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After a private, intimate celebration of Arthur's birthday on the 19th, and also a celebration of the recovery of her memories, by the following week, Joan felt confident enough to do some light socializing. Rather than Annie and Auggie who were still tense, and Toly and Lex who had their own amnesia-related issues still to work out, Joan invites Nick and Dairine to join them again. The first meal had been pleasant, both she and Arthur entertained and Dairine and Nick seemed to enjoy it as well.
Tonight, Joan opts for a more traditionally American summer meal than last time, as close as she can get. Boar ribs with a pineapple-soy glaze. Baked french fries. Potato salad with celery and a mustard mayonnaise made from some ancient mustard seeds she found in the kitchen pantry. Strawberry-rhubarb pie and some (plain, thank you) vanilla ice cream from Delirium. A few of John's sodas, beer, and water, coffee for later. It takes all day, but it's a pleasant sort of labor, one she enjoys.
She's just setting flowers from her garden, brightly colored snapdragons in a vase on the table when there's a knock at the door. "Arthur, love, will you get that? It's probably Nick and Dairine."
[ooc: Order is Joan, Arthur, Nick, Dari unless we email otherwise.]
Tonight, Joan opts for a more traditionally American summer meal than last time, as close as she can get. Boar ribs with a pineapple-soy glaze. Baked french fries. Potato salad with celery and a mustard mayonnaise made from some ancient mustard seeds she found in the kitchen pantry. Strawberry-rhubarb pie and some (plain, thank you) vanilla ice cream from Delirium. A few of John's sodas, beer, and water, coffee for later. It takes all day, but it's a pleasant sort of labor, one she enjoys.
She's just setting flowers from her garden, brightly colored snapdragons in a vase on the table when there's a knock at the door. "Arthur, love, will you get that? It's probably Nick and Dairine."
[ooc: Order is Joan, Arthur, Nick, Dari unless we email otherwise.]
July: Operation: Loose Threads
Aug. 18th, 2012 01:58 pmOver the month of July, Joan's amnesia takes a toll on her and Arthur both. Warning: may trigger for sensitivity to Alzheimer's and dementia.
( Arthur was worried, not that Joan wouldn't come out of it, that was a given knowing how the island seemed to work, but he didn't like that Joan seemed to be regressing further back in her amnesia. It was normal in Alzheimer's patients to regress to another time, but it wasn't typical of amnesia patients and Joan seemed to be having classic signs of both. )
( Arthur was worried, not that Joan wouldn't come out of it, that was a given knowing how the island seemed to work, but he didn't like that Joan seemed to be regressing further back in her amnesia. It was normal in Alzheimer's patients to regress to another time, but it wasn't typical of amnesia patients and Joan seemed to be having classic signs of both. )
July 9-20: Operation: Sundowner
Jul. 7th, 2012 10:32 am( the first time )
****
( it happens again )
****
( ebbing and flowing )
[ooc: find Joan anywhere on the island, any time between now and let's say the twentieth of July. Things she does regularly: her classes, cooking in her kitchen or the main one especially when she's stressed, laundry (and if you want to tag her off the laundry scene here email me because I only want one), drink coffee and read off her laptop, run in the mornings, yoga at night, help Matt with the garden he's putting in, wandering aimlessly looking for her targets. If you need a specific date/date-range, let me know. And if you want her without amnesia on one of the raw days, let me know that too. I'll decide what she does or doesn't remember for your thread. If you want to discuss in advance, drop me an email at technosagery @ gmail and I'll get right on it.]
****
( it happens again )
****
( ebbing and flowing )
[ooc: find Joan anywhere on the island, any time between now and let's say the twentieth of July. Things she does regularly: her classes, cooking in her kitchen or the main one especially when she's stressed, laundry (and if you want to tag her off the laundry scene here email me because I only want one), drink coffee and read off her laptop, run in the mornings, yoga at night, help Matt with the garden he's putting in, wandering aimlessly looking for her targets. If you need a specific date/date-range, let me know. And if you want her without amnesia on one of the raw days, let me know that too. I'll decide what she does or doesn't remember for your thread. If you want to discuss in advance, drop me an email at technosagery @ gmail and I'll get right on it.]
