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[Oh. Yikes. Hello, Rosalind's legs, you sure are...right there, now, aren't you, just all there and —

...Actually, come to think of it...]

I can, but I don't know how well-received it's likely to be.

[That's how it should be, then. Drawing her back out with normalcy, step by step, coaxing her away from the horrors of her memories with reminders of his presence in the here and now, instead.]

You do look quite fetching in my coat, nary a complaint out of me on that front. But where in high heaven did you come up with...with this business you've got on?

[...]

And more to the point, are you expecting me to match you? I don't know that a comparable slit up the side of my trousers would be nearly so well-received in society at large...

Hardly.

[Oh, god, she's missed this. She's missed teasing him and being teased, going back and forth glibly and sarcastically without a care in the world. She's starting to smile, which really doesn't lend much credence to her falsely brisk tone, but such is life.]

Your trousers are perfectly suitable. Your tie and waistcoat, however, are items you're going to have to do without. You might well undo your shirt one or two buttons, as well. Are you implying you've a complaint about my dress? It's perfectly respectable. I teach in this dress, Robert.

Without my tie and waistcoat!

[A protest that the dulcet tones of Oliver Vaquer just whined through the reader's mind's eye (mind's ear?), assuming the narrative has done its job properly.]

...Good god, do you mean to say you've taught in that? To boys? Are you quite mad?

Robert.

[Rosalind slides her fingers up the back of his neck, gliding through his hair as she smirks. She's teasing him, yes, but on the other hand, it's not as if she's being dishonest.]

You hardly have to act as if I'm parading about in my underthings, you know. Really, you and I will be far more modest than most of the city anyway.

I am not acting as though you are parading about in your underthings. But you must concede that I am far more familiar with the state of being a teenage boy than you are.

[HE'S BEEN THERE. HE'S LIVED IT.]

You mustn't get me wrong, my dear, you look positively stunning in the affair, and that is why absolutely no boys ought to see you in it save myself.

[Here's the truth: one of her students is engaged, two are quite preoccupied with each other, and the fourth is far too respectable to be so improper. But that truth is far less amusing than the truth she's feeding him. Rosalind lifts one leg idly, watching the way it pulls her dress tight over her thighs.]

Pity, then, half the city has seen me in it, isn't it?

You are positively relishing this business, aren't you?

[And yet: good. Good, good that she's cheeky and clever and feisty. So much the better, let her be all of these things, if it means that she's not reduced to shivering and tears in exchange.]

Where did you get it? I can't very well box the ears of half the city, but I might at least have words with whosoever sold it to you.

Mm, another person I want you to meet. She tailored it for me. There aren't many clothing shops here, and she took pity on me after I complained too often. If you go and lecture her I'll be quite cross, you know.

[The threat would likely hold a little firmer if she wasn't also nosing against him, but such is life. Rosalind kisses his cheek, his jawline, and adds:]

She's also the happy fiancée of Mr Strider. All of my students are in relationships, actually.

Strider. Strider is...ah, the wonderchild. Corpses, palentology, time manipulation. The lab hand. And now you mean to say his fiancée is a seamstress?

[Almost absently, as she's nosing at him, he moves his hand to rake his fingers through her hair, starting at the nape of her neck and working his way up along the curve of her head.]

How exactly does a lad of those unusual talents end up engaged to a seamstress?

I haven't yet asked after the details. But I do know we aren't the only ones here to travel to multiple worlds. She's from our time.

[Ah, and it's been five months since she's gotten to feel that. Rosalind tips her head back with a happy sigh, squirming a little to try and encourage him. Except that seems far too subtle after a moment, and so she adds:]

Keep--

You have been busy. Though I'm still a bit aghast at this new clarification, because now it seems a girl from our time worked up a dress like that for you, which seems to me to be nothing short of a conspiracy of some variety.

[But hey, it's not like he's mad, because it's impossible to be mad when she's squirming and wriggling and sighing the way that she is, and he's preoccupied with keeping her doing it, anyway.]

