Ship: Isabelle Grandjean/Tessa Ott Canon: Tatort Zürich Words: 1337
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Puddles are carefree in lining the walkways of Zürich, and even more so in mixing with the earth below Isabelle’s feet.
The flowers in front of her must be quite the performers; they refuse to hide themselves even under gloomy skies. Bubblegum blossoms stand bright — first against their dulled greenery, then the even more lustreless visage of the city altogether. Sugar and petrichor hang in the air, lingering around both her and her companion.
“They’re toxic, you know,” Ott mutters.
Isabelle replies, “What?”
“The oleander over there. They’re toxic. Or so Noah told me.”
Of that, Isabelle had no clue. But it’s very like Ott to keep note of these tiny little details; it’s quite useful, especially in cases like these, where flowers find themselves at center stage of a murder case.
Quite frankly, Isabelle isn’t sure if either of them should be here. Their lead is promising; times match up, and Ott’s solo investigations have proven quite the motive. But hearsay is a laughing matter in the courtroom; only empirical evidence can prove guilt.
And time continues to tick, counting down until the city can exclaim, “Tant pis, the case will be forevermore unsolved.”
Isabelle leaves both the flowers and her work partner out of her attention for now, instead crouching down. Surely, a bloodstained ring would stand out, should it be resting in the grass to her right? It could serve as a problem if it were to be completely caked over by mud, but if Ott’s testimony of the jewel being immense holds any truth to it, locating it should be easy if it’s here.
Well, immense is paraphrasing it. She had compared it to some American candy Isabelle had never heard of before. While the name long slipped out of Isabelle’s mind, the shape — gem comically larger than the ring itself — stays at the front.
“Could you remind me what the gem was again?” she asks, “Diamond?”
“Yeah,” Ott replies, “Pink, to be specific.”
Right, right. Pink. It’s a shame that Isabelle has no visual guide to assist her, but Ott is enough — in this case, more than. Even still, it is better that Ott stays within Isabelle’s sights than out, lest she end up being her usual reckless self.
It’s dangerous, more so than usual. Isabelle had perused through the letter on Ott’s desk. There, neat, violet-inked penmanship had gleefully spilled a long, increasingly colourful list of threats should the writer ever cross paths with Ott again. Anonymous, naturally; whoever’s hand had drafted such a horrid letter is still unknown.
Ott doesn’t seem as terrified about the prospect. But Isabelle’s mind has long lost the battle of keeping these scenarios out of her mind; she has seen too much, where letters just like these have led to a trip to the morgue.
And if Isabelle were to see Ott’s body growing colder on a morgue gurney, eyes glassily empty, if Isabelle were to have no one snarking in her ear, if Isabelle were to realize that her back has now been left bare, without a reckless soul to watch out for-
“Isabelle?”
Oleander and petrichor. Ott’s voice rings her name in her ears, and it is a much gentler landing for Isabelle’s consciousness compared to the promises of that accursed letter.
The ground below is a blank canvas, with nothing to feed Isabelle’s imagination. She takes in one breath, then two, before turning to Ott.
She replies, “Yes?”
“Something on your mind?” Ott asks.
Ah, crap. Isabelle has once again left herself in the open.
“No,” she tries, “It’s just…”
It’s silly. That’s what. For now, Isabelle’s worries have no longer focused on the possibilities the world has to offer, should Ott be alone. No, it locks onto Ott’s voice, laughter waving mockery her way; the mighty, cold-hearted Isabelle Grandjean, concerned for her? Unheard of.
Instead, she frowns, crinkling her nose at Ott’s answer to her query.
“Pink?” she states, “That’s a bit of an odd choice for a wedding ring.”
“Other gems are in vogue these days,” Ott replies, scoffing, “Everyone wants their own special gem.”
“Or it’s cheaper.”
Ott is no fool. Isabelle is aware of this. There will be a second attempt at cracking open Isabelle’s heart, later onward. Even worse, things are almost always successful the second time around; will it be through heavy tears or through beer-controlled lips that Isabelle will finally confess?
The sleepy air wakes up with the jingling of a ringtone; Ott’s ringtone, to be specific. Isabelle pays no heed to the light cursing under Ott’s breath as she fishes through her pockets, extracting her phone.
She gives Isabelle a certain look as she lifts the phone to her ear, one that Isabelle has long learned to understand within microseconds.
I’ll be back in a moment.
“Ott speaking.”
The static over the phone fuzzes even more so with every step Ott takes away from Isabelle, until the air deems it unable to be heard by her, let alone discerned.
By all means, Isabelle should resume her own search. Time continues to count down, and it surely does not stop at matters of the heart. But her eyes refuse to search further for the ring, instead staying locked on Ott. They raise a good point, however; what is to happen, should Ott vanish from her sights for even a moment?
