taxonomites | 003. (visual) a list of the qualities a good girl lacks

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003. (visual) a list of the qualities a good girl lacks

"Hello, Taxon."

Leila greets anyone paying attention out there with a small smile, seated as she is on a grassy section in the forest, several paces away from the greenhouse Sol (and now Ambrose) has occupied, though it's not quite in view, thus making her location more difficult to distinguish. She's sleeveless, today, which means much of her white ink clockwork tattoo is exposed; she's proud of it, so she sees no reason not to show it off.

"So," she begins, "I've been wondering a few things: why do you think so many people here come from the same world? It's overwhelmingly dominated by people from Earth, and it seems to primarily be modern-day Earth, at that.

"Many of us seem to speak the same common language- our captors' idea of convenience, possibly? English isn't my first language, but I'm fluent enough in it. The relatively low level of apparent ethnic diversity can be rationalized, but if we're really all abducted by aliens, they certainly seem to have their preferences when it comes to targets, don't they? I don't have any answers here, but I'm certain I'm not the only one still asking questions. Maybe between us some sort of conclusion can be reached, eventually, and with data we can make progress- I'm aware by now I'm not the only scientist present, but if anyone else I have yet to meet happens to fall into the same profession, please introduce yourselves. I'm listening."

She's not going to admit she's the youngest researcher in her group at home and probably here, too, and thus knows the expertise of others is necessary, but she is aware, at least. This is followed by a careful, considering pause; Leila's been very detachedly amiable up to this point, and avoided being too technical, by her own standards, but now her tone changes to something cooler and more controlled, which in her is generally a tough-skinned cover for guardedness.

"Oh. One more thing. These glitches that people experience. How long do they usually last?"

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The briefly speculative look that he gives her is crushed fairly quickly underneath a kind of impassiveness that Sol couldn't hope to match. (He didn't hone it under torture.) Just because he shared something with Sanchari once doesn't make it a good idea to forget that he's not the only one here who only sees someone else in the wrong skin. And so: "I don't need another scolding for wandering too far out from under your eye," he lies, amiably, as if he is not at all conspiring to ... wander out from under her eye again.

He feels the scolding was implied last time, at the very least.

"Well, we can go out there if you want," she offers, blithely, arms extended as she walks the length of the log, half-watching Ambrose from underneath her eyelashes.

"That way, no scolding. Unless you provoke me on purpose."

Damn it.

"I'm not by nature a provocative man." Apparently he's not finished lying through his teeth, then.

...she's still laughing at him when she slips off her newfound perch to wander in the direction of the waterfalls. Apparently she feels it requires no actual verbalization, just an incredulous scoff and knowing laughter.

As he follows her - audibly, if archaically, cursing - he considers philosophically that some things have plainly failed to change. Bedamned moon-touched woman.

"My, my. What would you do if I said I was scandalized at your language, Ambrose?" She carries her books and tablet with her, tucked to her chest like a schoolgirl--absent-mindedly gamine. If she knew, she'd probably stop.

To call the suggestion Ambrose makes at this point 'improper' does his creativity a shameful disservice. He may be several shades closer to the savage than his later incarnation, but goodness if he isn't eloquent when he wants to be.

He pauses, blows his hair out of his face, and considers that he actually feels slightly better. Just for now, shaking his head ruefully at her.

"Now that sounds like a challenge to me," she says, feigning great thoughtfulness as they reach the water's edge.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes," he agrees, looking away to the water belatedly. She probably won't have time to call him on that; there was only one reason, after all, that Ambrose has been wanting to slip away here. It might not be the best idea he's ever had (the weather is still chilly, he's far from in the best of health), but he doesn't want to go back without this. Not when it's within his reach.

That thought in mind, he purposefully begins to undress. He's not walking back to the house in cold, wet clothes.

"--wait, what are you--"

It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out, even though she technically qualifies as one.

"Ambrose, the water must be freezing." An exaggeration, but she does think it serves as a mild health risk. She knows that look on his face, though, so even as she lodges her objections she's resigning herself to the fact that he's going to actually do this.

"Now or never," he trades back mercilessly (self-flagellation isn't a strictly Catholic concept, and now of all times he really wouldn't appreciate the comparison), dropping his pants with his shirt on the grass by her feet. "You can scold me for it later."

