boobytraps | prismatica

( Isabela scoffs, fingers fiddling with a loose thread of fabric on the arm of her chair. )

Can you blame them? They've a roof over their heads, full bellies, easy coin...

( People have given up their freedoms for less, she thinks, but that's a slippery slope to a difficult discussion that she doesn't feel like having right now, if ever.

Isabela herself had been charmed by this place when she had first arrived, so desperate she had been to escape the troubles that had haunted her in Kirkwall.

Now, though...

The city is too small, the countryside too desolate, the seas too uncharted.

It leaves her feeling trapped.

It leaves her wanting to change the subject.

So, she asks instead: )

Who's this decent man you've met?

[Of course he can blame them, and his expression says that plainly. He can blame them entirely, and does, but he won't pick a fight right now. Later, maybe, when the shock of seeing her has worn off, but he'll keep the peace now.]

His name is Lorenz.

[He's a dork. He's sweet. He's noble. Fenris will refuse to say any of these things, save perhaps that last point.]

He's . . .

Kind. Despite his occasional ridiculousness.

( She, too, is grateful that Fenris isn't in the mood to argue. They'll never see eye-to-eye on everything, but there's a time and a place for such discussions.

Isabela can't help but huff with amusement at her friend's explanation. )

Don't tell me you're growing soft.

I enjoy the company of one man and I've grown soft?

[Drawled out, and he settles back, a little more at ease now that they're in familiar territory. It's a mistake, because it means he relaxes enough to forget some aspects of the situation. Isabela doesn't look that different, after all, and it's easy to forget she's not the same woman he'd known. To wit:]

Don't tell me you're jealous.

[Because they were sleeping together, back when and where he was from. Because it was so casual that the thought of jealousy was laughable, and they've teased each other like that before. But this isn't his Isabela, and that's a hell of a thing to say to someone who knows you only platonically.

He wrinkles his nose.]

Anyway. He's heard stories of you. I think he's a bit stunned you're really a pirate, frankly.

( Well. There's certainly a lot to unpack here, and although Isabela enjoys digging for buried treasure she finds serious topics and thoughtful discussions of little value. She can find herself tensing further and forces herself to relax; there's no reason to be bracing for a fight when she knows she won't find one here.

Not with a friend. Not with Fenris.

With all the casualness she can muster, she replies: )

Oh, I get that a lot. You won't believe how many people believe all of the stereotypes.

( Peg legs and eyepatches, please. She considers herself competent enough to not lose any of her body parts.

Her mind, however, keeps spinning back to Fenris's earlier comment, and she can't help but ask: )

Jealous? Why would I be jealous? If anything, I'm flattered you're talking about me.

[Hmm. He wrinkles his nose, looking a little uncertain.]

It was a poorly worded joke.

[Should he tell her? There's no real reason not to, beyond some potential awkwardness-- but awkwardness is better than keeping it a secret.]

When you returned to Kirkwall, we slept together for a time.

[So, the joke being: don't tell me you're jealous I'm sleeping with someone else, which in retrospect isn't much of a joke, but whatever.]

( If Isabela's surprised by the revelation, she doesn't show it; if anything, she seems intrigued by the prospect. )

Did we. I'm sorry I can't remember it.

( A thoughtful pause. )

I thought you were with Hawke.

( Or is this just one of the any number of things that varied across timelines and realities? )

Hawke--?

[The notion is foreign to him, clearly, and he wrinkles his nose.]

I certainly would not object, [or at least wouldn't have a few years ago] but no. She was preoccupied by the witch.

( Isabela cants her head to one side. )

Merrill?

( It's an interesting coupling when she thinks about it, but if she's to truly reflect, she can see how it might work.

The absurdity of it all makes her laugh. )

I wonder how many versions of us there are out there.

At least four, from the sounds of it.

[Which is an unnerving thought, frankly.]

I suppose it doesn't matter.

[He stands, not to leave but simply to pace. It's easier to move around when he's feeling uncertain, as though he can somehow work the feeling out that way. There's silence, save for the rough sound of his footsteps-- and then he says quietly:]

Isabela.

[He doesn't look at her, because that might just be a mistake. They're both very private people, after all, just in vastly different ways. Hers is far more subtle.]

Are you all right?

( Isabela doesn't look at him either. Draws her knees up to her chest instead. Inhales. Evades. )

I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?

( She misses the sea, the scent of salt water in her nostrils, the breeze running through her hair.

She misses being free.

Drawing another deep breath, she finally turns her head to gaze upon him, watch him pace across the floor of her living room.

She might not know how to answer, but she's glad he asked.

She's glad he asked.

The thought spills out of her before she can quite stop herself. )

Thank you.

[She's not fine, and neither is he. Perhaps that was a foolish question, he thinks-- but when she murmurs that, he freezes.

All right. All right, then, and he turns. She's curled up in on herself, but staring at him, and that more than anything assures him.]

Always.

[It's a simple statement, but he meets her eyes as he says it, trying to convey just how much he means it. How much she means to him, frankly, but of course she does. You can only spend so many years fighting with someone, talking to someone, spending evenings in a bar and swapping stories and bleeding together and simply existing before a bond is formed.

It's why Anders' betrayal stings so badly (among a thousand other reasons, some far more valid than others). It's why he's still angry about it.

But ah, Anders is a conversation for another time. For now: Isabela, and he crosses the room, his hand setting on her shoulder with deliberate intent.]

( There are so many things she could say, but when Fenris crosses the room and places his hand upon her shoulder, Isabela falls silent, unable to think of anything to say, which is rare enough for her to be unusual.

After several moments pass and she grows increasingly uncomfortable with the quiet, she raises her own hand to meet Fenris's, reveling in the warm and the Chroma and a different sort of intimacy than what she's used to, what she'd been indulging in ever since arriving in Lunatia and before.

There is something to be said about comfort from an old friend. )

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