[Well, now. Well, now, that's certainly a fair amount of information, isn't it? Eggsy is as open with his emotions as ever, and despite the fact she's attending to the story, there's a small part of her that notes that. He's hardly got tears in his eyes, but the way he goes from stiff to admiring to . . . what? Uncertain? Angry? Regretful? when he speaks about his stepfather . . . she can't understand how someone can be so free with them. Surely he must know that to show all those emotions is a weakness? How can he not? How can he possibly say all that to her, not knowing if she'll take advantage of all that?

She won't (or at least, she won't casually; Rosalind is ever selfish, but she won't betray his trust on a whim), but it still surprises her.

Odd. Had she ever felt anything like that for her own mother? No. Frankly, she still doesn't; presumably Madam Lutece died in her old world, but Rosalind can't summon more than a vague regret. She certainly can't imagine giving up an entire career for her sake, but, Rosalind knows, most people have more emotional connections with her. There's only one person in all the worlds that she would ever think about compromising herself for, and he's still asleep in the station above them.

Robert, Robert, Robert. She won't think of him now, and Rosalind forces her thoughts back to the present.]

A noble gesture.

[Is that approval? Mm, no. It isn't disapproval, though. It's just an observation. Her eyes settle on his neck, lingering on where he'd brushed his fingers, before focusing back up at him. Her fingers tighten again in her lap.]

And did it help, being close to her? I imagine she was comforted, at least, by the assurance you wouldn't die in the same way your father had. But . . . well. I suppose it depends on what you did afterwards. Or was that when you were taken from there and brought here?