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. . . 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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