originallutece | (no subject)

[She buzzes him in. She has her own water boiling, though it's for tea, not for coffee. Her apartment is built much like any of the Up apartments: clean, overly large, and more than pleasant to live in. But whereas most people seem to tend to want to keep that spacey, airy layout, Rosalind . . .

Rosalind has filled it to the brim with lab equipment.

It's all very organized, of course. She has more lab tables than anyone else in this apartment, she knows, and each of them relate to various subjects. He can actually see the subjects change from one to another, biology-chemistry-physics, so on and so forth. They're all clearly used, though it's the chemistry one that's the most fussed upon right now.

There's also a number of hooks by the door, where goggles and lab coats are hung. H. West, S. Stilinski, B. Allen . . . and now, added this morning with masking tape, S. Holmes.]

Good morning.

[She always seems so lofty nowadays.]

[ Sherlock hasn't been in a large variety of dominant quarters, but the one he saw can't have been much changed from what was originally provided. so, on coming here, he expects a modest little setup. a dedicated side-room perhaps. he's no reason to doubt her commitment to scientific pursuits, but his own personal lab setup once upon a world in a place and a time that both feel entirely unreachable for reasons utterly unrelated to having been thus spirited away had consisted only of his kitchen table and whatever cupboards he overtook.

so he isn't expecting what he walks into. it leaves him uncharacteristically quiet for a moment or two.

then he spots his name tag, and she speaks, and in the throes of feeling a complicated cocktail of childish elation (both granted access and acknowledged as welcome in print and hook?) and a much more adult suffocation, he responds. ]

Ma'am. [ it's mock-American, the deference of suits to their masters, and only after he's done it does he groan and roll his eyes. can't even simultaneously shit on Rosalind and the Americans without redoubling the likeness to a magic man he's still not technically met. ] Nice little primary school pegs setup you've got here. Are we to call you Miss and bring you your daily apple?

[ ah, good. off to a healthy start. you'd never guess that he's desperately grateful to be here. maybe he wouldn't, either. ]

[She gives him a long, slow look, one eyebrow raising. She does not look impressed. She lets what he's said settle in the air between them, loud and childish, and waits a few seconds before responding.]

Would you like to try that again?

[ a pause, coupled with a look of faux-concern, faux-bewilderment. oh, dear. has he upset her? however can he possibly rectify this terrible mistake? ]

... Not an apple, then? Do you prefer pears?

One last try, Sherlock.

[She continues to look unimpressed-- though there's the hints of a smile edging around her features. It is not a nice smile. He is not in on the joke of this smile.]

And do let me remind you that you and I do far better when you aren't doing the adult version of pulling my braid to see if I'll react.

[She actually turns, then, heading for her chemistry set. It's not because she's lost interest; it's because she has a feeling he won't submit if her eyes are on him-- but he might lapse into a sullen, sulky, exasperated thing if she's pretending to be busy. Over her shoulder, then:]

Once more, please!

Edited 2018-11-20 21:35 (UTC)

[ on the contrary, where she might have been met with further resistance before, that instruction thrown over her shoulder like she's owed his compliance, like she's expecting it, is met with sudden silence.

were this any other city, he'd have a comeback. were the days leading up to it slightly differently filled perhaps he'd even find it funny.

as it is, as much as the equipment calls to him, as much as some desperate part of him yearns to step forward and in - maybe even because of that helpless part - he turns and walks himself back towards the entrance. it's measured, no dramatic flair or swirl of the coat, just a pointed disengagement.

petty it might be, but if petty's all he's got left then he's not giving it up. not for all the bunsen burners in the world. ]

[Ah. He's leaving, then, is he? She turns, watching him head out the door. She blinks, waits until he reaches the doorknob, and then calls:]

Are you so willing to give up a laboratory? Or is it that you find me that disagreeable?

[This, at least, is a real question. She calls to him, not sneers out a taunt, because despite how it might appear, she really is curious about him. She wants to see how his mind ticks, because he's so similar and yet so wildly different from her.

So she wants him here, yes. She won't cling to make him stay, but she'd rather not drive him away.]

[ it does stop him short. it's her tone more than her question, the combination.

yes, no, respectively. neither of them get to what she's trying to ask, but why would they? how is she to know which questions are best when he wouldn't himself. his hand rests outstretched, lowers to allow himself a moment of thought.

swallowing your own bouts of bad behaviour is easier when in the company of people you either don't respect or who you know expect nothing better of you. here, he's in a lab. the woman who owns it really hasn't done that much to invoke his ire, and she's intelligent. no arguing that. so: professional respect. and with it, in a place of work, outbursts such as these should likely be kept to a minimum.

having said that, this is a laboratory inside a dominant's residence, and the tattoo running down his throat cannot be omitted from the equation any more than the rest of it can be.

so he does turn around. he does walk back inside. when he lands in her eyeline, it's without sheepishness. slowly, with as much pride as he can manage, he answers the question of why he might be willing to give up so much. ]

I find this [ a lift of his chin, briefly accenting the stark black line on his throat ] disagreeable.

