shotgun diplomacy.

( Of course, it was the worship she lived for. It might nothing to Isolde that men fell to their knees for her at the Mockingbird. Because none of them were Regret, none of them mattered to her the way Regret did. And the satisfaction she received from making her husband drop to his knees for her wasn’t something that could be surpassed. Not even by a nation, ready and eager to kiss her feet. It came from the respect that she had for him. The strength that she had witnessed, centuries of it rummaging beneath the surface of his skin. Isolde knew that Regret has suffered. She could feel it sometimes. Whether he knew it or not, Isolde could feel that loss. She could feel that empty space that wavered inside of him. It was part of the reason why she did everything she could to tug him away from it. To show him that he was worthy of worship, he was worthy of being revered and adored. Her free hand cards through his hair, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. )

I know, darling. And I’m glad for that.

( It’s a quiet exchange. Her voice is rather hushed in such a large House as she leaned down to press a kiss to her husband’s forehead. She doesn’t mind the touches, the kisses to her hands. In the dim light, they look incredibly dainty and smile. Black nails filed down from their usual sharp angle. Her digits stretch slightly, a low hum rumbling in the back of her throat. She’s going to kiss him in a minute here.

Right now, she’s just enjoying holding him. Supporting him like she was supposed to. But Isolde paused for a minute to chew on her bottom lip, cheeks reddening. She’s embarrassed, about something. Clearly. )

[He's so aware of the worship that he gives her and in other ways entirely unaware. He does it simply because he thinks she deserves it, and occasionally to get himself out of trouble. Other times she asks and he forces her to react, because this is all about pushing boundaries. It's never been about anything else. Regret challenges her in ways only the two of them understand, and then he keeps challenging her. He doesn't just stop. He likes to keep her on her toes, and he likes to keep her focused on him. It is a little selfish, most definitely. But Isolde's just as selfish as he is sometimes, so the back and forth it was keeps them going. But he doesn't know that she can sometimes feel that hollowness right against his ribcage, simply settling there. Not quite. Regret, in some ways, is still unaware of how much Isolde understands. But he's becoming more aware as time goes on. He makes a quiet inadvertent noise as her fingers comb through his hair.]

I just love you to a truly terrible amount.

[They don't need to talk loudly. Even if they were across the House, there is something about the acoustics that changes the range that they can speak. Regret's certain it's the House's doing in itself, just making things easier for them. Which it ought to. It makes absolutely everything else more difficult. He presses careful kisses along her knuckles again and then he leans back. It's just another form of worship.

He pauses as she chews on her lip.]

( And this is solely the reason why she runs rabid all over the place. Mostly because no one feels the need to tell her to calm down. Why that is, we honestly don’t know. And if we somehow figured it out, well, that would just mess everything up, really. Isolde had come to terms with how deadly she can. With the fact that she could cause cities to crumble beneath a manicured hand. Probably would greatly enjoy witnessing it too. It helped that Regret loved her the most when she was violent. When she was gnawing and grasping, and ready to snap the Earth in half. Isolde had long stopped asking way — For a while. There was this gnawing feeling. Something in the back of her throat that bloomed and spilled a bitter taste onto her tongue. But she managed a smile, nestling it against his hair with a low hum. )

Well, thank you — darling. I do my best, generally. I like showing you how important you are to me.

( What Regret sometimes forgot or lacked in physical contact, Isolde made up for. And what she lacked in verbal affection, Regret made up for. It was that strange sort of balance, as well as the reason why she kissed him and touched him as much as she did. Deconstructing him and appreciating what sat before her was something Isolde knew that Regret needed. He needed to know that he wasn’t broken, or shredded, or ugly. Her arms draped haphazardly across his shoulders and chest, her hand coming up to brush her fingers over his cheek. )

[Regret loves watching her do exactly what she wants. He loves watching her tear people apart, something animalistic right at the edge of her skin. There is a very vocal part of him that wants to tear apart an entire city with her just because he can. Because it would make her smile. Because he could bring her close to him and explain that whatever part he had in this was really just in her name. They don't need temples because they have this, the act of destruction and annihilation. They have all the worship they need. But they can always get some more. The fact is that Regret would get on his knees for Isolde. If she asked right now, he'd move away from her and drop onto his knees like it was nothing, like it was second nature. He would never do this for anyone else.]

And I like being important to you, since you're just as important to me. Always.

[They balance each other out in all things. Even these two forms - Regret takes more from Isolde, Isolde takes more from him. Live with someone long enough and their influence will carefully crawl in underneath your skin, especially when one's influence is as alive as theirs is. Her arms drape over his shoulders and he reaches up to take her hand in his. Then he moves her hand over so he can press a few careful kisses along her knuckles.]

( that’s right. ) 

mhm. mhm. i see. 

it’s not. the only consolation i want is my front row seat when i see you two wearing what i designed for you at the wedding.

Well. You'll get it. Eventually. I can promise you that much. I don't have an estimated timeframe or anything, though.

I — wouldn’t complain. I rather enjoy it when you kiss me a lot.

( Even if the moments when he trapped her against the wall or her desk, and kissed her until her lungs ached for air. Kissing Regret seemed second nature to her now. One of those strange sort of habits that she couldn’t go more than a few hours without doing or she would become unfriendly, and irritable. The fact that they had a habit of making out like they were a couple of teenagers should have been a bit discerning, but all of their friends had given up on the PDA jokes and inappropriate comments. Mostly, everyone left them be. She’s being sure to use her fingertips instead of her nails, ghosting them over his skin as she traced muscle. It didn’t seem to bother her at all that he was mostly always chilled. Like sticking your hand in an incredibly empty freezer and allowing the cold air to seep up the length of your arm. Her palm slips up over his ribcage, a gentle hum as she buried her face underneath the curve of his jaw to breathe him in. )

And the feeling is mutual. I love you too, Regret. Very much.