As they'd agreed what seems like ages ago, Annie and Auggie, arrive with coffee and dessert. They're on time almost to the minute, which makes Joan laugh as she opens the door to let them in. Arthur has acquired, by what means she doesn't ask, a bottle of Merlot from Rapture to go with the boar tenderloin with a pineapple-mango marinade and wild mushroom risotto and lightly dressed field greens Joan's managed to pull together for dinner. And Matt and Emily have, at Joan's polite request, gone out for the evening.
Once everything's put in the kitchen and Annie and Auggie have been shown around (Annie for her to see the place and Auggie for his comfort and convenience), Joan sets a match to the last candle and directs Arthur, who is standing indecently close behind her for the company they're keeping, but she can hardly mind, since he's also holding her hair out of the flame, to "Get the vodka out of the cooler, Arthur, will you?" To her operatives, she explains, "We should talk before dinner," and tosses them both an amused smile. "--In case Emily and Matt return early. I do trust them to keep our confidences, but there's no sense tempting fate."
[ooc: order is Joan, Arthur, Annie, Auggie.]
Once everything's put in the kitchen and Annie and Auggie have been shown around (Annie for her to see the place and Auggie for his comfort and convenience), Joan sets a match to the last candle and directs Arthur, who is standing indecently close behind her for the company they're keeping, but she can hardly mind, since he's also holding her hair out of the flame, to "Get the vodka out of the cooler, Arthur, will you?" To her operatives, she explains, "We should talk before dinner," and tosses them both an amused smile. "--In case Emily and Matt return early. I do trust them to keep our confidences, but there's no sense tempting fate."
[ooc: order is Joan, Arthur, Annie, Auggie.]
[For Arthur] Operation: Empty Nest
Jun. 3rd, 2012 10:01 pmThe walk back from the new aquarium is long and filled mostly with restless silence, the kind they've not shared since Arthur's arrival on the island, but long familiar to both of them. It's not, ultimately, an uncomfortable silence, not with Joan's fingers laced with his - far more unfamiliar to both of them than the silence itself, simply one where words and emotions won't align and brush up against each other looking for the way out.
It persists until they're home, and thankfully Emily and Matt seem still to be out. Joan inclines her head to the bedroom, and when Arthur nods, she finally breaks the silence to say, "I'll pour us a drink." That will, also out of long habit, tell her husband she means to retreat to the bedroom for private conversation rather than sex, although that, too, is very much on her mind.
Never more so than lately, after her conversation with Emily on the night of Matt's arrival. She supposes - as Arthur smiles his fond approval and she retrieves glasses from the bar to pour two glasses of fume blanc and decides to bring the bottle - she has been very fortunate in that regard. Their sex life has always been passion-filled and mutually satisfactory.
Retreating to the bedroom herself, Joan hooks the door on her heel and pulls it shut. She hands Arthur his glass as she perches her hip on the chair they've brought in. It's not like the study at home, but it functions the same way. An intermediate place between their public lives and their intimate one, where they can talk and ease their way back to lovers from coworkers. Here, though, it's different, isn't it? Since she brought up the most intimate of topics in a public place and now they've still got so much to say to each other.
It takes her several minutes to find the thread of her thoughts from earlier and her free hand trails to play idly with the buttons of the dress shirt he insists upon wearing even here (and she rarely argues, since he's a handsome man and she's more than a little vain about how they look together) while she thinks. "You must think I'm a harpy and that I don't trust you at all," she says finally, somewhat reluctantly.
It persists until they're home, and thankfully Emily and Matt seem still to be out. Joan inclines her head to the bedroom, and when Arthur nods, she finally breaks the silence to say, "I'll pour us a drink." That will, also out of long habit, tell her husband she means to retreat to the bedroom for private conversation rather than sex, although that, too, is very much on her mind.
Never more so than lately, after her conversation with Emily on the night of Matt's arrival. She supposes - as Arthur smiles his fond approval and she retrieves glasses from the bar to pour two glasses of fume blanc and decides to bring the bottle - she has been very fortunate in that regard. Their sex life has always been passion-filled and mutually satisfactory.
Retreating to the bedroom herself, Joan hooks the door on her heel and pulls it shut. She hands Arthur his glass as she perches her hip on the chair they've brought in. It's not like the study at home, but it functions the same way. An intermediate place between their public lives and their intimate one, where they can talk and ease their way back to lovers from coworkers. Here, though, it's different, isn't it? Since she brought up the most intimate of topics in a public place and now they've still got so much to say to each other.
