Room 512, Thursday Afternoon

[doesnotkneel]

Edward had barely cobbled together what had happened last week. The vast array of strange messages he had received yesterday had distracted him from that pursuit, however, and now it had largely fled his mind. Strange men came to Fandom, and did strange things, and that was apparently the way of the island.

So far, that made it a decent trade, at least for him.

Come Thursday afternoon, all concerns forgotten, he was back to his usual: sitting on his bed, practicing his reading while he chewed idly on a piece of bread he'd absconded with from the common room. His grasp of the letters was nearly so that he thought he could get a job on the island, which would greatly improve his fortunes. At the moment, though, it was all reading about naval battles and ships.

Not boats. Ships.

[[ door open, post open! ]]

Comments

[seveninchmotto]

"It's not that shocking," Isabelle told him after a moment, raising her eyebrows just a little. "You heard what I said about the guilt. It's not – I don't feel that for just anyone."

[doesnotkneel]

At this point in... well, everything... even Edward knew better than to interpret that as anything but friendly. He scratched the back of his head. "Sorry," he said. "You're right. I'm bloody special, I am."

[seveninchmotto]

And even though it was nothing but friendly, it still put him squarely in what was essentially only a two-person group of mundanes she cared about enough to consider the consequences of her actions.

With her, that was a lot.

"Yes, you are," she replied, and managed to inject some passing hint of amusement into her voice. Briefly. "And what I did was shitty."

[doesnotkneel]

"Yes, it was," Edward said. But now he was smirking a bit. "But 's all right. I mean, I got my rum back and then some."

[seveninchmotto]

"That doesn't make it all right." Not that she had any particular desire to publicly beat herself up about it for very long. That kind of thing just made her uncomfortable, and Isabelle Lightwood was not the type to willingly make herself uncomfortable for very long. "But the rum seems like a good start."

[doesnotkneel]

Edward let out a sigh.

"Bloody hell, woman," he said, "Are you going to make me forgive solemnly, now?"

[seveninchmotto]

"How else am I supposed to know when I can stop feeling bad about it?"

That was something closer to a joke. Go you, Isabelle.

[doesnotkneel]

"Nah, I reckon you should be feeling bad about it for the rest of your days," Edward declared, "But I will take the high road and call it settled."

[seveninchmotto]

Isabelle reached over and flicked him on the shoulder. It was more careful a gesture than it looked.

"Don't be a brat."

[doesnotkneel]

Edward didn't respond to it oddly, at least; he was feeling somewhat more comfortable around her again. "Just being earnest."

No, he was being a brat.

[seveninchmotto]

"It's indistinguishable from being a brat," Isabelle told him, in lieu of telling him how relieved she felt right now. Because no one needed to know that. "It really is."