#also giordana: with one exception :)

[giordirossi]

Tagged: @drrutherford Location: St. Catherine's, A&E When: A day or two post-everything

Despite all protests against the entire idea of venturing into a hospital, getting her ribs and possible (read: definite) concussion checked out by a qualified professional somehow became a nonnegotiable. Apparently her bathroom mirror hadn't received the proper training to make the call on whether any lasting damage was imposed by the other evening's scuffle. Annoying, but considering all that occurred with recent fallout, Giordana uncharacteristically found herself in the business of tempering waves rather than making them.

Sitting in a chair rather than on the parchment lined table as a quiet act of insubordination, she's already begrudgingly allowed the triage attendees to run a handful of tests and vitals. The results of which can apparently only be interpreted by the doctor on rotation tonight. Wholly inefficient from her point of view, but this is precisely why she doesn't work in the medical field. The man who enters minutes later just happens to be another solid reason in that arsenal.

"––Wow, they sent in the big guns. Guess I must be dying." Again. "And here I thought we'd filled our surgery quota for the fiscal year."

[giordirossi]

What does Giordana think of the Rutherfords?

Publicly? Ignoring their beef with the French because she doesn't actually care for 98% of that organization (Varden being the true exception), they're still allied with the faction she detests most. Anchoring themselves to the Russians was a big mistake in her totally unbiased opinion and the Rutherfords are going to continue suffering the tandem consequences of that decision until someone finally says enough. She doesn't know what their alternative would be, but it's also not her problem to figure things out for them–– leave that to Lara, the only one to garner even an ounce of Giordana's respect. Also, she thinks they should remove Melissa Lin due to gross incompetence, but that one’s more of a personal vendetta after the Vincenzo debacle.

Privately? It’s obviously really fucking inconvenient that they keep winding up in bed with her. Not that the pickings in London are slim, but she'd rather swallow a fork than indulge a French person and the other Italians hit too close to home for her liking. She's not going to apologize for finding certain personalities more intriguing than others, it's just an unfortunate coincidence that they're on the other side of the line.

[drrutherford]

giordirossi​:

Anger crashes over him in waves and Giordana waits, stone-faced, until it ebbs long enough for her to speak. “I never asked you to stick your neck out.” Defiant and certainly not what he’s seeking, but this is brand new territory and rather than admit his fury might be righteous, she spins the table around. “Why would you risk it?”

He turns away again and her resolve cracks ever so slightly at the corners, prompting beryl eyes to shift in the same direction. Only when she catches sight of the elderly Italian man unsubtly listening does she straighten her spine and recover. Although her body stands as resolute as before, when the Rutherford finally deigns to face her in the silence of the café, it’s Giordana who turns her features to the side.

Would he even recognize if it was a lie? There’s no shame in her chosen career, not anymore–– perhaps not ever, but the path to knowing how depraved it ran couldn’t be reversed. An unfamiliar hesitation weighs heavily on her chest and she struggles to pinpoint where it stems from; or why this is so difficult to spit out.

“They’re Russian and I’m Italian. What other reason do they need?” Not untrue, but also not entirely forthcoming either. It remains a delicate line to walk in the face of a man she cannot discern as friend or foe. “You want the truth? Fine, I did my job. The consequences of that are always violence–– to others, to myself… It’s not the first time I’ve had brainless muscle try to corner me and I guarantee it won’t be the last.” Not until she stopped breathing. Death would be the only exit for someone as dug into this life as Giordana Rossi, or at least the only one she envisioned. “You should’ve let me handle it.”

.

‘I never asked you to stick your neck out.’

“That’s not— ” Gideon stops, staring at her in disbelief. Indignation rises like a tide within him, but before he can slam her with it some part of his conscience argues that she’s right... Displeasure quickly follows heel. “ — That’s not the point.”

Except in some ways, it’s exactly the point.

He knows she doesn’t owe him the truth, even though he’d like very much to be owed such a thing after the ordeal he just experienced; after foolhardily engaging with her enemies with the sole purpose of buying her some time. But she owes him nothing.

Nothing real.

Which is why he doesn’t answer her question either, when Giordana asks why he did it; why he stuck out his neck in the first place... Let her wonder. 

