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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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