She won't quite let herself run out of excuses that push him to the bottom of her list - her last stop before Thailand will be a at the end seat of the third row of some dusty old bleachers which haven't changed since well before the early nineties - but she knows she won't not go, just as surely as she knows he won't turn her away.
His apartment tells a flavorless tale of impersonal success, with western-facing windows reaching up to a high ceiling and just enough furniture of a dark mahogany set.
God, this could have been my life, she thinks, and only manages to avoid a sigh of relief by virtue of not needing to breathe.
He hands her a glass of bourbon. He's not hostile, but not kind. "What's going on, Isobel?"
Everything. Also, nothing, ever again.
"John, do you love me?"
"I did," he says.
*
She stays in Thailand exactly as long as expected and avoids getting too restless on the Orient Express. She sees Cairo and Johannesburg, and savors the ability to stay room temperature through every month and climate.
Still, she finds herself back in Nashville, knocking dully on a door that hasn't changed. She's only slightly paler than him; he's only a little more alive than her.
He's learned his way around women since they were kids. She doesn't know what she expected, and she'll never need anything again, but this is something she's almost capable of wanting.
"Do you love me?"
"Of course," he says dully.
That's not their agreement, the frosty accord they reached when he let her into this dark, dustless room.
She should let him remember this time. Make him remember. Just out of spite.
He does another line before prying his eyes away from the coffee table. "Are you done here?"
That shit'll kill you, she almost says. But that's not their agreement either, so she just nods.
"Just a tip from an old friend," she does say as she collects her bra from his floor and her image from his brain. "Lay off the cheap stuff."
"Good idea," he scoffs. "Show yourself out."
*
"John, do you love me?"
He runs a thumb across her temple, over the veins that are always hard and tight just beneath her skin, and then down to her open mouth, taking her in with his eyes and his touch.
"Not like this."
"Pretty ballsy for you." Even for you, she thinks, he's always been as hard as ice. As hard, and as unrelentingly, stickily cold. "I could kill you so easily, you know."
He twists up a shrug and curls out a sneer, and means them both. "I don't give a fuck what you do."
"Good." She nods as she takes it all back. "That's good."
(cont'd)