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I meant — if you mentioned it, it wasn't irrelevant. Your feelings aren't.

[But even that is wounding in its own way, and he half-opens his arms in uncertain invitation, watching her rise to her feet and guessing what she might be after.]

[For just a split-second, Rosalind hesitates.

It seems cruel to simply flee into the refuge of his arms after wounding him in such a way. Surely she ought to be the one offering him comfort? Yes, the hallucination had been awful, and the pregnancy the worst part, but . . . her wounds are a month old, whereas his are both fresh and inflicted by herself. She'd been thoughtless and hurt him, and yet here he is, ready to draw her in close once more.

Selfish. She's always so selfish. After just a second of hesitation, she steps forward, pressing her face against his chest, her eyes closing.]

. . . I shouldn't have brought it up.

[It isn't quite I'm sorry, but it has the cadence of it.]

I'm a tough old boy, Rosie-Posie. I won't pop with a few pricks of the figurative pin.

[It's not a lie. It's not lying, what they're doing to each other. It's — blunting. Softening. Mitigating. They're trying to tell each other it's all right, somehow, in ways that only they can speak to each other, that no one else in any universe could possibly replicate.

He holds her, and some of the sting does lessen. He's here now, and so is she, and illusions of Charles Astor are a million miles away.]

You're mine. Not his. That's the fact of it, plain and simple.

Of course I am.

[She tips her head up, nosing against the crook of his neck, brushing kisses here and there.]

Always. Always yours, always, there's never been a question--

[She hesitates again. She wants desperately to comfort him, but she's not quite certain if bringing up the illusion is the best idea. He might not be irrevocably hurt, but she doesn't want to suddenly drive the knife deeper.]

. . . I was miserable with him. Utterly so. I'd grown to loathe him, because I viewed him as little more than the jailer, holding the key to my cage.

...So much for "can't beat the cage", eh...

[It'd be a sorrier attempt at humor if it weren't for the fact that he does an impression of her voice while he's at it, pitching the words up and leaning a little more heavily on the vowels so it's almost a parody of the same sigh he'd heard out of her so many times before, offering up Elizabeth Comstock a pin that meant nothing in the ocean of the universe's flow, but that revealed something of her nevertheless.

He reaches up, idly stroking at her hair again.]

Then it's good it was only an illusion. Gone now. Behind us both...yes?

[It's a terrible joke, but it earns a huffed laugh nonetheless. If he's joking, it means she hasn't made a devastating mistake. Rosalind tips her head back, pushing against his hand.]

Yes.

[Of course it is. And yet . . . Rosalind leans forward again, staring fixedly at his chest. She doesn't dare meet his eye, not just yet, though she reaches to grab one of his hands.]

We're human here, you know. Instantiated in this city, unwilling a process though it may have been. And while there is a chance you'll leave, there's also a great chance you'll stay.

[Rosalind curls the fingers of her free hand in his shirt, watching the way the already-creased fabric wrinkles even further.]

I have . . . things I want to do first. Security measures I would still invent. Research I want to get done. But it's . . .

This is a free city. A city without all the elements and influences that had made Columbia unsuitable for us. It isn't without its dangers, but they're dangers we can safeguard against. And I--

[. . .]

I was reluctant, when you first brought the subject up, because I did not want to give up our state of being. But as that choice has been foisted upon me, my primary reason for disagreeing with you has dissipated.

[She finally brings his hand forward, sliding it between them, til his fingers press lightly against her stomach.]

. . . I would be willing to at least broach the subject again. If you would.

Edited 2017-03-22 06:50 (UTC)

[For the second time in what seems like as many minutes, he's struck with a figurative punch to the chest.

In a way, this is almost cruel in and of itself, the agony of the confession that had brought him so low just minutes ago, now replaced by the thrill of hope from the promise that sets him soaring. This is what it must feel like to be Icarus, he thinks, but an Icarus caught in a loop of ever-repeating time, soaring so high and falling so hard, only to be dragged back up to soar once again.