"Well."

She gives him a defiant little look and sets her books and tablet down on the ground, kicking off her heels and following suit, since she is also disinclined to wander the woods in waterlogged clothing. This is, apparently, all the description her plan of action needs--the visual aide kind.

He wonders - not for the first time, note that - if it's some kind of particular knack of hers he's never managed to divine a cause for, this ability to defy him even when he hasn't actually told her what he doesn't want her to do.

...he does have one question, though.

"Were those his idea?" he asks, before he slides into the water, with a gesture at her tattoos.

"No," she says, mildly puzzled, "I've had most of these for a long time."

Leila supposes they look pretty strange to him, though, and stands on the side of the water for a moment longer, fussing with her hair. "What do you make of them?"

"They reminded me of something else is all," he settles on, committing the designs (that he can see) to memory and turning his gaze onto the waterfall they're nearest. The puzzlement is obvious (and interesting), but instead of explaining himself he pretends not to have a proper explanation at all. "They suit you."

"Well, thank you."

The tables, they have turned, and even Leila is wryly aware of it; he's the one pulling away from her, and she keeps pushing closer for all sorts of reasons. In fairness, most of them have nothing to do with her own emotional vulnerability, but it's certainly a taste of her own medicine.

She eyes the water, sighs, and says, "I hope this is not as cold as it looks."

In she goes.

The water is exactly as cold as it looks, not that Ambrose seems to be letting that concern him. He dives beneath it the surface as much to clear his head as anything else, and emerges pulling his hands through his hair, finding the bottom with his feet.

Parts of him that Sol gives like breathing are more locked away in Ambrose, and some of that isn't even the situation - some of that is just Ambrose himself, the way that he is and the way that he was before. (Everything is 'before' and the line is drawn in smoke.) He'd be vaguely amused if he realized, but instead he's marking time until her nails sink past his self-control.

All the same, he's joyous in the most raw way when he tells her, "I missed this."

Joie de vivre is something Leila admires enormously in people, and Sol--or Ambrose--expresses it in such a way that it's always clear to her, always fascinating to watch. She studies him with a small smile, dark eyes lit up in as much as they can be, and says, "It suits you."

In a deliberate echo of what he said to her a few moments ago. Leila sinks under the water, hoping getting thoroughly into it will help her adjust to the temperature; when she comes back up she slides her hands through her hair, too, and tips herself easily into a backfloat, eyes closed.

Here, where he can ignore almost all traces of where they are and what that means, Ambrose sinks into the experience like he's willingly drowning in it. In this place, in this time, where there's no one to witness it but Leila - and he half lets himself believe it's a dream over the alternative.

He's a dead man borrowing someone else's lungs with which to breathe, but for a moment or two drifting in the water, he lets himself forget.

(Almost he can hear Django splashing in the shallows. Almost.)

She thinks to herself that if this gives him even a few moments of peace, she'll let this go on longer than she probably should. Her thoughts are swiftly interrupted, though; Leila inhales sharply, at one point, and straightens up in the water--and then she laughs, shaking her head.

"I think," she tells Ambrose, swimming toward him, "I'm not as used to this as I should be. Plant life is now startling me."

(...he's allowed to troll her, she deserves it.)

"It wants to know what you're doing in its space," he declares without opening his eyes where he's floating himself; the fact he didn't notice until she swum over and knows nothing about the wants of anyone but himself right now is irrelevant, of course he's trolling her.

"I'm following around a crazy man who doesn't seem to mind freezing," she says, reaching out to give his hip a gentle little push, "isn't it obvious?"

"There's worse things in the world than a bit of cold," Ambrose says, his tone lighter than the subtext he can't quite escape. Reminders edge around everything he says, whether he intends it or not. He nudges her back, though, opening his eyes.

"No, I think you have an unfair advantage. Men are like furnaces, you have much more body heat. I'm a scientist, I know these things." Her tone has that edge of haughty bossiness it gets sometimes when she's being entirely self-aware about her own tendencies, and therefore is putting it on intentionally.

She nudges him again, harder this time.

...after a thoughtful pause, Ambrose doesn't answer but rather disappears underneath the water - his hand wraps around her ankle from beneath, thin-fingered and not up to what's either his or Sol's usual strength but not without enough force in him to yank.

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