It takes her several minutes to find the thread of her thoughts from earlier and her free hand trails to play idly with the buttons of the dress shirt he insists upon wearing even here (and she rarely argues, since he's a handsome man and she's more than a little vain about how they look together) while she thinks. "You must think I'm a harpy and that I don't trust you at all," she says finally, somewhat reluctantly.
Still unsettled from yesterday's conversation with Arthur, Joan turns to what has become one of her more pleasant distractions on the island. Cooking. It should, she supposes as she sorts through the ingredients to see what she can make of them, irritate her to be cooking for not one but two grown adults - one of whom thinks help in the kitchen means kiss the back of her neck until she's too weak in the knees to carry on without a trip to the bedroom, and the other of whom can practically char meat just by looking at it. Yet, it doesn't bother her at all. Instead she finds solace in learning how to combine tropical fruits and spices with whatever meat, fish or fowl the market will supply. It doesn't begin to take the place of the life she misses, but it is something she would have liked to have more time for at home. Ideally. On the bucket list, perhaps, or if she had double the amount of time in a day that she'd had.
Tonight she is making pineapple fried rice with boar sausage and experimenting with shrimp potstickers. The house smells of a papaya-mango reduction and ginger, and she's singing (eighties music always seems to come to mind at times like these; today it's the inexcusably terrible mall music of her teen years) quietly to herself while she stirs basil into her rice.
Tonight she is making pineapple fried rice with boar sausage and experimenting with shrimp potstickers. The house smells of a papaya-mango reduction and ginger, and she's singing (eighties music always seems to come to mind at times like these; today it's the inexcusably terrible mall music of her teen years) quietly to herself while she stirs basil into her rice.
[For Arthur] Operation: Open Window
May. 8th, 2012 07:14 pmJoan's mind wheels over her conversation of the morning, even though it's not a topic she's raised with Arthur yet. No, at the moment, she and her husband are acting quite the opposite of their ages, having an early afternoon picnic on a blanket the grass by the reflecting pool. She sips the chilled fruit wine they drink in the afternoons rather than wasting the branded alcohol the island saw fit to provide her and when Arthur slips his hand into her hair to try to drag her in for a kiss, she raises her bare foot up to toe him in the thigh.
"Behave, Arthur," she says mildly, but her eyes are lit with a smile that promises a very good night for them later. "There's no name for the color Emily will turn if she catches us making out like teenagers."
"Behave, Arthur," she says mildly, but her eyes are lit with a smile that promises a very good night for them later. "There's no name for the color Emily will turn if she catches us making out like teenagers."
It's interesting, Joan thinks, the way that democracy works on the island. If she were more inclined to political philosophy, it would make a fascinating case study. Yet, she is an analyst and field agent, a protector by training and temperament, not a lawmaker. The two coincide in a place like this, however, and since Helen's suggestion she might want to run for Council and Arthur's arrival, Joan has begun to pay closer attention to where her skills - both covert and her operational cover's - might best be put to use.
She's been working with Dairine to collate data, protect against human resource loss and skills drift, and she's on her way to lunch after one such session when she notes the Council nominations have grown. One name in particular catches her attention. Dale Cooper. The head of the IBI, which she has, of course, made herself aware of, but avoided very carefully. It's the note that he's been there forever that changes her mind. There are things she needs to know, and someone from a sister agency may be able to help.
Which is how she ends up knocking on the IBI office door that late morning. "Excuse me," she says with her usual polite reserve. "Is Dale Cooper in? I'd like to speak to him."
She's been working with Dairine to collate data, protect against human resource loss and skills drift, and she's on her way to lunch after one such session when she notes the Council nominations have grown. One name in particular catches her attention. Dale Cooper. The head of the IBI, which she has, of course, made herself aware of, but avoided very carefully. It's the note that he's been there forever that changes her mind. There are things she needs to know, and someone from a sister agency may be able to help.
Which is how she ends up knocking on the IBI office door that late morning. "Excuse me," she says with her usual polite reserve. "Is Dale Cooper in? I'd like to speak to him."
[For Emily, Arthur] Operation: Homecoming
Mar. 28th, 2012 09:08 pmThe sun's setting over the ocean by the time Joan and Arthur emerge from the bedroom. The drink they had before they adjourned had long since been metabolized or sweated out, and the frost-covered walls of Joan's self-defenses have melted and fallen completely. He's back in his slacks and shirt, because they haven't been to the Compound yet, and she's wearing one of her lighter weight dresses in place of the negligee and silk robe she'd wear at home, but she's still draped over his lap, arm around his shoulders. Both of them have fresh drinks in their hands and they're talking, finally, about the island and Joan's life here.
