Sidestory:
Taking In The Local Culture
Roanoke was pleasantly sunny, despite fall setting in and the temperature slowly dropping. At noonday, there was a comfortable heat in the city as people milled about on their lunchbreak.
Jericho Sinclair, who worked nights, had woken up hungry and traipsed around for something to eat. A sandwich was easy enough to procure, but Icho desired greater sustenance.
"Ham sandwiches without mustard make the Baby Jesus cry whilst killing kittens," he said absently, licking his fingers as he sat in a park. "Tears of mustard-lacking blood."
God didn't strike him down, disappointingly, for taking his name in vain, so Icho stood up and decided to go for a walk. His head scanned for possible food as he went by, for Icho ate people; not their flesh, not their blood, but their thoughts. The world was a delightful buffet.
Bland... bland... bland... bland...
All the McDonald's canned heads, same thoughts. He got jaded sometimes, tasting the same tastes, delightful as they were, day after day...
Bland... bland... chickenwire and rosewater and lemonspit...
It was only there for a moment - the slightest most delicate taste of it, as he stretched his mind out - but it was there, his heart skipping beats. Something so utterly delicious it made him reel, hungry and dazed.
It was coming from the museum.
"Lord have mercy," he muttered, moving, face beatific as he started inexorably towards his goal. "Ready or not, honey, whoever you are."
"Isabella? Can you put out more brochures, please?"
There was a long moment of silence and then the tall, thin woman behind the counter looked up at the speaker and blinked slowly as if awakening from a dream. Isabella? Yes, that is my name now. Isabella Dorian. It says that on my name tag. She smiled, teeth just a shade too white and canines just a bit too sharp. "Brochures, Ms. Clearfield? Of course."
Efficiently, she crouched down to retrieve a stack of glossy trifolds of paper from a lower drawer, absently brushing strands of her silky, grey hair from her face. Then, steps careful and quick, she moved around the counter and began to arrange the brochures in their stand. It felt soothing to be doing a good, simple job. Yes.
Eventually, a slender, scarred hand reached past her to take a brochure, a man standing beside her and looking obviously fascinated about museum work. He grinned at her charmingly, pushing locks of magenta-streaked hair out of blazingly green eyes. "Mind if I take one of these, honey?"
Blinking, Isabella returned the smile dutifully. "No. Of course not, sir. I hope you enjoy the museum today."
"I will, I will." It was her. It was her, it was her, it was her. Bells were ringing. "Thanks, Miss... Dorian."
The smile remained fixed in place and a slim hand touched the name tag pinned to her dark red turtleneck, confirming the name. "We have a new featured exhibit this month," she continued, voice soft and low. "It is about the pottery of the local artists. It is most enjoyable."
"You bet I love local pottery artists." I bet they taste like cookies. Icho shifted, leaning against the desk. "You like working here, huh?"
"Yes. It is very pleasant." She turned slightly to readjust the pamplets. This is a long conversation. He is not asking me about the exhibits. Why is he not asking me? Then she looked up at the strange young man again. "One can learn much."
There's steel in her head. She's all confused. He half-closed his eyes, trying to pick out her thoughts. She was concentrating hard. "You new?"
"Yes. I have been here only a month." A faint thoughtfrown appeared between her thin eyebrows as soon as the words had left her mouth.
"Just moved here?"
"Yes. Yes." The tense, half-real smile returned. "I have just moved here from far away."
He grinned at her, slow and lazy. "Ain't that something, pretty? I moved here a long while back, too." Icho smiled. "So, what d'you do here?"
Great golden eyes blinked at him and she paused as if unsure of the answer to his question. "I work here."
"Showing people local pottery?"
"Yes. When it is here. I also know the paintings and the artists." She paused once more, obviously weighing something in her head. Then she smiled. "Would you like to ask a question?"
"Of course. May I?"
"Yes." She motioned to the entrance to the gallery with one long hand. "I am allowed to take you in to see the first paintings and answer your questions there. Or I am allowed to show you the pottery. Which interests you?"
He beamed. "Pottery. Definitely pottery."
"Very well. If you would follow me, sir?" Reflexively smoothing the front of her skirt, Isabella began walking, trusting to him to follow. The guests always follow. It is expected. If only everyone followed so easily and well. "The pottery gallery is this way."
"As you wish, Miss Dorian."
He followed close behind her as she walked. Beautiful mind. He couldn't touch it properly; he couldn't concentrate. It was boxed inside. Icho was raging to break her open like an egg. Not yet; not until he tasted more. She was pretty on the outside, too, breathlessly beautiful; all thin and sad and long with huge golden eyes. "Not many people here today, huh?"
