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[She rises to her toes, leaning forward to try and catch his mouth for a second the instant he pulls away. That kind of kiss isn't allowed to be limited to one. But oh, he's speaking, and Rosalind lingers close by, pleased at the way she can feel his breath against her mouth.]

There's little use in trying to sway me. You're going to have to prove it, Robert.

I fully intend to prove it, my darling. But you must grant me some time to prepare — for strategy, if you will, prior to my courtship debut.

[He says, and kisses her again.]

[God, but she's missed this. Sometimes it seems as if she might simply spend the next five months marveling over every little gesture he makes. Every kiss, every touch, each time he yanks her into his lap or murmurs an endearment, she'll simply have to spend a few seconds gasping in delight.

Silently, of course. It won't do to spend half her life gawping at him like a fool.]

Mm. How long do you require?

Let's see. To arrange for attire, venue, and gifts...

[Hmm. Hmm, hmm, indeed.]

With good luck and fair sailing, I would expect the outside of a week?

Call it a fortnight, then.

[Two weeks. Two weeks, and oh, it's silly, but her heart races at the thought. Two weeks, and they'll get to enjoy one another as they've never gotten to before.]

But for now . . . you still owe me a kiss, darling.

[A kiss in public. What an utterly absurd thing to be excited about.]

Can't wait a fortnight for that, eh?

[But that's fine, really. Especially when she's so close at hand like this, standing right in his arms at the perfect height for him to lower his chin and gaze down into her face as she looks back up at him; especially when it puts her at the perfect angle to hold her cheek in one hand and stroke her hair back behind her ear with the other, and finally bring both to frame her face like she's something precious and fragile — which she is and is not, respectively.]

Then let's be off. For science.

[It's just as instantaneous a process as she remembers it: one moment, they're in the house, and the next, they're standing beneath the obelisk. There's no traveling, no zip or zing: they're simply there, as easily as if they'd just taken a step. The only difference now is that Robert's arms are around her the entire time, keeping her pressed close.

It's still strange that he kept their powers and she hadn't, but it isn't such an inconvenience. Not if he can move them both around.]

Ready?

[Unnecessary. Of course he's ready. But Rosalind, perhaps, isn't. God, even standing out here pressed together is risky, and it takes everything in her not to take a large step back.]

Not quite. Come here.

[He reaches for her shoulders, lightly guiding her to turn around until they're facing the same direction, and then draws her back against him so that he can hold her loosely from behind. It means that everything he sees, she sees; it means her back is protected by his presence, and his arms are securing her in the front.

He stands there with her, simply holding her in silence for a few moments as they look out over the city center stretched out around them, and then leans down to murmur against her ear.]

No Fink. No Comstock. No Columbia.

[He gives her a squeeze.]

Just us.

Just us.

[Just them. No more boundaries. No more rules. No more forcing herself into the rigid role of Madam Lutece; no more needing to demand respect every minute of every hour of every day. No more keeping Robert at an arm's length in public; no more watching her words and guarding her emotions behind an iron mask. No more devoting all their time and energy to guide a man through an endeavor so hopeless it had taken them a hundred and twenty-three attempts to get it right.

No more responsibilities. No more lying. Just them, and the future stretching out before them.]

. . . it's still unreal to me.

[She shifts her weight, resting back against him.]

Not just the concept of us. Even the way people treat me here . . . there hasn't been a person yet who's argued my title. Even dressing like this, they all accept me as Doctor Lutece, just as they do you.

[It's one of those rare things that he's never been able to properly empathize with, the struggle she's describing now. The difference a single chromosome makes shouldn't be so much, and yet in a society like the one they'd left, it'd meant the difference between respect and invalidation for the two of them. And for what? She's no less brilliant than he is; on the contrary, she's often moreso, if he's being honest about it.

Yet the word of a woman somehow means less than that of a man. How many times had Rosalind spoken to Fink or Comstock, expressed her ideas with brilliance and eloquence, and yet the inquiries in response had come directed back to him instead? Doctor Lutece, what about this? Gentlemen, as my sister has just rightfully pointed out...

And yet they're here now. There's no need to lie about a familial relation that never existed to begin with. There's no need to struggle for acceptance, when somehow everyone has already come around to the notion that Doctor Lutece and Doctor Lutece are each as brilliant as the other, no matter the chromosome in their genes.]

It's about time. That's all I have to say about it.

And now you're finally here.

[She slides one of her hands over his, her fingers settling between his.]

You're here, and we're building our home together. In two weeks you're going to court me. I have students, and we have a shop, and we've got research to do. And I--

[She hesitates.]

I'm happy. Truly happy, Robert. There isn't a thing I'd change, not now that I have you with me. And it all seems so unreal. As if I'm going to wake up tomorrow morning and you won't be there, or we'll be back in Columbia, or-- or something equally awful.

Like a dream. A dream of being happy, because we've never been so in reality.

[He's quiet a minute, idly rocking her back and forth in his arms before eventually offering: ]

You were that for me, once. When we would talk all night, through the atom. I'd hate to part and sleep for fear that I might discover it'd all been a dream the next morning.

Mm.

[She's not surprised by the admission. Hadn't she feared the same thing? It had been all too good to be true: a wonder boy, mysterious and charming and perfectly willing to not only tolerate, but accept her brilliance . . . who wouldn't think it a dream? Separated only by the fabric of reality was the perfect boy, the only boy for her. It sounds fantastical.]

But I wasn't. And neither is this.

[Her eyes close. He's so steady behind her, warm and solid. Rosalind sighs as they move together, rocking in place like a still dance.]