Spoiled. That's good, is it?

I can hardly be spoilt if I've not had this in five months. And it could be a great deal better, if you want to know the truth.

[Still: she's hardly pulling away, because fingers running through her hair is worth quite a lot.]

And how might it be a great deal better?

[He says, even as he redoubles his efforts at playing with her hair and sinks his fingers in to the mass of it a little more emphatically, close to petting her outright with his attentions.]

You could begin by kissing me.

[But oh, certainly that's a good effort: Rosalind tips her head back with another happy sigh, pleased at the way he plays with her hair. Squirming in his lap, she slides her fingers idly, more focused on teasing the lines of his neck, scratching lightly.]

One wasn't enough.

Perhaps then, a combination of the two...

[And now he twists his fingers, using his hold in her hair as much to pull her in as to play with it for his own amusement, and drags her down for the kiss she wants.]

Mmm?

[It's a little embarrassing just how enthusiastically she responds: surging up to press into the kiss, pressing her body forward so she's flush against him, her fingers wrapping tight around his tie once more. But five months, twenty weeks without his touch, that's far longer than she ever ought to have endured, and so Rosalind ignores any embarrassment she might feel in favor of tugging pointedly at his tie.]

[It's so easy to gather her in, so natural to set his arms around her and move in tandem with her; she shifts and he responds, she gravitates and he accommodates. Their natural state of existence is one that seeks to be together, and they've been separated for too long — but no more.

But all the same, for all his tenderness, there's a firm hand behind his movements, too; when the kiss drags on a little too long, he pulls on her hair to create a sliver of space between them, just long enough to snatch a breath before they're attracted together again.]

[A thrill runs through her at the way he grips her hair, tugging her back as he pleases, and for the first few times, she's perfectly pleased to let it happen. He hardly stays away for long, and each renewed kiss is all the sweeter for those few moments of waiting. And god, but she's missed the heat of his mouth, the way he feels as he moves beneath her, it's good, yes, it's brilliant, but--

He's making her wait. Not long, no, but it's a deliberate movement each time, a pointed little tug that's entirely unnecessary. By the fourth or fifth time, she's grown irritated. It might have only been a day or so for him, but she's spent five months without his company.]

Robert--

[It's a growl, low and annoyed.]

Is there a reason you keep pulling me back?

[Ah, good. A pause to catch his breath — and perhaps to bite a touch of feeling back into his faintly parted lips, besides.]

Quite simply, my dear, because if I don't I'm frankly a bit afraid you'll neglect to breathe.

[She wrinkles her nose at him, but fine: if he wants a few moments to catch his breath, let him. Rosalind instead busies herself with his tie, starting to work it loose.]

I'll happily take that risk, thank you. But if you're so worried, you might indulge in something else.

Very well; let's see if I can't come up with something that will suffice.

[And so it goes; five months is a long time to be separated, even if it's only one of them who'd had to experience it. In the grand scheme of things, that doesn't really matter, because what affects one of them strikes both of them, and when something wounds Rosalind, Robert can't help but be wounded too.

So it's a while, unsurprisingly, before discussion resumes. If Rosalind's foreboding suspicion is true, and they really only have just three days of reunion before they're ripped apart again, then they'd be fools not to take advantage of every instant while it lasts.

And far be it from a Lutece, of course, to be a fool.

But discussion does resume, eventually. It couldn't not, when there's still so much that's been left unspoken and as-yet-undiscussed, and neither of them is eager to sleep anyway for fear of taking their eyes off of each other for even an instant.]

Rosie.

[It's late, and he's tired, and he's yawning, but his fight to keep himself alert is both open and obvious.]

Please tell me you've got something to eat in this house — and, as corollary, something slightly more palatable than plain eggs.

In the freezer.

[For her part, Rosalind is having absolutely no trouble staying awake. That might be read as a comparison to Robert, and an unflattering one besides, but that isn't it. He's no less invested in her than she is in him, but it's her who's endured the five months of separation. Robert still instinctively thinks of them as a unit, forever bound. And she . . .

