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After three days of sitting in a hot springs, I will find you positively raisin-y upon my arrival.

[When he tips his head to kiss at her, it's a little too heavily — owing mostly to some subtle fuzziness in his motor control, moreso than any intention on his conscious part.]

...Rosie?

[It's not their best kiss, that's for sure, but she's too far gone to mind it in the slightest. She's even smiling when he pulls back, her toes curling happily.]

Mm?

We're free.

[He says, as he pulls her snug against him and shifts, very nearly on the verge of smothering her in his possessive, encompassing embrace.]

And together.

. . . yes.

[Yes, they are, and Rosalind's eyes close, her fingers tightening their grip in his shirt as she remembers it. Yes, they are: free and together, able to say or do anything they please without fear of death or destruction.

God, look at them now: cuddling and kissing with the window open and the shades flung wide. They're on the second floor, yes, it's not as if anyone could see in anyway, but they'd never have allowed such a thing in Columbia.]

I love you.

[Maybe they'd settle down after that. Maybe not. It hardly matters, because it's about then Punnett decides he's not feeling enough of the love, and also incidentally doesn't appreciate Mum and Not!Mum simply disappearing on him. It had taken him a while to heft his way up the stairs, but here he is, edging into the room with a petulant spitting noise.

Rosalind laughs, though she doesn't move a bit from Robert's possessive grip.]

[Coincidental, that, because Robert himself has just gone positively rigid and a little white, so he's actually not moving period, much less moving from Rosalind's arms.]

You didn't tell me it can climb stairs.

[That's a funny way of pronouncing "I love you too".]

Shh-- shh, shh--

[That's for Robert, though the words are a little wobbled, given that she's trying not to laugh. Poor Punnett, unloved by his not!Mum. The plant is peering over the end of the bed, tendrils sliding over the sheets in a vaguely investigative manner.]

He's not going to hurt you, my love.

Oh, now don't you start laughing. If I can't laugh then you can't either, that's a rule.

[GOD IN HEAVEN THERE ARE VINES ON THE BED]

...We ought to just zip away again, before it finds us.

No.

[Not only will that distress poor Punnett, but she doesn't want to leave the bed. Rosalind shifts, swinging her legs over so she's sitting in Robert's lap instead of merely being draped on him. That . . . won't actually stop him from teleporting them, but it's the thought that counts.]

He came up here to guard us-- us, plural, not just me. You ought to be pleased he's so vigilant.

But guarding us from what, precisely? There's nothing up here but us.

[Oh. Hello, darling. Nice to suddenly have a lapful of you, too.]

...And what made you decide it to be a "him"?

Well, he's a plant. He hardly knows what might attack next, does he? He was built to guard, so that's what he's doing.

[As for his other question . . . Rosalind thinks about it for a moment, then shrugs. Punnett's retreated, thank god, heading over to sit in the corner instead of creeping on the bed.]

I don't know. I suppose I thought him was better than it, and given Kurama is male, the association was already there.

I see. So he simply...waits, in your presence, contingent on anything that might happen.

[It could almost be cute, in theory, if it weren't for the fact that the reality is so horrifying. But at least the vines have retreated, which means he and Rosalind can spread out a little, not to untangle but to enjoy each other's presence more leisurely.]

Well, I suppose I shall have to get used to him. And I approve of his goals, of course — no doubt about that.

[Just wait until she shows him how she feeds Punnett.]

He really won't hurt you, you know. There's not a chance.

[Still, he is horrifying, so perhaps Robert's apprehension is understandable. She pats him on the chest fondly, a comforting and somewhat patronizing gesture.]

But I'll put him back in the tub soon. In the meantime: grab the bottle, would you?

I'm still aghast that you pick it up and carry it about like a child.

[But, keeping one wary eye on Punnett the whole time, he does indeed lean over slowly and retrieve the bottle as bidden before passing it over to her.]

We're putting a solid dent in it, aren't we...

Mmhmm.

[They're going to finish the bottle at this rate. Certainly it's getting far easier to tolerate the sting of hard liquor, which means she can sip quite a bit before offering it back to him.]

. . . we left the wine downstairs.

Shall we go fetch it?

["We", obviously, because there is no way he's separating from her at this point, even to run brisk and quickly-concluded errands like fetching that very nice bottle of red wine they'd abandoned somewhere near their couch.]

Or perhaps you could prevail upon your guard plant to go retrieve it for us...

[Drunk teleporting seems a very poor idea, but on the other hand, Punnett certainly isn't going to go fetch. So Rosalind leans in, kissing the side of his throat with a grin.]

Go on, then.

Oh.

[He flushes a little, despite himself, and gathers her up more securely before blipping them briskly back downstairs, just long enough to collect the red wine bottle before zipping back up to their previous positions again.]

There we are. Back safely again, wine in tow.

[...]

Blast it all, we forgot the glasses again.

[She laughs and, just for that, kisses his neck again. She's going to have to move Punnett before anything else happens, but she's allowed to tease, at least.]

Come, now. You haven't enjoyed drinking like a heathen?

It's not that I haven't enjoyed it, but you must concede it is rather dangerous!

[It's a good thing this wine bottle isn't opened yet, because he sure is going to abandon it in favor of seeking retribution in the form of kissing her back on her neck.]

It's not dangerous. How on earth is it dangerous!

[Oh, no. Oh, no, what a terrible fate, surely she ought to resist, except no, no, she's just tipping her head back, grinning up at the ceiling. A moment, and then she squirms, just to encourage him.]

A lack of proper unit of measure. Rendering us, ah. Unable to...measure.

[Is he distracted by the alcohol or the fact that he's shifting into nibbling rather than kissing in what are probably the preliminary stages of just outright biting her? Quite possibly both.]

We're drinking too much, Rosie.

No, we're not.

[No, they probably are. Certainly it's a good thing she hasn't yet gotten to her feet. Rosalind hums happily, squirming again-- yes, good, go on, keep going, because things like bruises that are too high on her neck are things for a future Rosalind to fuss about.]

We're not, 'cos we're still coherent. Perfectly able to keep up a conversation. Perfectly able to, to teleport.

You still can't teleport. Which is horrid, by the way. Absolutely unfair.

[Hmmm.]

Hedons and heathens, it seems we're being. But we're being it together.

Which is all that truly matters, in the end, isn't it? You're here, and you're not leaving, so you can simply carry me and teleport me everywhere. Isn't an inconvenience at all.

And you like that. Carrying me. So it works out, doesn't it?

...It does.

[Which seems to give him pause a minute, because this seems vaguely like a stacked deck somehow, but he can't quite put his finger on how it's stacked against him in the face of this LOGIC]

So. ...I suppose I'm carrying you everywhere, then.

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