You weren't wrong, you know, when you called them ducklings before. I do fuss over them.

[Not to the point of absurdity, but the very fact they linger in her thoughts at all says quite a bit. She worries for them, each of them, Strider and Fugo and Urameshi (and Kurama, but their relationship is slightly different). It's a maternal feeling, and one almost entirely foreign to her.

It makes her think of children. Of babies, of the hallucination she'd so loathed and how different it would be, if Robert was in Charles' place.]

Of course you do. And, I would imagine, they're constantly following you around, looking for guidance from the one they know is worth looking to.

[She's winding down now, and he can feel it. That's good; for all that she'd been nervous earlier about the prospect of their kiss out here, she seems to be at least somewhat distracted from it now, and any latent anxiety is lessening.]

I'm glad you've collected them. It seems to me they've done you as much good as you do them.

I think so, yes.

[She hadn't ever set out to be a teacher. Fugo had happened simply because she'd not wanted to deal with all the idiocy at the library. And then there'd been Strider, who was fascinated by dissection, who so readily called her Madam, and how could she deny someone so eager? And now Urameshi . . .

He's the most surprising of all. The first two are studious-minded, at least somewhat. But Urameshi . . . really, on paper, he's all the things she loathes in a person. Loud, impertinent, irritating, constantly sarcastic . . . and yet somehow, with him, she never minds it. Perhaps it's because while he's all those things, he never quite edges into disrespectful. There's never any risk of his tearing down her work or her title, no matter what else he says.]

Mm. They're yours now too, you know. You're going to have to start giving them advice on all the things I can't.

There isn't much I can offer advice on that you can't.

[He wiggles his fingers against her sides, not quite to the point of tickling outright, but certainly fluttering enough that he's trying to get a laugh out of her from the attempt.]

My areas of expertise are limited to things like coping with the awkwardness of male adolescence, how to properly navigate a three-piece suit, how to spot the girl of one's dreams and win her at any cost...

[She hums in pleasure, squirming in his arms, smiling as she does.]

All of which you're both excellent at and that need to be taught. I don't think I've seen any one of them in a suit save Fugo-- Robert, stop that--

Really! Well, well, perhaps I'll be able to be a hand with the lads, then, after all.

[As visions of three-piece suits and Windsor knots dance through his head...]

I'm sorry, are you finding something bothersome? How odd, I don't feel anything. Whatever could it be?

[tl;dr: he's not stopping.]

You know perfectly well what.

[All right, squirming won't do the trick; next she tries simply pressing down on his hands, trying to keep them still beneath her own. Pulling them away might be more effective, but she doesn't want him to stop holding her, see.]

[Oh. Oh, how utterly devious, he can't very well combat that, when it means that she's got her hands over his and he's still got the pleasure of holding her close. Oh, mercy, he is defeated, he is outmaneuvered, he cannot stand in the face of this.]

I do know perfectly well what.

[Perhaps he will just give her an affectionate squish, instead. It's so easily done when she's so pliant and close at hand.]

Now, about our experiment...are you feeling more ready to proceed?

. . . yes.

[Still nervous, but far less so. Far more willing to kiss and be kissed, not just for the sake of the experiment but for the sheer joy of it. Rosalind finally turns, her back arching as his hands slide over her.]

Don't be obscene, now.

[That's a joke, obviously. But it's a nervous joke, something made to try and take the edge off her sudden nervousness.]

Obscene? I fully intend to flaunt this and damn the scandal.

[But she'll soon come to see that it's a joke of his own that he's offering to her, as he skims his hand deliberately down to hers and picks it up, raising it up so that she can watch him spread her fingers and weave his between them before lowering it back down to their side.

Hand-holding. Interwoven fingers. Wide open, and in public. Scandalous.

The other hand, though, drifts up to cup her face, and his thumb traces over her cheek in the second before he leans in and down, drawing her slowly into a kiss.]

[It's a good kiss. Robert is good at kissing in general, never mind when he really tries; he's awfully smooth that way, overwhelming her when she least expects it. It's not a particularly long kiss, nor is it particularly hot or overwhelming. It's simple, affectionate and loving without ever edging over into lustful.

They kiss, and then they part. And somehow, the world doesn't crash around them.

There's no shouts, no obscenities; no one gasps or gawks. There's no voice of the Prophet, coldly sentencing them to a deadly fate. They kiss, and the city continues on, blissfully ignoring the two of them. If someone gives them a second glance, that's all it remains: just a glance, idly intrigued before easily dismissed. They kiss, and the Doctors Lutece remain just that: scientific figures, no more or less respected now that they've shown themselves to be human.

She squeezes his hand tightly, the grip as much about assurance as it is needing comfort. Her mouth aches a little, and she licks her lips, savoring the taste.]

All right?

Quite all right.

[Unsurprisingly, his thoughts are in the same place — or close enough. There's no Zachary Hale Comstock, watching him through hellfire eyes with the suspicion of a shepherd spotting a black sheep in his flock. There's no Jeremiah Fink, tugging his mustache and passing around cigars and handing out baseballs to festival-goers. There's no —

...tightrope, he decides, is the word. There's no tightrope to walk, no careful balance to maintain, no peril waiting on every side should they misstep even once. There are no wires cutting threats of foreboding into the bottoms of their feet. There is no Columbia, suspended high above the ground and providing such a very long way to fall from grace.

It's only the two of them. Doves with their cage door left open, huddled together and afraid to break free and fly.]

...But let's go home.

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