"Hm? Oh." She looked over her shoulder briefly. "No, it is very quiet on a Monday. I like Mondays." Why did I say that?
"Really, honey? That's different. Most people hate Mondays. End of the weekend."
"Oh." Facing away from him, he did not see the look of immediate confusion and slight panic on her pale face. I should not have said that. No. I should not. "Mondays... Are quiet," she repeated softly.
Icho smiled. "That's okay, sugar. I like Mondays too."
"You do? Oh, that is nice." Isabella relaxed, shoulders untensing. Suddenly, she reached an archway and stepped up onto the small landing leading to the room. "The pottery is in here, sir."
Icho stepped after her, slipping next to her so that he could breathe her in. She smelt like soap. "Thanks a million, Miss Dorian."
"Do you wish me to wait with you while you look?"
"You got anything you rather be doing?"
"It is my job to assist any visitors to the gallery."
"You're not going to get any visitors other than me at this hour." Icho tilted his head. "So what pottery's your favourite?"
"My favorite?" The question seemed to have almost confused her and she turned away from him to scan the room. Various pieces were scattered throughout the room. Vases, pots, plates, meaninglessly shaped art pieces. Slowly, she stepped farther into the room and brushed light fingers over a shallow bowl done in gradients of grey. "This one," she finaly said firmly. "I like this one."
Icho moved close to her, touching a light finger to the rim. "Grey," he said. "Like your hair."
"My hair? Yes. It is that color."
"Do you like it?"
"Yes?"
"You have pretty hair." His smile was warm. "Like lead."
She blinked again at him and then smiled reflexively. "Thank you. That is very kind of you."
"Hey, just telling the truth." Icho moved to look over at another exhibit, probing as lightly as he could without giving into the urge to have his knees topple him over. Sweet and cold like watermelon. "Long work day?"
"No. It is only eight hours."
"Must be tiring, though." He beamed. "When's your lunchbreak?"
"My lunchbreak?" She looked over at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. "At noon."
He looked at his watch. "Couple of minutes. You doing anything?"
"I am eating?" She tilted her head and studied him closely, obviously unsure of the direction of his questions. "But I am able to change it if you wish me to stay here with you."
"Oh, no." Icho ran a hand through his hair. "I was wondering, honey, whether I could take you out for lunch."
There was a long pause and then she turned to face him full-on, gold eyes intent on his face. Such a strange young man. He had never even given her his name. Finally, she blinked slowly. "You wish to eat with me?"
"Yeah." He tilted his head. "If you'd like to, mockingbird."
"... Mockingbird? My name is Isabella Dorian."
"Isabella Dorian." He savoured it on his tongue. "Pretty name for a pretty woman. But you look like a mockingbird, all sweet and ready to fly away."
A sudden, tight looks slid over her face, pain in the back of her eyes, and she laced her fingers together to hold her hands tight in front of her. "I see," she said slowly.
"Please," he coaxed. "Just coffee, honey. Nothing big. I'm not an axe murderer."
The tall woman regarded him silently for a long moment.
"Of course. You're not going to go out to lunch with a guy you don't even know the name of." He held out his hand. "Icho. Icho Sinclair."
"Icho?" She tested the unfamiliar name on her tongue, eyes half- closed. Then she looked at his hand and finally extended her own. Her fingers had barely brushed his before pulling away again. "It is a pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure's all mine." He dropped his hand. "And the offer's still open."
Solemnly, she met his eyes. "Coffee?"
"Coffee. Nothing more, nothing less."
Should I? Is this acceptable behavior? What would the others say if they knew I went with this boy somewhere? But... It is expected? I believe so. The silence stretched on as she tilted her head to study him like a curious bird, thoughts processing carefully, considering answers.
"I'll come tomorrow if you want to think about it." Icho pushed his hair away from one eye; there was a long scar running down the side of his face. "But I'll ask again, honey."
"And you would not be displeased?"
"Nope, sweet."
"... Then perhaps tomorrow. I believe they wished me to remain nearby for my break today. We are short-staffed today." Her eyes searched his face keenly, judging his reaction.
"Tomorrow, then." His smile was clear. "I'll come at the same time tomorrow and ask again. I hope you say yes, honey."
Isabella nodded. Then she indicated the rest of the gallery. "Do you wish to see anything else before I must leave you?"
"Just your pretty face." Icho stepped closer and ran his eyes down her features, obviously committing them to memory. "Right, Miss Isabella. I'm happy."
Smiling, she bowed slightly. "Then thank you for visiting the museum and I do hope you come again. Have a lovely day, Mr. Sinclair." With that, she turned on her heel and strode away, body barely swaying with each step. Soon she was lost to sight, closeted in the gift shop once more.