“Yes, incredibly, my powers of deduction gathered as much from the heavy Russian cursing while I was trying to make my escape.” He tells her flatly, as if to say tell me something I didn’t know. But she won’t, and Gideon knows it now, not that knowing makes it any easier to swallow. Why does he care?... He can almost hear the question in Giordana’s lilting, taunting voice. He’s just as irritated at himself as he is at her for not being able to answer it. He doesn’t know why he wants to know exactly what ‘job’ she was put up to, why it matters, why it needles him to think of her pursued by angry Russians, running from them, dodging death round every corner — all alone.

No team in sight, no Vincenzo, no other smug Italians.

Where’s your boyfriend when you need him?... The question goes up like a smoke signal in his mind, but he sets his mouth into a line and refuses his vocal cords the temptation of carrying it. Why do you care, why do you care, why do you care?... 

‘You should’ve let me handle it,’ Giordana insists and after a beat (too long, too late) the Rutherford lets out a mirthless laugh. “You’re right,” He hums, letting his eyes snap to the door as he sidesteps the woman and makes for the exit. “I should’ve.”

— End. 

[giordirossi]

drrutherford​:

.

‘Apparently the Hippocratic Oath only applies within the walls of a hospital. Noted.’

Gideon swallows. Obstinately at that, because he isn’t about to take it back — but culpably too, because she’s right. He bears her no good will since their last encounter and has even less desire to speak with her on an evening such as this one.

Bad enough that she’d forced her way into his thoughts enough times tonight given the awards she’d claimed or even those she had come close to winning. Bad enough she’d turned up on Vincenzo Vespucci’s arm. Of course she’d want the cherry on top of the sordid sundae too; bearing full witness to the stereotypically male slip of his attention while approaching him just now.

… And of course he’d been foolish enough to give it to her.

“Did it really bother you so much?” He asks in a lofty, faintly mocking tone. He’s still trying to find his footing, even the balance between them. “How’d you put it…” The man cocks his head, as if he really has to search so far back in his memory to find it. “… ‘Cared, being the operative word.’ — Ah, yes. That was it, wasn’t it?”

As if he’d forgotten it.

Still, when she talks about reflection, about having been harsh with him, Gideon’s brow creases warily. A sliver of grudging – affinity? curiosity? – slides through his defenses like a snake through wild grass. Why now?… What does she want?… 

“You work there?” He blurts out gruffly, regretting it almost immediately. He doesn’t want to show any interest, no matter how trite the detail. No matter how innocuously, nondefensively, she turns against the ship’s railing, watching the indolent ripples of water created by the hull. “What; did ya think I was coming for you? That I was there to cause trouble?” Bitterly, he supplies the reason. “Because I’m a Rutherford?”

+

Did it really bother you so much?

Not at the time, no. Bruised pride and the lingering humiliation occupied most of her thoughts until proven otherwise, and while Vincenzo made the suggestion to meet, she’d also accepted it. Delving any further into that choice spelled out a litany of questions that Giordana refused to answer, even in the confines of her own head. “I wouldn’t spend my energy coming down here if it didn’t.”

Ah, so she isn’t the only person capable of parroting another’s words back at them. Wonderful play on his part, inspired even. Her smile lowers into something a little more forlorn, lacking the coy familiarity from the last time they stood in this position. “You have an exceptional memory.” Much to her chagrin, they both did.

He questions employment and her chin dips into a wordless nod, unable, or perhaps unwilling, to offer more than acknowledgement. What could she tell him anyway? That it’s “freelance” work? That her greatest skill is knowing what a body sounds like when it hits the floor? 

Honesty swallows at the base of her throat, nearly choking outright when he follows up by shooting to the true heart of any upset that day. Neither of them are walking away from this conversation unscathed, and as with everything else related to Gideon Rutherford, she should’ve known better. 

Finally her gaze returns to him and Giordana queries back, “What else was I supposed to think?” Only it’s a smidge less controlled than before and she can sense the tectonic plates momentarily shift in his favor. If the doctor was looking for a foothold, he’d gone and built himself a staircase. Most of her days are spent reading the internal monologues of others, so rarely do they read her back; the experience is strange and off-putting. 

Because I’m a Rutherford? 

“No, because I hardly know you–– I mean, I do, but not...” Like that. Not enough to trust his motives, or yes, completely disregard the acidity in his last name. A bewildering hint of frustration knits her brows and she feels startlingly like a real fucking person. It’s jarring enough to push herself off the rail in search of distance. Only two steps, but enough to recover as both arms fold across her middle. “Obviously my assumption was wrong.”

[giordirossi]

drrutherford​:

.