And yet he knows exactly what she's doing. It's not manipulative per se, though it's certainly not without its deliberate intent. She's still trying to apologize, in her way, even now. She knows how desperately he's wanted — well, the subject, as she puts it so neatly, and she might've offered it to him anytime but there's a purpose to it in offering it now. It's heads and tails, bird and cage; it's balancing out a delusion of Charles Astor with a reality available to the two of them.

...Which, actually, explains why he's hungry, and why she has food in the refrigerator. Funny how it hadn't really occurred to him to question that before, when perhaps it would've been logical to. Perhaps the memories of this house and the happiness of being reunited in it had carried him away on wings of his own fantasies, without the necessary grounding in reality that might've made him question it more thoroughly.

He doesn't move his fingers, but he does hold them where she places them. He holds them there, and he holds her, and he breathes, very slowly.

This is, perhaps, the most difficult thing he's had to do in a long time, at least since their fight when he'd threatened to leave her if she wouldn't comply with his moral whims again. This is another moment where he's driven by his conscience, where he can't help but obey.]

At some point, I would like nothing more.

[He tightens his grip on her, like he's trying to tighten his resolve in equal measure.]

But — not in the wake of this. Someday, yes, god yes, yes, but not — not when my judgment is clouded.

[Clouded with notions of jealousy and spite, he doesn't clarify, but he doesn't have to; she'll know.]

...But yes.

[Despite himself, his voice tapers down to a whisper, thin and ragged.]

I know what a hardship it would be for you. But if you're willing — yes, yes.

I am.

[She is. Not immediately, not until they're both settled in, but she wouldn't have offered it if she'd been entirely opposed. She really had been telling the truth: her primary point of opposition to the entire notion was that she was unwilling to give up their glorious immortal state of being. But as they're grounded now . . .

He's clever, refusing her. He's always so clever, he's so wonderful, he's so much, he's so much more than anyone else she's ever met. Rosalind shivers in his arms and finally gathers her courage to tip her head back and meet his eyes.]

I need-- we would need to discuss it. But I wouldn't have offered if I was unwilling.

[But enough. Rosalind doesn't pull back from his arms, not yet, but she exhales harshly, beyond irritated with herself.]

Five months, and I still haven't learned how to be a bit comforting.

And yet I find myself comforted.

[He does tug his hand away from her, though, but only to bring it up and around to the back of her head again, repeating that fond and affectionate motion of mussing her hair with careless twists and grasps of his fingers. It's not quite like petting, but not quite combing his fingers through neatly; it's mostly just enjoying the feel of the soft sleek strands of her hair against his skin, and of the rhythm of his toying with it that preoccupies him and hopefully soothes her.]

I meant it, my dear. I'll not fall and perish from a few jabs to the ego. It's only...the sting is an inevitability, of course. It doesn't mean you bear the burden of that.

And you know I wouldn't wish you an iota different than you are, comforting or not.

[She doesn't reply. Guilt still nags at her, though his fingers are working through her hair, his other hand firm as it grips her and keeps her close. She shouldn't have told him, that much is obvious, and she'll have to learn from that. She's too used to everything happening to them together, their emotions on a subject one and the same. Even when they were human the first time, what minor separations they'd endured had always ended with them recounting their adventures and basking in each other's arms. She'd never once come home from Finkton afraid to tell her Robert what had happened--

--but then again: she had never come home from Finkton so drastically and violently altered.

She has to be more careful. She has to ease him into this world, and soften her words until he's settled. Rosalind sighs softly, tipping her head forward to bury her face against his chest.]

. . . you'll be upset with the library, too.

[But her tone is lighter, suggesting she's teasing.]

There's nothing in order. And when some poor soul comes along to try and put things to rights, the spirits who haunt the place ensure their efforts are in vain. Poor Fugo has tried, god knows.