Holy God. Icho wiped his palms down on his jeans, not having known he was actually sweating. That woman was intoxicating, and he had no idea why. Her mind was like ecstasy, like acid, fizzing and popping and he hadn't even been able to eat her where she stood. Funnily enough, he didn't want to; it would have been sacrilegous, trying to take bites out of her then and there. He wanted to get to know her, the funny beautiful cold lady with all the emotion of a concrete mixer.
Gorgeous. Just gorgeous.
Humming, not even peeved that he was still hungry, Icho put his hands in his pockets and sauntered off. Tomorrow was another day.
"Geez, Bella, are you completely insane?"
Looking up with the light of panic and confusion in her eyes, Isabella looked up at her co-worker. Bella. That is right. Short as Isya is. Yes. Insane? No. No, that cannot be. Her usual, too- bright smile grew on her thin face and she shook her head. "No, Miss Lincoln. I believe I am quite the opposite." Then she paused and frowned, worried. "What have I done that would make you say such a thing?"
The short blonde pointed emphatically to a tall, lean figure walking idly in the courtyard, obviously killing time until a self-appointed cue would bring him into the museum. "That guy! He's been to the museum every day for the past week. I really doubt he's that much into art."
"He enjoys the pottery."
"Yeah, I'm sure he does." She rolled her eyes. "Come on, Bella. We've all heard him ask you out for lunch. Every single time he's been here. Give the poor guy a break. Let him take you. He's kinda cute and, well, I bet he got that scar in an accident and it probably makes him sort of nervous so..."
"Very well." Isabella sighed faintly and turned to study the young man in question, head tilted. "If he asks again, I will go with him. I suppose it would only be polite."
"Now that's a good girl. Would you like to borrow some lipstick?"
Ambling in, his internal Isabella clock ringing off, Icho gave his silver-haired object of affection a smile as he walked towards her desk. "Hey, honey. Looking gorgeous today."
Isabella smiled automatically. "Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. Which gallery do you wish to see today?"
"Whichever gallery'll hopefully see you agreeing to go out to lunch with me, mockingbird."
"We are not allowed to eat lunch in the galleries."
"Which is why I'd take you out of them, my funny Miss Dorian."
She tilted her head to one side, the angled cut of her thick grey hair swinging with the movement. "You are going to ask me to eat with you again, Mr. Sinclair?"
"That I am, Miss Dorian." He grinned at her radiantly. "I'm not giving up."
"Very well." She bent and began locking the display cabinet in front of her.
His grin widened. "Is that a yes?"
"Yes. I will go to lunch with you."
He gave a low whoop of triumph, his happiness obvious and infectious. "Oh, Isabella, you've made me a happy man."
Tilting her head again, she studied him for an instant, golden eyes surprised at his reaction. Then she smiled in return and bent to retrieve her purse. "You are welcome."
"When's your lunchbreak, sweet? Now?"
"Yes. It has just gone noon." Adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, Isabella edged around to the front of the display cabinet. She paused beside him, waiting. "I have one hour."
"Then let's make the most of it, huh?" He winked at her, spikes of hair falling over his face. "Let's go, Miss Dorian."
She hesitated. "You had better choose, Mr. Sinclair," she murmured. "I bring my meals to work. I do not know which eateries are nice."
"Hey, honey, trust me. I've been eating in this city for years." Admittedly, at the population, but hey... "Let me take you 'round."
The smile she offered was again one of her too-bright ones but he never seemed to notice. She sensed that he liked it. Perhaps he can help me understand things. He seems pleasant and willing to talk. She smiled even brighter. "Yes, that would be nice."
She ate like a bird. She acted like one, too, high-strung like a violin with eyes that took in everything. Isabella Dorian was utterly fascinating, bewitching - Icho was already at the point where he would have rather kidnapped her and sucked her out slowly than pop her in his mouth like a candy and not even stop to chew. Beautiful. A locked box. A real lady, too, he thought amusedly. His mama would be proud.
"So," he said casually. "How're you liking Roanoke, honey?"
Isabella looked up from her salad with wide eyes. He had been so quiet; she had almost forgotten that she had a lunch partner, lost in her concentration of food and the surrounding crowd. Everyone else was so noisy, talking and talking all of the time. It had been easy to forget Icho Sinclair's presence.
Slowly, she blinked and set her fork down. "It is well."
"Miss your old place?"
"... No."
"It's nice here. I can see why." He sipped his icewater. "Live by yourself?"
"Yes." Neatly, she pushed her salad far enough away so that she had space to fold her hands on the table in front of her. "And you?"
