a dance of doves & crows ( jonathan crane )

cages and contemplation .

notes: me when i accidentally disappear for five months... jesus christ, where does the time go? anyways, i'm sorry about that :p

song of the chapter: clocks - coldplay

"I suppose I never thought about how unlikeable I was as a child. I knew I was difficult, and headstrong, but I never thought... Hm." She spoke into the air, thoughtfully. Like she really was reflecting onto her life and her choices, accepting the purpose of therapy. Growth, rebirth, the start of a new era.

It was an obvious observation, with the context of her other stories, but he doesn't feel compelled to point that out.

Everyone started somewhere. That's what he's supposed to say, right? The basics of true and uncorrupted therapy.

She looked healthy. Glowing, he'd admit, even with the lack of sun she was getting in Arkham and their limited exposure to the outdoors. Perhaps it was the medication, or better hydration, or peace of mind... He couldn't place it. She just... looked better.

But what mattered more was both he and his other half had noticed it, admiring the beauty in her uncommon appearance. In fact, it was all he had been able to focus on that morning.

He was never blind to it, of course not - But her ghastly pale blonde hair had grown a few inches, so much so that she had started to tie it up more often. Today, it was in a classic bun; but her hair was uncooperative, several strands falling free in both the front and back of her head.

Wild, yes. Stubborn and unbroken. There was something so admirable about it. It's what caught his attention in the first place, nearly a year ago.

Perhaps she didn't like how long her hair had become; he'd speak to her about scheduling a haircut later. At least, write a note to himself about it for future reference. There's likely to be a few conditions that come along with it; Jules would never be happy with a situation with sharp objects so close to her in a vulnerable state. A calculated approach would prevent rising anxiety.

He'd offer to sit there with her. He'd offer to organize a woman to cut her hair, to make her feel less on-edge or cornered. Whatever she wanted, he'd get it for her.

Funny, he knows. But he feels more comfortable admitting this position these days. Less of a curse to his precious pride, that way.

The bags under her eyes might not ever go away, he reckoned. Jules' sleep schedule was difficult, her insomnia being both a side effect of her antipsychotics and a symptom of her post-traumatic stress disorder. But in a way, he thought they were beautiful. A stark hue of violet underneath ocean blue, often hazy eyes. A dark plum, distinctly harsher than all of her other features. They were pink enough to blend with the flush of life on her cheeks, the rose-tint of her lips.

If he were a painter, he'd have trouble catching the colors of her complexion. He's sure even the very best at their craft would. The powder blue Arkham uniforms typically made her look a bit sickly (washed out would be the correct verbiage, if he remembered Harleen's words correctly), but if she were able to choose what she wore... Well, perhaps in a color that complimented the flesh, an artist may be able to capture her exact features. She'd look less fleeting, less like an apparition in a warmer color pallet.

Red. She'd look nice in red. Black as well.

Her scars with her time in the asylum had faded away almost to non-existence against her healthier complexion. She looked less hallowed, less empty than when she had arrived nearly a year ago. The scars, just little nicks of white against her right cheek and brow bone, were only visible in direct sunshine.