iliketodruitt | (no subject)

Entry tags:

joan

(no subject)

John had been enjoying his afternoon. Joan was quite a pleasant companion and it was nice to be with someone that didn’t look at him as if trying to decide if at any moment he was going to try and kill them. He could tell she didn’t quite believe everything that was going on, or at least not the more fantastical explanations, but he couldn’t blame her. At least she was being polite about it and humoring him, although he tried not to talk about the more fantastical things.

They had wandered around looking at the various sights, John imparting what memories he had a places or sharing historic significance of something that he had learned over his years. All in all, he was having a wonderful time with her and found it an excellent distraction from his current worries.

“Is there anyone on the island that you know from home?” John asked after moment’s lull in the conversation.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I am not, if you were not interested, you would not ask so many questions," he said. It wasn't that she asked more than anyone else, but if she wasn't interested in what he had to say should wouldn't ask anything he was sure. Still, he wasn't quite ready to share everything with her, despite what she said.

"But at the same time, some things I have done require an explanation you are not willing to accept to be fully understood, and I would rather remain a mystery than be misunderstood. You are free to ask nearly anyone else on the island about me though, I imagine most everyone has heard by now."

Oh, she certainly will ask about him with an invitation like that, and yet, Joan knows well the perils of the gossip machine. "I prefer my information straight from the source when it can be had. Less distortion, unreliable narration aside," Joan tells him, but there's a warning in his words that troubles her.

A gust of wind catches the edge of her coat and she's abruptly chilled. "Maybe you'll join me for some tea and we can discuss the things I'm not willing to accept. I'm not close-minded, John, just from a world in which magic and metahuman abilities are either a myth or a very jealously guarded secret."

"I assure you, I never thought you close minded, merely cautiously practical," he assured her.

She seemed someone who had enough experience in the world to know that there was a reasonable explanation for most things. He had no doubt once she exhausted those explanations, she would arrive at the conclusion that others were telling the truth.

"Tea would be wonderful, there is a shop not far from here. And I understand, we could be from the same worlds and you would never know it, the existence of such things are indeed very closely guarded secrets in my world."

Joan dips her chin and slants him a look that will pass for coy if you've never met her, but beneath the lowered lashes, her eyes are appraising and shrewd. "Tea it is, then."

There is a small part of her that wants to tell him that it would have to be extremely secret to be above her classified status, but it is only a small part, and one that rises and rankles because she's far from her world, far from a place where she's earned respect and the power that goes with it.

She pushes it back down with the other things she won't permit herself to think about. "My skepticism's less of the supernatural than of this place in its entirety. The more time that passes, the more I have to accept this as reality. And if I accept that this is what it appears to be, then nothing else is too incredible to be true. But I still expect it to be a bizarre dream every morning when I wake, or the side effects of something I was drugged with during a tribal ceremony I attended out of politeness."

John smiled back at her, enjoying the coy glance she gave him. There was something interesting about her that interested him. Perhaps it was just how well she was taking it all. Perhaps it was just that she was a beautiful, intelligent woman who wanted to talk with him.

"Do you often attend tribal ceremonies?" John asked, only half joking. It was not the sort of remark most people would have made, though it could have been nothing at all, it was merely something that had peeked his interest.

"Not often, no, but from time to time. My work with the World Bank requires understanding the people we're trying to help." It's as true a statement as she can make while keeping her cover intact. Substitute 'the Agency' for 'the World Bank' and 'monitor' for 'help' and it's accurate, if not complete. Her voice is warm and well-modulated, inviting him to feel as though she's sharing with him specifically, rather than stating simple facts. An old seduction technique, even though she's not precisely trying to work him. "I find it helps to participate in their lives when I'm invited."

Joan has long since stopped hating the lies. They're necessary and she makes every effort, in her social life, to stick to things that would be true if circumstances are as she represents them.

"I would love to hear of some of the things like that you've seen and experienced because of your job," he said. John had traveled around so much, but he didn't exactly get invited to a lot of ceremonies and the like. He knew of them and observed some of the more public ones, but rarely anything private. He had tended to have a damper on things like that.

"You must have traveled a good deal?"

"I traveled more when I was younger. It's an unfortunate truth of my work that the more experienced you are, the less you get out of the office." If she sounds wistful, it's illusory. She does miss the field, but she made the decision for the right reasons and she doesn't regret it.

"Is that the tea house you had in mind?" Joan gestures with a tilt of her head and lift of her brows to a standalone building on the other side of the street and up half a block.

"It is indeed, it has a rather impressive selection and a pleasant atmosphere," he said as he lead her there, opening the door for her. He could feel the warmth of the shop thaw his face a bit and enjoyed the feeling. It was almost relaxing.

"Did you have a favorite place to visit?"

"I'm very fond of--" Joan's voice breaks as she slips, ankle twisting in her boot when the heel catches some black ice. She catches herself on John's arm, but not before she's half-straddled between the sidewalk and the street, head precipitously close to his groin.

Years of Krav Maga get her back on her feet before he can even help her up, but her cheeks are flushed with embarrassment. The embarrassment quickly turns to apology when she notes, "You're bleeding," from five long gouges she managed to put in his forearm. "I'm terribly sorry,"

The tumble caught John by surprise just as much as it had Joan. The sudden pull and sharp pain on his arm caused him to gasp. There was a flash of anger as well, the desire to strike out at the source of the pain. Even if he was free of the energy creature, it was hard to completely remove himself from impulses that had been a part of him for over a hundred years.

"It's quite alright," he said, giving her a slightly pained smile. "They are, after all, scratches. And I have been hurt far worse than this."

There, for a brief instant, Joan sees something unpleasant in John's face. The sort of rage she's seen before in rogue operatives and traitors. It's gone before it can settle and Joan files it away for more consideration if she ever sees it again, but for now takes it simply under advisement.

"So have I, but that doesn't make them sting any less," she says as mildly as she can while trying to shake off the adrenaline rush of almost falling and the shooting, wrenching pains in her back and hips. They're not serious and will pass. It'll just take a few minutes. "I think I have a handkerchief. Hold on."

She digs in her bag as they step through the doors and finds a pale blue square with lace on the edges which she hands over to him.

"Thank you," he said, pulling up the sleeve to wrap the handkerchief around his arm. It would at least stop what little bleeding there was, though he would have to be sure to clean it properly. Fingernails and Victorian London were both notoriously dirty, though he imagined Joan's were more clean than most.

"Are you alright, did you hurt your ankle at all?"

Joan tests her weight on the foot and winces, not at the ankle but at the twisted boot and the laces cutting into her foot. She scans the room for a table, and finding one, gestures to it. "I'll be fine as soon as I re-lace the boot. Thank you."

But she does wait for him to help her to the table if he will, since her foot is half out of the boot and she'd rather not trip again.

"Of course," he said, taking her arm and helping her to the table. He was glad that she was not hurt badly, though he could have assisted her to the clinic, even carrying her if necessary. Thankfully, that was not the case.

Especially since this way he could have a lovely tea time with a charming woman. That was a rare opportunity for John and one he didn't want to miss out on.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only