"Yeah." He rested his chin on his hand, watching her intently. "Gets lonely sometimes."
She sat perfectly still, golden eyes locked on his face; she hardly even blinked. "Lonely?" she repeated. "The quiet is nice, though."
"Yeah. That's what I think." He leant back in his chair. "I like my alone-time."
There was a long pause; Isabella was very obviously searching her mind for things to say. Finally, she reached for her water glass and murmured, "What do you do?"
"Radio jockey." He rolled his eyes goodnaturedly. "Brings the money in, I suppose."
"Radio jockey? You are on the radio? Speaking?" The words had escaped from her lips before she could think. Immediately, her eyes flicked down; something dark and angry had flicked in the golden depths. Stupid creature. You should know. Bad. Unfit. Failure.
He nodded, apparently not noticing her slip-up, voice gentle and accented. "Yeah. Hours suck, though."
"... Hours?"
"I work the night shift." He gave her a warm grin. "Graveyard."
"Then when do you sleep?"
"Mornings. Evenings. Don't need too much sleep." He sipped his icewater again. "Wasn't going to sleep through our lunch date, though."
That gave her pause and she tilted her head to study him, a tiny frown between her thin eyebrows. "But you did not know I would agree today."
"Knew you'd agree eventually." He ran a hand through his hair. "And today felt like my lucky day."
Isabella merely smiled at his words, polite and uncomprehending.
He laughed at that. She tastes so good when she's confused. "Anyway, honey, enough about me. Tell me about yourself."
At his request, she went a bit stiff, sitting straighter in her chair. "I am afraid there is not much to tell. I am rather uninteresting," she sounded vaguely rehearsed as if there were cue cards just out of sight. "I have only been in Roanoke for a little time and at the museum shorter. I have not met many people."
"Liked any you met?"
"Many people are very nice."
"So what do you do when you're not working?"
"When I am not working?" She hesitated and looked down at her salad again as if searching for inspiration. "I read and watch television," she finally answered.
"Television, huh?" Icho still looked amused. "Sweet, simple girl."
She brightened and looked up, smiling. "Yes."
"Like any TV in particular, honey?"
"... Soap operas?"
His lips twitched in amusement. "Got a favourite?"
Isabella shook her head mutely. A strand of her lead-colored hair fell into her eyes and she frowned vaguely, reaching up to push it back behind a small ear.
Icho eyed the ears. Oddly small. Delicate. Hair was hiding them; maybe she cut it that way deliberately. "Guess you don't get out much."
"No," she murmured. "I do not... Do you? What do you do?"
"Oh, go out on my nights off. Take the world in. I like walks." He played with the side of his glass. "Gardening."
"What do you grow?"
"Pretty flowers."
She smiled at that and reached for her water glass. "Such as the ones in that painting which you looked at for so long yesterday?"
"Yeah, like them." He was pleased; that had actually been an attempt to dig in her mind and find out what she thought about him, but he had gotten all bashful. "Just like them."
"I believe those were... Marigolds?"
"Yep. I have some in a pot, honey."
"And they do not die?" Suddenly, she picked up her fork once more and pushed at her salad. She had barely touched it and the vinagrette dressing was wilting the leaves terribly. Something almost-sad hovered in her downcast eyes. I wonder if I could keep flowers... Or would they go limp? Broken like my birdy. "They flourish?"
"They flourish." He dimpled, green eyes wide. "You know, honey, marigolds are easy to keep. I could give you a cutting. Your place got any sunny windows?"
Raising her eyes to meet his, the automatic smile reappeared on her face; it was slightly truer this time, though. "Yes," she nodded. "I have two big windows that let me see the park."
"Sounds perfect." Pleased, utterly, he met her smile. "You just water them and they go like weeds, Miss Dorian. Fresh. Pretty. Alive."
"Just water?"
"Maybe a little plantfood. It's easy, though. You want one?"
She nodded, wide-eyed with disbelief at the offer.
"I'll give you a cutting." He scratched the back of his head, a little braid in his hair with a lime-green bead swinging. "Want me to drop it off at your place?"
There was a long pause as Isabella hesitated very obviously. Had she been anyone else, she would have stuttered and bit her lip. As it was, the pale young woman stared blankly at him, golden eyes gone opaque as she seemed to weigh the question.
"I can drop it off at your work, if you'd prefer," he coaxed. "No prob."
That seemed to push her in his favor and she nodded slowly. "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you, Mr. Sinclair." She smiled faintly. "Would it be too much trouble to ask you to bring it at the end of the day? I would not want it to die before I left."
"'Course, sweetheart. What time do you get off work?"
"Six o'clock."