She still does. Of course she does. We, ours, us, that's all she's longed to be this past half-year. But five months have given her an unwilling taste of individuality, and with it comes the terror of loss. Close her eyes, even for a few seconds, and Robert might suddenly vanish. Why not? He had before.

So she's awake. Rosalind hoists her legs up, drawing her knees to her chest and resting her chin atop them. It's a decidedly childish pose, but terror isn't the only emotion she's feeling right now. It would be impossible for her not to be a little giddy at the sheer sight of him, moving around her apartment, touching all her things as familiarly as if they were his own.]

There's quite a few different meals there. And a bit of pie left over, from a rather grateful man who wanted some lotion for his hands.

[Her eyes track him around the kitchen, as she simply drinks in all the familiar movements of his body. He gestures like that, holds his weight just so . . . god, she could watch him all night.]

Pick one, make some coffee, and come here. I've another thing I want to tell you.

[It's a simple enough routine; he's never had much of a problem with the prospect of being the one who knows his way around a kitchen, despite the stereotypes of which of them ought to belong in it and which of them oughtn't. Rather a bit strange to pick apart, that societal expectation — that he should be applauded for the unheard-of accomplishment of being able to scramble a few eggs and manage to not burn toast and marmalade, yet Rosalind would receive no such credit whatsoever, and in fact would only be penalized if she didn't possess that particular skillset of her own.

(Oh, that's not to say he didn't receive his fair share of ribbing for it, though. Get a wife to do that for you, Rob! they'd tease, see if you can't catch a pretty one, they're ripe for the picking at Girton.)

Well. In the grand scheme of things, they weren't wrong, were they? He did land a Girton girl in the end — or rather, she landed him, and she should've been a Cambridge lass all along to begin with.

But he gets the coffee started without much ado, then wanders to the icebox and squints into it, taking in the startling sight of all the individually-portioned meals stacked neatly inside, precisely as promised.]

Is this how you've been —

[...Of course it is. Why would he expect anything different? Of course it is, and there's nothing wrong with it, so what use is it to be aghast? He'll only make her feel bad, and that's not what he wants at all.

He experimentally lifts a few of the wrappings of the various items, eventually settling on what looks to be a goodly portion of a Sunday roast and a few Yorkshire puddings — eerily reminiscent of home.]

...You've found someone with a hand for home cooking, I see. This looks like something straight out of a London kitchen...

Edited 2017-03-22 01:59 (UTC)

Several someones, actually.

[For all her irritations with Ruby City's lack of economy, at least it's had this benefit: she can get all her meals done for the easy exchange of laughably simple science.]

Although that particular one comes from my dressmaker.

[But that isn't what she's building herself up to talk about. Rosalind's hands slide down her legs, until she's wrapped her slender fingers around her ankles.]

. . . did your Charles Astor ever marry after university?

[Rather an abrupt subject change, and yet Rosalind watches Robert closely.]

...Charles?

[Now there's a topic out of left field that he honestly wasn't expecting. Fortunately, he's got no intention of eating this meal cold, so there's an opportunity to fuss with the oven and get it started warming before he has to come back around and try to answer it, which leaves him plenty of time to process.

Charles Astor. Where in the world is this coming from? Charles Astor is like a memory that only sometimes resurfaces when he's wont to reminisce about The Good Old Boys in The Good Old Days; certainly he's nothing to do with any of this?

...Well, unless he'd arrived here. That's possible, isn't it? Questionable taste on the part of the universe, snatching up Rosalind and Charles Astor both, but, well. There are likewise worse options, certainly.]

He did. It took him a while, as I recall — he was such a traditionalist about it, I truly suspect half the girls he courted got bored with it midway through and begged off with some excuse. But he did find a girl, eventually — I think her name was Emily, perhaps?

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timeskip ensues, grammarians continue to have reason to get out of bed in the morning

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