( A lot more than she ever could have counted on, really. Isolde never expected to care for him this much. To the point where her heart swelled inside of her ribcage and didn’t seem to calm until she felt his touch. Over the past while they had been together, she had grown so — accustom to Regret. She couldn’t, and didn’t want to, imagine living without him. )

Thank you, darling. You really are too good to me.

Oh, we both know that.

[His statement isn't even mocking. It's quiet and warm and maybe just a little wry in tone. They do kiss very often, and neither of them are ever eager to stop kissing. Regret and Isolde have spent lazy afternoons curled up in bed, reading for a while and kissing occasionally in between. He lets her do whatever she likes, as per usual. He knows that she becomes irritable if he leaves for too long, and it has led to him spending an enormous amount of time with her. He's not stupid, though. He takes breaks. He goes in his office and does work or reads alone in the living room while she's out in the greenhouse. But it's always rewarding to greet her when she returns, to wrap his arms around her and pull her close in order to kiss her. She's not the only one who is terribly fond of doting on his partner in this room. He's just as weak and overly attentive as she is. Her hand presses against his ribcage and he smiles a little bit. His arm basically curves around her, practically encouraging the closeness.]

You're so beautiful. I would do anything for you. You know that, right?

[They had tried living without each other before. Isolde had been in Paris, Regret had remained in America, and they had both fallen apart just a little. Or a lot. They did not do well without each other. They become much worse people when they miss each other, so maybe the world ought to be happy that they are still together. That they didn't stay apart.]

You're welcome, love.

( the day of reckoning is upon regret. narcissism has returned. )

so, that tuxedo — where is my wedding invite ? did you even make a guest list ? are you even planning is this wedding ? i go on vacation for a little while and you’re just sitting around with your thumb up your ass after i put my blood, sweat, and tears into that get up. shame on you.

[Look who it is. Back from the not-so dead.]

Isolde and I have been very busy.

( The last time Isolde had seen this form, it almost seemed like the seams on it were loose. It was fraying, falling apart and blurring the line between what separated Regret from his true shelf. Of course, it moved like an animal but that was a contribution from her husband and not from the fact that the skin didn’t quite fit. Maybe that’s why she touched it so freely, because she couldn’t before.

He’s handsome like this but he’s always been handsome. She was so in love with him that something inside of her seemed to ache, scream. Like always, Isolde remains absolutely silent while he talks.

Thumb brushing along his throat and down over his collarbone. It’s an action that is meant to soothe. Her other hand rests itself on his hip, keeping him near in the greediest sense of the word. )

Regret. Christ.

( A low sound, but it’s far from one of disgust. Sharp features seem to warm and soften at their own place. Amber eyes drop down the body that stands in front of her, trying to fight the urge to take her hands away. It was weird to think that —

She was technically touching what was a corpse. What had been somebody else’s skin but Regret needed it more than they did. It did sound selfish, that she would never deny. She swallowed lightly, peering up at him. )

[That's a fairly apt observation. Regret picked up this form on the cusp of its death. Perhaps it was even dead for a single second or two. And dead tissue is much harder to heal than living tissue. Wounds set in. Wounds last. He has had multiple bullet wounds in thsi form and it shows. Unique scars that aren't on any other form of his. Isolde's going to see them sometime, even if he's still slightly uncomfortable with wearing this form around the House especially. He isn't sure how he's going to explain it.

He doesn't even like the explanation that h egives. He leaves out thep arts about death. He makes it sound like he simply picked up this body in its last moments, not its final moments. And there is a difference.

Regret does believe that the closeness helps him. Having her near comforts him a little. It makes it a little easier for him to say exactly what he has to instead of lying.]

It's not a particularly good war story. Not that there really are such things.

[Any war story that is good, any war story that has a moral - is also a lie. War is never particularly good or bad, not heroic or brutal. It simply is. This form simply is, with its flaws and its advantages and disadvantages. Its history and its disuse.

Regret's smile is struggling at her question.]

In a way, yes. There were a lot of things to fix. It was harder than usual.

how to become an angel of death:

conveniently enough, die.

( She hasn’t forgotten. The night he had told her that he would want to keep her here. And if there was anything Isolde had, it was a wild imagination. She could see it sometimes. Being trapped in the wall, beneath the floorboards. Whether or not the House would comply to such a thing would be up to debate. But with the way it enjoyed playing both sides of this relationship, it wouldn’t surprise her. Lucky for him, Isolde showed no signs of even considering leaving again. Even when they got on each other’s nerves, even when they came together as two hurricanes that could destroy everything in their path — That ring around her finger was there to stay. )

You spend so much of your time pampering me. You never let me return the favor.

( The pads of her thumbs shift upward to rub gently along the back of his  neck, rotating in those same slow circles. It would take a lot more than this to loosen all the knots in his back but even if she couldn’t do that, Isolde was just comforted to know that she could relax him in some way. )

[That statement was a lot more important. He tried to make it seem like it was in passing. Maybe it was bad phrasing. Maybe it was just a random statement with no real relevance. But it's true. He would keep her here if he caught her trying to leave again. He is not a kind person, even if he's kind to Isolde. He knows what he wants and she's convinced him that he ought to take it no matter the consequences. But no one can really blame Isolde for the possessiveness that he's holding in him like an animal. It's all him. It's all an innate part of his personality just made worse by divinity.]

I know. It's a fault of mine.

[He makes a quiet noise in his throat, not of pain, thankfully. All of him aches at some point during the day, mostly because he's old and maybe nothing was realy meant to live this long. This i why he appreciates Isolde.]

Too late for that.