"Why don't I come over today, then?" Icho's face, pale brown-sugar tan, was animated. "I'll drop the cutting off at your desk at six."
"That would be very nice. Thank you again, Mr. Sinclair."
"My thanks is your pretty face, Miss Dorian."
Isabella ducked her head slightly, eyes dropping to her hands. More kind words. More flattery. What does he wish? Suddenly, she stiffened and lifted her wrist, sleeve sliding back ever so slightly to reveal a cheap plastic watch. The hands read ten minutes until one o'clock. "Oh. The time."
Icho downed the rest of his icewater, pushing his chair back. "C'mon, honey. D'you mind if I walk you back?"
She shook her head. "No, that would be pleasant." She also stood and reached for her purse. "Were you given the bill?"
"Yeah, I took care of it from the start." His expression shifted to amused. "Can't let the lady pay."
"Oh." She smiled back at him, canines flashing. "Then I suppose I am a lady. Thank you."
Were her teeth just the faintest bit pointy? Icho stood, helpfully holding out a hand for her to take. "You're every inch a lady, Isabella."
There was a long, sudden moment of silence; Isabella had gone immobile and stared at his hand. I should take it. What would it mean if I did? Would this become a date? Carefully, she took a step forward and lightly put her hand in his; her skin felt dry and cool, papery-soft.
His face lit up like fairy lights, hand very tentatively giving hers a squeeze. Just the fact that she'd touched him made tactile Icho utterly happy, and he literally broadcasted that around as he beamed. "Shall we, mockingbird?"
"Yes, please. I must be back before the hour is over." Her voice had gone even softer than before and her head had tilted down slightly. "This was pleasant, Mr. Sinclair."
Icho started walking. "It was wonderful, honey. And call me Icho. Thank you."
"I-ko," she tested it on her tongue, softly and carefully. She frowned with concentration. "Icho."
"That's it." He tilted his head. "Isabella... Isa. D'you mind if I call you Isa, honey?"
For a moment, everything dropped and she lifted her head, pale face bright with a smile. Isa. Yes, that is nice. I like that. It is almost familar. Eyes clear, she nodded. "You may," she answered. "Please."
"Isa." He squeezed her hand again, leading her out of the cafe. "I like that. Short and sweet."
"It is?" She shifted her gaze ahead, thoughtful. "Those I work with call me Bella. I do not like it much."
"You don't look like a Bella." He studied her face. "It's too bouncy. Isa suits you. Elegant."
"I am not bouncy," she replied in utter seriousness. "I walk."
He bit his lip to keep back a laugh. "You sure do, honey. There's no bouncing involved."
"No, of course not." Isabella lifted her head fully, returning to her usual straight-backed walk. "I was not made to bounce."
His eyeline drifted down to her chest. "Not at all, darlin', but you're gorgeous anyway."
"... Thank you. Again."
He peeled his eyes away. "Hey, honey, you don't mind if I ask you out again sometime?"
She paused and looked over at him, then down at their loosely clasped hands. "No, I would not mind."
"Good. I really like you, Miss Dorian."
"You do?" Her voice went up in surprise, the first strong emotion she had shown during the entire lunch hour.
"Yeah." Icho's grin was bashful. "I'm just one of those guys who likes easy, y'know?"
She shook her head, obviously puzzled still further. A piece of hair again fell into her face and she pushed it back roughly. Her fingers brushed over her ear at the motion, a finger nail scratching sharply at the curve; she didn't flinch. "Oh."
"I liked your face." I liked the way you tasted. Icho smiled. "I liked you."
"... I do not understand."
He tried not to laugh. "I think you're a sweetheart. I really, really like you."
"Oh." She fell silent once more, eyes dropping. Shut your mouth. You do not wish to seem ignorant. Accept this. He can explain things later.
He shook his head, apparently reading her thoughts. "I'll explain later, sweet. Didn't mean to confuse you."
"No, it is my fault." Suddenly, she looked up and it was as if something else looked out for an instant, a flash of animal cunning. "English is not my native language."
"Ohhh!" He beamed at her, brightening up. "That would explain it. Don't worry, Isa, you speak it just beautiful. You don't even have an accent. I had no idea."
Isabella nodded. "Yes. English is a complicated language to learn." Right. Perhaps when compared to... Somehow she managed to censor her own thoughts, words evaporating in her head.
"It sure is, and I've been speaking it from the cradle."
She smiled up at him absently. Her attention had temporarily been caught by a couple sitting on the wide stone edge of a nearby fountain. Seemingly oblvious to their audience, they were clinging close, hands roaming, mouths meeting again and again. Isabella stared at them in obvious fascination.
