#delxsive

        i’ll walk you home. the words echo somewhere within the doctor’s left hemisphere, bounce back towards the scholar with a slight narrowing of dark hues. forgive that inherent tendency to doubt the intentions of ANYONE within a 2-mile radius, it’s pathetically wired into her programming. of course ivy is accustomed to such offers, though perhaps not from someone so … peculiar.

         ❝ you’ll      WHY ? ❞ the words escape pale lips, rendering attempts to contain her thoughts ineffective. ivy draws back in with a slight smirk, the flashing of white canines proof of a brewing amusement. there’s a wall, a certain STONE persona built around the taller woman that stumps even ivory grimes. ❝ chivalrous of you, though i can assure you that i’m capable… ❞ despite futile attempts to stifle a chuckle from between ashen lips, ivy continues, ❝ unless you have a specific reason in mind ? ❞

        Joan is not overly surprised: Ivy Grimes is not unintelligent and she has every reason to hesitate. There is no basis of trust between them yet; Joan has not cultivated one. But human beings are by and large social animals, and roam in packs, and she knows from experience that a woman alone in a city in the dark will prefer to have a companion, even a half-stranger as Joan is, rather than be exposed to whatever the night holds.

        It’s one hell of a contrast of colors that paint statue-esque features. Where pigment completely drains from her eyes, it fills her cheeks with red hot emotion. Jaw clenches, tendons dancing in the hollows of cheekbones with each flex and grind of teeth. She isn’t mad, just a little slash a lot taken aback at the remarks of the woman who she’d chosen to (recently) lie her affections with. Though Ivy’s words were forged from inebriation, there was a certain harrowing truth to them. She knew, everyone knew, but there’s never been a spotlight directly shone onto her reputation as an educator. 

        Of 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒  to expect on 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐆𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐃𝐀𝐘 —                                                                                  this certainly wasn’t one of them.

   Joan knew something was 𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒  the moment she && her inmate were greeted with an empty chair where the doctor should have been. Ivory was far too careful a planner to lose track of time, far too wound to schedules, crucified to the hands of a clock ( much like Joan herself ) to simply 𝐀𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐎𝐍  a duty she was set to. Orders are barked to her Deputy — Take the prisoner back to her unit — Joan sets off on a search for the missing scholar.  She knows 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐑 of her prison, every unmarked && unsurveyed area, all the places one might go to 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋 or 𝐁𝐄  𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃. The Governor knows Ivory is too smart to get her hands dirty on such short notice, a dull panic makes itself known as a lump grows in her throat. Oh, God.  Long legs take her swiftly between each blindspot, diligent eyes scanning for any indication of murder. They flick to the cameras to see if they’ve been moved, over the walls && polished floors to find any hint, any clue, any sign of a 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇. Laboured breathing meets her ears, choked gasps && stifled sobs that beckon her to the end of a forgotten hallway. Joan expects the worst — a gash in the throat of the doctor, or perhaps a crudely made shiv 𝐖𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐃 between her ribs — What she finds, however, is hardly the 𝐒𝐀𝐕𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 to perhaps her most valuable ally ( ? ). It’s blatant 𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, a woman recoiled into memory, desperately trying to claw herself out.  

   𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐒, a momentary pause before the Governor snaps into action. Joan approaches with a sharp inhale; there’s a moment of reaching, then contact — 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐔𝐄 𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑 #𝟐.  A scuffle ensues: The thrashing of arms, bearing of teeth, a cacophony of grunts && shrieks, futile attempts from Joan to drag Ivy from her stupor. Ferguson is sure that at some point the heel of Ivy’s hand made contact with her jaw, some form of violent motion freeing strands from that meticulous bun, 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 her polished exterior. Still, her focus is 𝐔𝐍𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍. There is a task at hand, Joan will see it to completion. She is able to trap Ivy’s frame in her grasp with a swift motion akin to one that would be used to kill a pestering insect, her gaze searching for an indication that this 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 would soon pass. Eventually, the doctor’s breathing slows, Joan can see in Ivy’s eyes the clearing of the mental fog.  The two of them stand for a moment, chests heaving from the 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐈𝐄𝐃 battle for calm, before Grimes’ voice cuts through the silent standoff of 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 && 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐍.

   For a moment Joan can only 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐄, eyebrow cocked as her eyes move to take in every single detail of the broken doctor. Bloodshot eyes, the gentle tremble of the jaw, the reddened && torn skin that trails down beneath the neckline of her blazer, fingernails 𝐂𝐎𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 in crimson. Black returns to deep brown, there’s an exhaustion in Ivy’s eyes that cannot go unnoticed, but will go unmentioned.

   ❝ You were having some sort of … ❞   The Governor pauses, attempting to find a way to put what she’d witnessed in delicate terms.   ❝ … Episode. ❞   A sharp inhale.   ❝ Nevertheless, it’s over now. ❞   

   Joan forces a smile, ( a horribly awkward one, at that )  however fleeting.   ❝ You weren’t present for the inmate’s consult, I’d begun to think something … unfortunate had happened. We can’t have that, can we ? ❞

   It takes a moment to register that her fingertips are still 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 into Ivy’s triceps, the Governor releasing her grip to relocate it to the doctor’s wrists. She pulls Ivy’s hands towards her as 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐋𝐘 as she’s capable, observing the blood beneath her fingernails beginning to oxidize, the deep red staining the pale skin of those lithe digits.  

   ... No. This won’t do.  Expression unreadable, Joan speaks a soft demand:   ❝ Come with me. I’m going to get you cleaned up. ❞

last song: “Iron”- Within Temptation

currently reading:  Transfer of Power- Vince Flynn

currently watching: I have baseball on while I’m doing this.  But TV shows, The Blacklist is the only one I’m watching right now.  I don’t watch many TV shows.  

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘: @delxsive

❝ If I could go back to that day we met, I probably would just stay in bed . ❞  

        She knew the risks. She knew the bolded boundary lines set in place. She knew the protocol. Did she care? No. Yes. She half cared. She’d done the math, but it was difficult to follow along with the formulas her brain had been outputting when there were no less than nine hundred flashing lights that were accompanied by the noise of tornado-watch sirens going off on the switchboard inside her head. 

        Alana Bloom was the voice of reason in the midst of chaos. Alana Bloom was the textbook definition of a mediator during any and all arguments. Alana Bloom was the dose of tranquility in courtrooms and prison cells. Until energy shifts. Until she feels threatened. Until she’s backed into a corner. Until all things rational get ejected from her thoughts by manually smashing that red emergency-use-only button. Until she shows throat. 

        She’d expect it. The act of violence, the set of bare knuckles connecting with her face. She’d seen it coming, it’d been one of the outcomes spit out from her internal computer’s hard drive. However, it doesn’t prevent the wave of heat and salt that wells up behind blues depleted completely of color, a thunderstorm rolling in over the Sahara. 

        “It’s alright.” The strike itself packed a punch big enough to detach vital wires from her motherboard and fry the (already fraying) ends completely. Her spine was locked, as were the muscles that surrounded it. Torso was twisted in an awkward half-bent forward position while one arm remained outstretched to the side of folded legs, palm pressing flat against the cold floor she sat, her other arm lifting to sweep trembling fingers below her left eye to catch any runaway tears. “It’s not your fault,” she promises. “It was my case of poor judgement and neglect.”  And it’s nothing concealer couldn’t fix.