[ she's spent a lot more of her life dealing with the short end of the societal bias stick than he has - long enough to know what it feels like to rail against it, no doubt, even when nobody's intending to make you. ]

[She stares back at him, and for this moment, at least, this conversation, there's none of her usual arrogance. There's as much pride as he has, but nothing that seeks to establish dominance or triumph over him.]

I'm certain you do.

[She is. She knows she'd likely be no better if she was in his position. She might not lash out the same way, but she would lash out, sharply and repeatedly. She'd tear down anyone not wearing that mark, because she'd inherently loathe them. Perhaps she could befriend a few, but she'd loathe them on principle, because they had the audacity to have something effortless that she never could.

She thinks of home, then. Of being a woman in a male dominated field; of how hard it had been, day in and day out. How she'd faced all the leers and insinuations and snickers, the patronizing comments and coddling words, and she'd constructed a mask to deal with it all. It hadn't been so different from her normal personality, really-- she'd just made it stronger. She'd learned how to combat people, to shut them down, to turn every situation into her advantage, until at last that mask had simply become her personality. Until she had such trouble letting anyone in, anyone at all; until she finds she has no idea how to be anything other than that mask.

She thinks of Tumenalia, then. Of being a puppet caught at the end of Stephen's sadistic strings; of being at Akande's mercy and needing to beg him to let her go. Of that gang of men that had followed her and Dinah, laughing and drunk; of Takasugi, his eye glimmering with cruelty, forcing her to strip and stand bare before the city, all because she'd had the gall to resist him.

Oh, yes. She understands his simmering rage. His resentment, his humiliation, his feeling of hideous helplessness. She understands better than he can imagine.

Her eyes flick down for a moment, focusing on the line marring his throat, before she glances back up at him. She takes a step forward.]

I know you're intelligent. I wouldn't bother with all of this if you weren't. Regardless of who ends up winning, I believe we can both agree we're around the same level of genius, albeit in differing areas. We might call it a talent, hm? Something you're proud of, something you've worked towards honing. You're very accomplished, and so am I.

Those things would sting if they were taken from you. They would sting for anyone.

But I think it's a little worse for you. And it would be a little worse for me, if I were a Submissive.

[She speaks so calmly, carefully. This isn't a confrontation, nor a cruel way to bare his soul. This is . . . this is an attempt at reconciliation. I understand, she really does, conveyed clumsily but genuinely.]

It always is for us. Isn't that the price of genius? You're so much better than everyone-- it's just fact, you simply are. You surpass your peers and your siblings and your parents by the time you're ten, if not earlier, and fairly soon you simply teach yourself, because it's easier than sitting through dull lectures led by people who don't know the subject as well as you. You never truly fit in. You're isolated, friendless, so terribly lonely . . . but you're brilliant.

And that's all that really matters.

[A breath. If he's looking, if he knows how to read people, he might see something like grief in her gaze. Rosalind has not dealt with her own humiliation during Tumenalia, not at all; she suppresses her trauma and moves on, she always has.]

Except here. Except here, it doesn't matter, does it? I wasn't appointed a Dominant because of my intelligence. Yours wasn't considered at all. They sort us arbitrarily, and in doing so take away the only sturdy, steady thing we've ever had in our lives.

So yes. I'm sure you do find that disagreeable. And while I can't say I'm very fond of the way you lash out at me . . .

I can understand why you do.

[ she's earnest. in speaking, she bares more of herself than she needs to, paints a picture of a life he's known but isn't obliged to admit to - her story is her own as much as it's his. personal enough (his brother was always his better, his mother a genius in her own right) to separate, shared enough to enable his silence, a lack of intervention.

quiet is a lack of denial. it says plenty and nothing at once.

when she's finished, his quiet remains for a while longer. the seconds stretch with him blinking, eyes casting down as his focus recedes within... a blink, an inward breath, and he seems to land on whatever it is he's going to say. ]

I won't promise it won't happen again.

[ but it's not obstinance that has him say it. it's honesty. she's given him truth, the least he can do is the same.

he reaches up to remove his scarf. truce. ]

Edited 2018-11-26 19:37 (UTC)

[A truce indeed. She can't promise she'll always react so nicely to his tantrums, but at least they understand each other a little better. Rosalind nods shortly, an acceptance, and leans her hips back against the lab table.]

Now. What do you know of Adderall?