His gaze followed hers, thumb rubbing her palm as they continued their amble. Mmmm. She's interested. Any other time, he would have hung around to eat the obvious high emotion coming from the pair, but he had to move Isabella on. "Like that, honey."
"Pardon?" Her golden gaze swung back to meet his green-eyed one and she blinked, vaguely owlish.
He nudged one of her shoulders with his, teasingly. "Maybe one day if you like me enough we can do that."
At his additional touch, she had immediately stepped back, curving in on herself slightly. There was a flash of something vicious in her glare and then, just as quickly, it had gone. "We can do what?"
"Kiss." Anger. Where did that come from? Mmmm, honey, there's banked- down fire in you. Like a forest. I like it. "Don't worry, honey, I'm joking."
As if she had never retreated, Isabella nodded, face blank again. "I see." No, I do not.
He just laughed. "C'mon, mockingbird. Don't want to get you back late."
"Yes, of course. I must be on time."
He picked up the pace, hand still safely in hers. "I'll get you there, Miss Dorian, nice and neat."
She nodded, her long legs easily matching his pace. "It is only across this courtyard." Glancing over at him, she added, "You will return this evening?"
"Right on time."
They were silent for the last few feet, hurrying to the steps of the museum. When they reached the top, Isabella carefully pulled her hand away, still cool, still papery dry, and nodded slightly at her companion. "Thank you again... Icho," his first name came out with a distinct echo of hesitation. "It was pleasant."
"It was." His smile was sunshiny, fingers lingering against hers as he pulled his hand back. "Better than pleasant. See you at six?"
"Of course. I will wait here on the steps." She raised her hand in a faint, half-hearted wave and then disappeared back into the museum.
Icho gave a low whistle. He was practically fizzing with plain, simple happiness, an emotion he'd not experienced untainted in a long long while; well, wasn't that something? Miss Isabella Dorian, serious and icy and so adorably plainspoken, taking things at face value. He wanted to know what made her tick. Then he wanted to fiddle with her gears and cogs and wires.
Pushing a fuschia spike out of his eyes, Icho padded around in his pockets for a cigarette to enjoy the moment. Hm. So she liked living things. He'd get her a cute little marigold cutting and make her smile. He liked it when she smiled - it seemed like she didn't quite know how to do it and was hoping she was doing it all right. Nervous. Birdlike. Utterly fascinating.
"Looks like we're not going to be bored, honey," he told himself, lighting up. "Not for a long while."
Come six o'clock, Isabella was standing, stiff and straight, at the top of the stairs to the museum. Expressionless, she scanned the courtyard below. Few people were wandering anymore; they had all fled from workplace to home or out for a night on the town. They were all in a rush to be elsewhere. I am in no rush, Isabella thought mildly. I have nowhere to be. I have nothing to do until dark falls. Then I may join the others. Yet...
Her golden gaze swung skywards and she regarded the sky, painted with pinks and violets as the sun set. Nowhere to be. Not now. It is best to wait until that strange young man arrived. He seemed to know much more than those she worked with and was more accepting of her questions. Her questions. Mouth forming a thin line, Isabella frowned. She asked far too many questions. She showed ignorance. She had to be more careful.
Icho melted out of the dusk, walking up the steps with a small, brightly-painted terracotta pot cradled in his hands as he approached Isabella. Upon seeing her, his scarred, strange face immediately broke out into a smile.
"Hey, honey." He came to a stop. "How was work?"
She blinked and then smiled faintly. "It was pleasant." There was a pause and then she started slightly. "And your day?"
"Caught a few hours of sleep. I usually do before I make the fixin' to go to work." He held out the little marigold pot to her; there was a little orange bud on the green plant, ready to blossom fully. "Brought this for you."
Moving down a step to be level with him, Isabella bent forward to study the plant. An unguarded smile appeared on her thin face and she very lightly reached out to touch the bud. The plant remained still and upright, unmoved by the action. Then she looked up to meet Icho's startling eyes. "It is just new," she murmured.
"Yeah. Opened this morning." The smile on his own face was half- shy. "D'you like it?"
She nodded, eyes wide. "Yes, it is so small." There was a tone of quiet respect in her voice, resting oddly with her usual tones.
"It'll blossom soon. Then you'll get a pretty flower."
"And it will be orange?"
"Orange-yellow. Like the sunset."
"That will be pretty."
"I have cute geraniums, too." Icho grinned at her. "After you settle your marigold down, we'll add to your collection, hmm?"
She nodded, half-distracted; her eyes were again locked on the tiny plant in his hands.
"I talk to them," he said, unabashed. "Some people think it makes the plants grow better, if you talk to 'em sometimes."