Moments later, Ott’s other hand flies up to support the one holding her phone.
“There’s a what-”
Her hand drops.
Vines start to creep around Isabelle’s heart as Ott’s eyebrows hang low, frown tightening into a thin line. Worse yet, the air eagerly steals the sparkle in her eyes, fading them away. But she does not speak; there must be quite the bombshell on the other end, Isabelle thinks.
And suddenly, Ott’s eyes are on her.
Her expression is still as her gaze pierces into Isabelle. Isabelle’s eyes don’t seem to be the object of focus, though. No, Ott looks lower, ignoring Isabelle’s face altogether. How inconvenient; a thousand questions could easily be answered with a simple look.
About one or two are answered when Ott looks back at the ground just as suddenly, and with the statement right after.
“Fuck. Okay, I’ll be there soon. See you.”
No, Isabelle’s heart mumbles. If Ott meant both of them, she would have said it. But her reply confirming solitude only begs the question: what necessitates her lurking around the corners of danger and daring its jaws again?
But this is silly. Isabelle Grandjean continues her work even at near-fatal risk to herself. It’s her duty to. So why does her heart paint itself a hypocrite, and so much so to even stop her crucial tasks in their tracks-
Warmth rests on her shoulders, giving them a tight squeeze. Isabelle looks up.
Ott’s eyes are softer now, and her frown even more so. Therein lies the destruction of Isabelle’s charades; Ott must have connected the lines together, and come up with a conclusion of her own.
We have to talk after this is all done.
The lack of life in her eyes remains nevertheless.
“I have to get going,” she says, “You finish up your treasure hunt, and we’ll meet up at the station, okay?”
And before Isabelle can even say a word, Ott is off, hurried footprints imprinted into the soil. Isabelle’s heart only continues to protest in response. Why, she should have zero idea, but something creeps through the earth, snaking its way up to her mind.
Isabelle has always been one to bury herself with fact. Even her instinct is but a mere forgotten toy, covered in dust and hidden in the shadows for the eternities to come. Gut feeling — whichever one is to call it — has always been more of Ott’s jurisdiction.
And yet, the oleander bushes stand solemnly across the muddied path, a lone message stark in the rays that both colour the blooms pink and serve as a spotlight for Isabelle to behold.
FILL - TOKUSATSU YURI SHIPS UNITED FRONT
Canon: Tatort Zürich
Words: 1337
----------
Puddles are carefree in lining the walkways of Zürich, and even more so in mixing with the earth below Isabelle’s feet.
The flowers in front of her must be quite the performers; they refuse to hide themselves even under gloomy skies. Bubblegum blossoms stand bright — first against their dulled greenery, then the even more lustreless visage of the city altogether. Sugar and petrichor hang in the air, lingering around both her and her companion.
“They’re toxic, you know,” Ott mutters.
Isabelle replies, “What?”
“The oleander over there. They’re toxic. Or so Noah told me.”
Of that, Isabelle had no clue. But it’s very like Ott to keep note of these tiny little details; it’s quite useful, especially in cases like these, where flowers find themselves at center stage of a murder case.
Quite frankly, Isabelle isn’t sure if either of them should be here. Their lead is promising; times match up, and Ott’s solo investigations have proven quite the motive. But hearsay is a laughing matter in the courtroom; only empirical evidence can prove guilt.
And time continues to tick, counting down until the city can exclaim, “Tant pis, the case will be forevermore unsolved.”
Isabelle leaves both the flowers and her work partner out of her attention for now, instead crouching down. Surely, a bloodstained ring would stand out, should it be resting in the grass to her right? It could serve as a problem if it were to be completely caked over by mud, but if Ott’s testimony of the jewel being immense holds any truth to it, locating it should be easy if it’s here.
Well, immense is paraphrasing it. She had compared it to some American candy Isabelle had never heard of before. While the name long slipped out of Isabelle’s mind, the shape — gem comically larger than the ring itself — stays at the front.
“Could you remind me what the gem was again?” she asks, “Diamond?”
“Yeah,” Ott replies, “Pink, to be specific.”
Right, right. Pink. It’s a shame that Isabelle has no visual guide to assist her, but Ott is enough — in this case, more than. Even still, it is better that Ott stays within Isabelle’s sights than out, lest she end up being her usual reckless self.
It’s dangerous, more so than usual. Isabelle had perused through the letter on Ott’s desk. There, neat, violet-inked penmanship had gleefully spilled a long, increasingly colourful list of threats should the writer ever cross paths with Ott again. Anonymous, naturally; whoever’s hand had drafted such a horrid letter is still unknown.