The hazards of stopping on Lambeth bridge at this hour of the night included the possibility that a complete stranger – drunk, high, or maybe worse – might sidle up and talk to you. Selling something, wanting something, or out of their damn minds. He doesn’t know why he’d stalled on his way home either, except that the inky water had caught his attention and the tiredness in his bones hadn’t begged to differ.

‘ –– Lost or lonely?’

“Maybe both.” He murmurs after a beat, looking down into the same murky river in which she’d also been lost seconds prior.  Lost... He’s felt lost ever since the fallouts in his personal life after fightclub. The dust had settled, but the damage wasn’t yet done. As for lonely?… Only when he stops to think about it… Only most days.

And then, defenses drawing up in that tired old pattern, Gideon pivots to face her, a cursory smile tracing his mouth – stiff upper lip – and adds, “… Maybe neither.”

Bloody hell, she’s pretty. 

Given his luck these days, he wonders vaguely whether she’s some sort of French assassin, come to finish him off and chuck his corpse over the barrier. 

“ — You?”

+

A delicately traced path draws the brunette ever closer to him, faintly out of arm’s reach and yet finally near enough to sweep his unfamiliar features with a passive gaze. Her memory was far from photographic and strangers on bridges late at night were rarely worth the commitment, but he appears handsome and faintly plagued... and well, like calls to like. Not that Giordana made a habit of exposing the vacant, wind-barren parts of herself where emptiness swallowed answers. A cold expression or a wry smile often acted as the closed door between, and tonight she chose the latter.

Her voice hums with acknowledgement as she pauses only meters away, maintaining a careful distance. Those who trust blind circumstance often wind up as casualties. “Exhausted then.” It’s an assumption, though one she doesn’t hold back from making when she expects him to venture onward in a moment’s time.

You?

Reciprocation always surprises her for some reason and that still holds true tonight, even if she masks it with a half-smirk. “Are you asking to be polite or because you think my answer will somehow change yours?” Lost or lonely–– always one or the other. She never settled long enough into either side and perhaps that fault was what kept her awake most nights, pacing her new home while itching for the only distraction she knew. “Maybe both, maybe neither.”

With a glance down at the watery depths below them, Giordana raises her brows. “You’re not planning to jump, are you?” It’s sort of a half-tease, but what a thing to joke about. “Looks a little cold and I don’t know if I’m a decent enough person to go in after you.” She absolutely wasn’t.

[drrutherford]

giordirossi​:

Tagged: @drrutherford​​​

Location: Lambeth, near the river

The price of staying out late with Giorgio meant traversing her way home at the oddest hour, when this bustling hub became a smidge quieter and various thoughts intruded their way across the occasional silence. So rarely did she allow herself to drink enough to matter, tonight included, so Giordana teetered along the edge where limbs felt slightly looser and the steel trap of her mind bent at its hinges. Not quite soft, but something a touch more malleable. After passing increasingly familiar landmarks - The Aquarium, The Eye, St. Catherine’s, she finally slowed at a barrier overlooking the river and peered down into its inky black depths speckled with city lights.

Her acute hearing picked up on the sporadic passerby, none whose footsteps slowed until just one pair edged within conversational distance. It hardly deterred her path or caused concern, then again so few things did. Call it arrogance or alcohol, Giordana continued tracing the tips of her fingers along the railing as she meandered aimlessly in his direction, bright eyes never leaving the water. 

“––Lost or lonely?”

.

The hazards of stopping on Lambeth bridge at this hour of the night included the possibility that a complete stranger – drunk, high, or maybe worse – might sidle up and talk to you. Selling something, wanting something, or out of their damn minds. He doesn’t know why he’d stalled on his way home either, except that the inky water had caught his attention and the tiredness in his bones hadn’t begged to differ.

‘ –– Lost or lonely?’

“Maybe both.” He murmurs after a beat, looking down into the same murky river in which she’d also been lost seconds prior.  Lost... He’s felt lost ever since the fallouts in his personal life after fightclub. The dust had settled, but the damage wasn’t yet done. As for lonely?... Only when he stops to think about it... Only most days.

And then, defenses drawing up in that tired old pattern, Gideon pivots to face her, a cursory smile tracing his mouth – stiff upper lip – and adds, “... Maybe neither.”

Bloody hell, she’s pretty. 

Given his luck these days, he wonders vaguely whether she’s some sort of French assassin, come to finish him off and chuck his corpse over the barrier. 

“ — You?”