She smiles, breathing deeply, and brushes his bangs off his forehead. It feels like the first full breath she's taken since she got here. "Emily should be home soon," she says, but Joan's not interested in moving off his lap. "Try not to scandalize her too much?" There hasn't been time to tell him very much of anything, but that's all right. It will do well to break the ice.
She smiles, breathing deeply, and brushes his bangs off his forehead. It feels like the first full breath she's taken since she got here. "Emily should be home soon," she says, but Joan's not interested in moving off his lap. "Try not to scandalize her too much?" There hasn't been time to tell him very much of anything, but that's all right. It will do well to break the ice.
Operation: Lonely Heart
Feb. 15th, 2012 06:45 pmThe island or its masters has, in its infinite reach if not wisdom, seen fit to provide Joan with a wet bar, well stocked with single malts, gin, vodka, vermouth, crisp Chardonnays, light Pinot Grigios and a few excellent bottles of Opus One and two bottles of Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque that she promptly pushed to the back of the cabinet to keep for some very special day. That she can't imagine what might constitute such a day here on the island, unless Annie and Auggie, or Emily and someone, get engaged or married, matters not at all. She doesn't want the regular reminder of the person she most wants to appreciate them with.
The single malt she pours tonight is reminder enough, as is the fact she's brought an additional empty glass and the bottle, down out of the hut she shares with Emily onto the rocky outcropping on the beach. The moon is up, the breeze is warm, and her bare feet curl against the rock from beneath the gauzy empire waist rose dress she wears.
Joan's not usually given to flights of fancy. She's not poetic by nature, not in the flowery romantic sense, even if she has a private love of poetics compliments of David Bowie, Sting, and their ilk. But tonight, she has it in her to hope that, somehow, by breeze or moonlight on water or the call of the soul, her husband hears the call of an empty Scotch glass waiting for him. "I miss you, Arthur," she says softly with a sigh, then drinks and wishes she were romantic enough to believe he might be summoned as simply as Elijah.
The single malt she pours tonight is reminder enough, as is the fact she's brought an additional empty glass and the bottle, down out of the hut she shares with Emily onto the rocky outcropping on the beach. The moon is up, the breeze is warm, and her bare feet curl against the rock from beneath the gauzy empire waist rose dress she wears.
Joan's not usually given to flights of fancy. She's not poetic by nature, not in the flowery romantic sense, even if she has a private love of poetics compliments of David Bowie, Sting, and their ilk. But tonight, she has it in her to hope that, somehow, by breeze or moonlight on water or the call of the soul, her husband hears the call of an empty Scotch glass waiting for him. "I miss you, Arthur," she says softly with a sigh, then drinks and wishes she were romantic enough to believe he might be summoned as simply as Elijah.
After the incident with the dinosaurs that Emily identifies as hadrosaurs (territorial herbivores who wanted them away from their water source as Joan had guessed), they take a few minutes to check each other over for injuries. Joan is careful not to know too much field medicine and what she does know, she passes off as a legacy of World Bank training for working in troubled areas. Emily seems to accept it and when they've determined they've suffered no worse than fresh bruises, scrapes, and bumps, they continue moving south, a little slower than before but still with all due speed. Morning is coming quickly and Emily doesn't have to remind her twice that the colder-blooded predators will rise with the sun.
By her best guess, it nears five a.m. when their painful but uneventful hike is interrupted again by the sounds of something moving toward them. This time, there is enough light and enough time to scout for items in her environment to fight with and where to run. Joan picks up a large, heavy branch and says to Emily in a low tone, "No chance you have a tinderbox or cigarette lighter?" Fire is always an advantage, no matter what you're fighting.
By her best guess, it nears five a.m. when their painful but uneventful hike is interrupted again by the sounds of something moving toward them. This time, there is enough light and enough time to scout for items in her environment to fight with and where to run. Joan picks up a large, heavy branch and says to Emily in a low tone, "No chance you have a tinderbox or cigarette lighter?" Fire is always an advantage, no matter what you're fighting.
An evening visit to the museum n Victorian London turns into a Jurassic Park adventure, the night the island changes.