Ott doesn’t seem as terrified about the prospect. But Isabelle’s mind has long lost the battle of keeping these scenarios out of her mind; she has seen too much, where letters just like these have led to a trip to the morgue.
And if Isabelle were to see Ott’s body growing colder on a morgue gurney, eyes glassily empty, if Isabelle were to have no one snarking in her ear, if Isabelle were to realize that her back has now been left bare, without a reckless soul to watch out for-
“Isabelle?”
Oleander and petrichor. Ott’s voice rings her name in her ears, and it is a much gentler landing for Isabelle’s consciousness compared to the promises of that accursed letter.
The ground below is a blank canvas, with nothing to feed Isabelle’s imagination. She takes in one breath, then two, before turning to Ott.
She replies, “Yes?”
“Something on your mind?” Ott asks.
Ah, crap. Isabelle has once again left herself in the open.
“No,” she tries, “It’s just…”
It’s silly. That’s what. For now, Isabelle’s worries have no longer focused on the possibilities the world has to offer, should Ott be alone. No, it locks onto Ott’s voice, laughter waving mockery her way; the mighty, cold-hearted Isabelle Grandjean, concerned for her? Unheard of.
Instead, she frowns, crinkling her nose at Ott’s answer to her query.
“Pink?” she states, “That’s a bit of an odd choice for a wedding ring.”
“Other gems are in vogue these days,” Ott replies, scoffing, “Everyone wants their own special gem.”
“Or it’s cheaper.”
Ott is no fool. Isabelle is aware of this. There will be a second attempt at cracking open Isabelle’s heart, later onward. Even worse, things are almost always successful the second time around; will it be through heavy tears or through beer-controlled lips that Isabelle will finally confess?
The sleepy air wakes up with the jingling of a ringtone; Ott’s ringtone, to be specific. Isabelle pays no heed to the light cursing under Ott’s breath as she fishes through her pockets, extracting her phone.
She gives Isabelle a certain look as she lifts the phone to her ear, one that Isabelle has long learned to understand within microseconds.
I’ll be back in a moment.
“Ott speaking.”
The static over the phone fuzzes even more so with every step Ott takes away from Isabelle, until the air deems it unable to be heard by her, let alone discerned.
By all means, Isabelle should resume her own search. Time continues to count down, and it surely does not stop at matters of the heart. But her eyes refuse to search further for the ring, instead staying locked on Ott. They raise a good point, however; what is to happen, should Ott vanish from her sights for even a moment?
Moments later, Ott’s other hand flies up to support the one holding her phone.
“There’s a what-”
Her hand drops.
Vines start to creep around Isabelle’s heart as Ott’s eyebrows hang low, frown tightening into a thin line. Worse yet, the air eagerly steals the sparkle in her eyes, fading them away. But she does not speak; there must be quite the bombshell on the other end, Isabelle thinks.
And suddenly, Ott’s eyes are on her.
Her expression is still as her gaze pierces into Isabelle. Isabelle’s eyes don’t seem to be the object of focus, though. No, Ott looks lower, ignoring Isabelle’s face altogether. How inconvenient; a thousand questions could easily be answered with a simple look.
About one or two are answered when Ott looks back at the ground just as suddenly, and with the statement right after.
“Fuck. Okay, I’ll be there soon. See you.”
No, Isabelle’s heart mumbles. If Ott meant both of them, she would have said it. But her reply confirming solitude only begs the question: what necessitates her lurking around the corners of danger and daring its jaws again?
But this is silly. Isabelle Grandjean continues her work even at near-fatal risk to herself. It’s her duty to. So why does her heart paint itself a hypocrite, and so much so to even stop her crucial tasks in their tracks-
Warmth rests on her shoulders, giving them a tight squeeze. Isabelle looks up.
Ott’s eyes are softer now, and her frown even more so. Therein lies the destruction of Isabelle’s charades; Ott must have connected the lines together, and come up with a conclusion of her own.
We have to talk after this is all done.
The lack of life in her eyes remains nevertheless.
“I have to get going,” she says, “You finish up your treasure hunt, and we’ll meet up at the station, okay?”
And before Isabelle can even say a word, Ott is off, hurried footprints imprinted into the soil. Isabelle’s heart only continues to protest in response. Why, she should have zero idea, but something creeps through the earth, snaking its way up to her mind.
Isabelle has always been one to bury herself with fact. Even her instinct is but a mere forgotten toy, covered in dust and hidden in the shadows for the eternities to come. Gut feeling — whichever one is to call it — has always been more of Ott’s jurisdiction.
And yet, the oleander bushes stand solemnly across the muddied path, a lone message stark in the rays that both colour the blooms pink and serve as a spotlight for Isabelle to behold.
Beware, beware, of what is soon to befall.