"...What do you tell them?"
"How my day went. About people I met."
Isabella looked up with a shadow of a smile. "I shall tell it about you then?"
"It might like that." Icho smiled back. "I told it about you today."
"... You did?"
"Yep." He touched the stem. "All about the beautiful lady I was hoping would go out to lunch with me."
"Oh. I do not suppose it thought much of that."
"Nah. It probably thought I was a loser."
She blinked and suddenly caught part of her bottom lip beneath a white-flashing tooth. "A loser?"
"Yeah." He laughed. "Hopefully I'm not really."
"I think you are quite nice," she declared. Then she held out her hands. "May I?"
Icho gently deposited the flowerpot in her hands, still glowing at the compliment. "There."
She was quiet for a moment, feeling the heft of the pot in her hands, turning it this way and that to examine it. Finally, she nodded as if agreeing with herself. "So very small."
"It'll get bigger," he comforted her. "Just take care of it."
"Water and sun and speech?" The way she said the words made them seem like some ancient alchemical formula.
"And love," Icho said sagely. "You have to add love."
"Oh." Suddenly, Isabella straightened and pushed the pot back into his hands silently.
"What's wrong?" Icho looked puzzled.
"You grow such lovely things, Mr. Sinclair." She took a step and laced her fingers together, hands held in front of her. Love... Love? This is impossible. Her head dropped slightly, almost bowing. "Perhaps it would be best if you kept it. I can continue to visit the gardens."
"Hey. Hey, hon." His smooth voice was gentle. "When I say love, all I mean is... You have to care for it and remember to water it. Don't worry about the plant's feelings. I bet you'll care for it perfect."
Still, she made no move to take the plant back and merely studied his face with wide golden eyes.
"Like making sure your clothes are clean." He pressed it into her hands again. "C'mon, honey. You'll do fine. If you want, I can check on you every couple of days to make sure it's still healthy."
"... You will come to the museum?"
"Yep. Or your apartment."
"... My apartment?"
He beamed at her innocently; he'd picked up that thought. "You do have one?"
She nodded slowly. "Of course."
"That'll keep it happy." He beamed at her. "Perfect."
She brightened further and accepted the plant, holding it protectively to her chest. "If you are sure."
"I am." He petted the bud very carefully. "Now, you be good for Miss Dorian, right? Right."
Isabella looked up to study his face then and smiled, more relaxed than ever before. "I will take very good care of it."
"Good." He winked at her. "I'm counting on you, mockingbird."
At his words, she immediately stood straighter, head lifted high and proud. Her jaw tensed slightly and she nodded. "Yes, Icho. I understand."
"There's a good girl." He touched her chin gently, then drew back. "You walking home?"
"Yes." Once more, she stepped back from his touch, eyes gone a bit wide. "It is not far."
"The streets are kind of dangerous, Miss Dorian. I don't really like you walking home alone."
That seemed to puzzle her and she tilted her head to one side like a curious bird. The light from a street lamp hit her face, further paling her, and a spark caught and danced the depths of her eyes. "I have done it before. It is quite safe," she answered finally, slowly. "No one ever troubles me."
"You sure?" He tilted his head equally, hair falling over his eyes. "A pretty lady like you... I'd worry."
The smile she gave him was obviously meant to be reassuring; it showed too many teeth, though, to quite work. "Do not worry."
He laughed. "Okay, I won't. But you keep safe now, y'hear?"
"Of course." She paused and studied him for a moment. "You be careful as well. Icho. It is dark."
He gave her a grin that was also meant to be reassuring, but too manic to fully work. "I don't fear the dark, mockingbird. You get home safe to bed."
"Yes, of course." She clutched the marigold in its pot to her chest and smiled once more. "Thank you very much. I will take care of it. Goodnight." With a final brisk nod, the tall woman turned on her heel and trotted down the stairs, pace even and firm. Before long, the gathering dark had swallowed her up. Not even an echo of footsteps floated back on the cooling night air to Icho.
He watched her leave, sending out a thread to find her head; still in range, focused, so intoxicatingly bittersweet, like his first taste of chocolate or cake or blood. She liked the flower; that made him happy.
"Can't let you walk home alone, honey," he murmured. "Too dangerous. Let's see where you live."
Stepping into the encroaching dark, Icho started ambling after his new object of fascination.
Safely out of view, walking the deserted streets to her apartment, Isabella shifted. Mannerisms, posture, gait all changed in the blink of an eye, going ever so slightly wrong in mid-step. Suddenly, her movements were loose-limbed and swinging, silent in the growing dark. Even her heels made no sound and it had seemed as if she had nearly stopped breathing. Head up, shoulders back, her eyes stared ahead of her. She knew the way without thinking; indeed, she had often found the way in the dark while out of control of her own body.