( through the looking glass again )
( through the looking glass again )
Eight days. Joan has been here eight days, long enough to celebrate Hanukkah if she did, which she doesn't, and Christmas, which she does, but didn't, since it isn't Christmas at home and the one person she needs to see on Christmas isn't here.
Her thumb rubs against the inside of her wedding ring, thoughts of Arthur overwhelming her increasing uncertainty about this place. She misses him, even though they've been apart much longer than eight days for work. And she's worried about him, in the midst of the Operation: Lynx crisis without her there for support.
She worries about Annie, as well, and Auggie who probably doesn't think she'd even noticed the smoldering fuse he'd been hiding the day she arrived here. Her other operatives may have been in less immediate danger, but without her there, that may not last. Especially if Jai moves in on her job in her absence. He'll squander personnel resources with as much callous disregard as he did her budget and destroy Arthur's faith in him as well.
It's funny, but not funny enough to make her smile, that she worries more about Arthur's heart than Jai's treachery. Arthur will take care of her people in her absence. But who will take care of Arthur?
Her lips press tight together at the thought that Geena or Petra might move in to take her place as wife if she's gone too much longer. The books on the bookshelf mock her as her fingertips move across it - nothing useful about this place, or intellectually interesting, just row after row of romances, some of them erotic enough to be fun under difference circumstances but most of them just a reminder that whether this place is real or she has been captured or she's in a coma or dead, she may never see Arthur again.
Which, Joan realizes, is precisely why anger at Petra or Geena is a better turn of thought. Anger is stronger than fear, and anger can be exorcised. She spins away from the bookshelf, intending to be rid of this ridiculous dress and shoes and find some way to run or at least take a brisk walk to cool her temper.
She spins - and is stopped so firmly in her path that she immediately grabs a book to smash into the face of whoever's grabbed her. But there's no one. No explanation for why she can't move. Her heart slams against her ribs, but Joan forces herself to breathe calmly and take stock. There are other people in the room, reading, talking, and none of them paying the slightest attention to her. None of them seem stuck.
Head cocked, Joan rubs a hand over the side of her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a bundle of green with waxy white berries and a red ribbon overhead. She snarls to herself and spits out, "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
A few people look up and start forward to offer their help but she holds up her hand. If this is a psych test to see if she will cheat on Arthur when it's expedient to do so, whoever's administering it will be sadly disappointed.
Her thumb rubs against the inside of her wedding ring, thoughts of Arthur overwhelming her increasing uncertainty about this place. She misses him, even though they've been apart much longer than eight days for work. And she's worried about him, in the midst of the Operation: Lynx crisis without her there for support.
She worries about Annie, as well, and Auggie who probably doesn't think she'd even noticed the smoldering fuse he'd been hiding the day she arrived here. Her other operatives may have been in less immediate danger, but without her there, that may not last. Especially if Jai moves in on her job in her absence. He'll squander personnel resources with as much callous disregard as he did her budget and destroy Arthur's faith in him as well.
It's funny, but not funny enough to make her smile, that she worries more about Arthur's heart than Jai's treachery. Arthur will take care of her people in her absence. But who will take care of Arthur?
Her lips press tight together at the thought that Geena or Petra might move in to take her place as wife if she's gone too much longer. The books on the bookshelf mock her as her fingertips move across it - nothing useful about this place, or intellectually interesting, just row after row of romances, some of them erotic enough to be fun under difference circumstances but most of them just a reminder that whether this place is real or she has been captured or she's in a coma or dead, she may never see Arthur again.
Which, Joan realizes, is precisely why anger at Petra or Geena is a better turn of thought. Anger is stronger than fear, and anger can be exorcised. She spins away from the bookshelf, intending to be rid of this ridiculous dress and shoes and find some way to run or at least take a brisk walk to cool her temper.
She spins - and is stopped so firmly in her path that she immediately grabs a book to smash into the face of whoever's grabbed her. But there's no one. No explanation for why she can't move. Her heart slams against her ribs, but Joan forces herself to breathe calmly and take stock. There are other people in the room, reading, talking, and none of them paying the slightest attention to her. None of them seem stuck.
Head cocked, Joan rubs a hand over the side of her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a bundle of green with waxy white berries and a red ribbon overhead. She snarls to herself and spits out, "Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
A few people look up and start forward to offer their help but she holds up her hand. If this is a psych test to see if she will cheat on Arthur when it's expedient to do so, whoever's administering it will be sadly disappointed.
