Apathy
Oct 4, 2018 13:45:13 GMT -8
Post by aabria on Oct 4, 2018 13:45:13 GMT -8
Driving from the university with Edison in tow was as different from the trip there as night was from day. The darkness that covered the professor was oppressive, even palpable; she watched him wrestle with it from the corner of her eye. She could try to say something to pull him from his reverie - a rare moment of compassion and connection from a woman famous for her apathy - but no. He needed to struggle with this on his own.
She smoothed the twitch of a snarl in her lip. Here, in this private space, in Edison’s moment of crisis, Faïza could only summon up contempt. She seethed internally just thinking about the 3 other members of this little cabal. Though they finally seemed to understand the magnitude of the threat they faced, it rankled to know that it took such personal stakes to win them over to the truth. She knew full well how unfair this line of thinking was, but there was no helping the way she felt.
She looked over at Edison, boyishly handsome features blurred further by the crimson of the stop light. He might as well have been on another planet for all the attention he paid her. She felt the immense distance between them and considered that they were never truly close to begin with. Everything she knew of him came from the data compiled for his dossier: a mother dead by her own hands, an elder brother deceased as a casualty of Division X’s Thames House bombing. PhDs, papers, prestige.
Ah, but he plays the violin beautifully.
The errant thought crept in, and with it came the remembrance of how the warm wood and candlelight of the conservatory made his pale complexion quite lovely. She remembered a hundred little microexpressions that belied his well-learned British stoicism. She recalled his unabashed fondness for the hunting dogs at Carclew, and the subtle scent of sandalwood and smoke that lingered in his clothing when she rolled his sleeves up at the Faltering Fullback. Perhaps Faïza knew Edison better than expected, but she had no idea what to do with him in this fugue state.
He was so very much like the roiling nightmarish mass he’d loading into the trunk: barely contained, frightening in its terrible potential, and too close to Faïza for her own comfort. The urge came once again to say something comforting to Edison. Again, she buried it. Something incredibly dark and violent within her wanted to see the real Edison unleashed upon their enemies. There was a fight coming, and soon. Traumatized and heartbroken though he might be, this was the Edison Cornwall III that Faïza wanted fighting by her side.
She smoothed the twitch of a snarl in her lip. Here, in this private space, in Edison’s moment of crisis, Faïza could only summon up contempt. She seethed internally just thinking about the 3 other members of this little cabal. Though they finally seemed to understand the magnitude of the threat they faced, it rankled to know that it took such personal stakes to win them over to the truth. She knew full well how unfair this line of thinking was, but there was no helping the way she felt.
She looked over at Edison, boyishly handsome features blurred further by the crimson of the stop light. He might as well have been on another planet for all the attention he paid her. She felt the immense distance between them and considered that they were never truly close to begin with. Everything she knew of him came from the data compiled for his dossier: a mother dead by her own hands, an elder brother deceased as a casualty of Division X’s Thames House bombing. PhDs, papers, prestige.
Ah, but he plays the violin beautifully.
The errant thought crept in, and with it came the remembrance of how the warm wood and candlelight of the conservatory made his pale complexion quite lovely. She remembered a hundred little microexpressions that belied his well-learned British stoicism. She recalled his unabashed fondness for the hunting dogs at Carclew, and the subtle scent of sandalwood and smoke that lingered in his clothing when she rolled his sleeves up at the Faltering Fullback. Perhaps Faïza knew Edison better than expected, but she had no idea what to do with him in this fugue state.
He was so very much like the roiling nightmarish mass he’d loading into the trunk: barely contained, frightening in its terrible potential, and too close to Faïza for her own comfort. The urge came once again to say something comforting to Edison. Again, she buried it. Something incredibly dark and violent within her wanted to see the real Edison unleashed upon their enemies. There was a fight coming, and soon. Traumatized and heartbroken though he might be, this was the Edison Cornwall III that Faïza wanted fighting by her side.