Isabella Dorian, indeed. Bella. Isa. That is better. What a strange human that Mr. Sinclair is. I believe I appear more normal than he. Do I? No one noticed me before him. Did I do something wrong to attract his notice?
The marigold was shifted to rest against one hip, leaving her other hand free and rhythmically moving her fingers, keeping the blood flowing.
Perhaps they are right. Perhaps he is just lonely. Something to do with that scar. Humans are so concerned with appearances. With scars.
There was a sudden stumble to her step and she hurriedly set the flowerpot on a nearby porch as she bent at the waist. Arms wrapped tight around her stomach, she gasped for air for a moment. Then, suddenly, she sank to the cooling concrete and buried her face against her raised knees, regardless of her stockings or the way her skirt rode up with the movements. A long, soft keening drifted from the huddled figure.
Scarspainhurtscarsknifepainlightsharphurtmeysaumeysaumeysauscars.
A full half hour passed, curved and silent and sharp. Then, just as quickly, the lean form went limp, head falling back for wide golden eyes to stare at the stars fading in above. Ever so slowly, she stood again, picked up the marigold pot, and continued on her way.
What a strange place to pause and sit? Why would I do that? Strange. Abnormal.
Shaking her head, Isyarra Dorat'sike contined on her way to her apartment.
Jesus. Holy Jesu. Our father who art in heaven -
His mindthread! It had exploded! He'd been sinking claws gently into her, so that he could follow her to her apartment, and then - in the gathering dark, so dark, Icho loved the dark, Jesus Christ Almighty - something swelled up as he was moving along in the alleyway. He had fallen to his knees as the pain and the fear flooded him, the feelings more - ultimate - than anything he had ever managed to coax out of normal humans. It set him on fire, burned him hollow, killed and crucified him.
He'd never felt like that before. Riding the crest of all that agony, Icho had felt alive.
The Southerner leant against the brick wall of the alleyway, needing the damp coolness of it against his cheek as his mind reeled. For a moment, he spaced out, still breathing it in as the wave slowly diminished.
"Oh, princess," he panted. "Is that what you have hiding inside you?"
He'd lost the mindthread. Icho sent out hooks again, latching on easy; when he felt safe to walk, he stood up and set out again. This time, his mission was clear.
I want her.
Isyarra threw open her window after she set the small flowerpot with its precious cargo on the sill. Leaning out slightly, she inhaled deeply. The night air had a chill to it and an underlying scent of smoke. She loved that part of it; the smell of something burning smelled clean to her. Lights were scattered through the darkness, crisp against the dark night, and she smiled.
This smile was different than the ones at the museum or the ones at the restaurant or the ones shared elsewhere in the city; this smile was natural and real. It revealed too many white teeth, canines slightly pointed despite surgery, and her lips stretched back just the slightest bit too far. There was a sort of feral complacency in the smile. It was the smile that was the last thing a songbird saw before cat-jaws closed on it.
Tonight I will join the others and we will walk this city. We all have duties to do.
Shifting the plant further to one side, she moved to sit on the window sill, lit from behind by the room lamps. Perhaps she would mention today's encounter to someone. Miss Kellen might be able to explain why Icho behaved so. She was human... Though she did not seem comfortable if left alone with Isyarra. Another strange human trait, perhaps.
I shall sit here a bit longer, though. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply once more. Oh, the scent of ashes...
He crouched in the alleyway and fed, though it was unsatisfying tiny little licks of her head slow and subtle so that she couldn't feel. It was frustrating and wonderful all at once; he wanted to eat her, sink his teeth in deep, devour openly and have her gasp for the wonder of it all.
Icho let out a noiseless sigh, pressing his body against the cold stone in the darkness, nobody able to see him. He ached, outside and inside, burning up. Mmm. I haven't felt body-want like this for so long. All his thoughts were of Isabella, until his mouth watered for her, his eyes wept for her.
But he was too far away, and it was too dangerous and too unsatisfying to try to take from outside. He wanted her to know and enjoy it. He wanted to cuddle her long lean body as he tried to coax that thing out again, to taste the pain. Maybe she'd like it, too. Anybody with that much pain inside them had to know how beautiful it was.
The brunette dragged a fingernail across his stomach as his shirt rode up, leaving a red welt and a thin trickle of blood - his own bodypain against the reality of Isa's mind.
"I'm going to have you, honey," he murmured. "I'm not going to stop until I do. If it kills me, even. If it kills me I'll be glad to die that way. I promise, mockingbird, I'll never let you go."