The spirits that haunt the place, eh? Rather like ourselves, once upon a time? Popping up here and there, haranguing the —

[But his sentence stops short as an odd look crosses his face, and his hands still in her hair as his brow furrows and he tugs back to regard her with a deeply perplexed look.]

...I'm sorry, are you hearing that noise as well? It sounds like...gnashing, of some sort?

Do I--

[Of course she has. But it's been something that's only really registered at the back of her mind, a sound as commonplace as the pipes creaking or the wood settling. Rosalind finally smiles, meeting Robert's perplexed gaze with a mischievous one of her own.]

I've yet to introduce you to my pet. You've got to promise to be kind before I do.

Edited 2017-03-23 19:36 (UTC)

You've gotten a pet? Why should you be worried that I'd be unkind to any pet of yours?

[As though he's going to haul it off to the lab and perform experiments on it or something...]

When and how did you come across a pet that caught your fancy, precisely?

He was made for me, actually.

[Or she. Do plants have a gender? Ah, but that's a thought experiment for another time. For now: Rosalind rises to her toes and kisses him, short and sweet, before pulling away.]

His name is Punnett!

[She calls that over her shoulder as she heads into the bathroom. There's a few worrying noises-- spitting and popping, followed by a long, low whine as Rosalind coos softly into the tub-- before all goes silent.

Soon she returns, her pace brisk, a pleased little smile on her face. Behind her, following along enthusiastically, is the ojigi. All waving tendrils and spitting mouths, it lumbers along quite quickly, skidding the corner as it tries to keep Rosalind in its metaphorical sightline. The second she stops, it does too, relaxing at her side, its tendrils waving idly in the air. One creeps around her leg, as if the ojigi might keep her close and stop her from moving so much.

It doesn't take Punnett long to realize there's a second person in the room. Truthfully, his reaction is sluggish, but that can be forgiven: he's never come across an entity like Robert. This isn't his maker, nor is it his Rosalind. It's . . . not an enemy. Not something to be killed and eaten. And yet the man before him is alive, heat and movement, and so what is the conclusion to be drawn to?

Punnett whines again, as Rosalind laughs and strokes two fingers against a limb.]

I wondered what he might do with you.

[Punnett? Like the tool for predicting the probability of possible genotypes of offsprin— LORD GOD ALMIGHTY]

Good god!

[It's not quite appropriate to say that he recoils, precisely, upon the sight of Punnett, because recoiling suggests a backwards movement and the only direction that he ends up jerking is forward — which, tellingly, is also the direction in which Rosalind is standing in relation to him, which betrays some of what's motivating him to make a move in the first place.

Yet — for all its horror and unexpected...biology, the creature isn't actually doing anything particularly menacing. It's certainly not harming Rosalind. She calls it by name, even, and seems delighted by it; she touches it, and it seems to respond to her.

So this is her pet?

She'd said she'd been cataloguing the monsters around here, but he hadn't quite added up that offhand reference into the reality of this.]

What is that?!

[The ojigi is still awfully confused, but it can cling to her. Far more important is Robert; Rosalind reaches out, taking one of Robert's hands for all the assurance it might give him.]

It's a South American plant grown with a particularly specific energy. Kurama made it for me, after--

[She pauses for half a second, her smile flickering, before pushing past it.]

Afterwards. It's normally an utterly enormous creature, twenty-odd feet tall, and attacks anything that emits heat or moves. But as Punnett was made for me, he's grown defensive: he's more concerned with protecting me than mass destruction.

[She glances down at the plant for a moment, her gaze fond, before smiling at Robert.]

And you, my genetically identical counterpart, seem to be confusing him quite a bit. He doesn't know whether to attack you or protect you.

Edited 2017-03-23 21:11 (UTC)

Made it for you? It's a — it's some sort of a beast of a plant...

[IT HAS MOUTHS. AND TEETH. AND THE GURGLING NOISES IT MAKES ARE NOT HUMAN.

...

IT'S MOBILE FOR GOD'S SAKE]

W-Well, kindly explain to him that I'd prefer not to be attacked, thank you very much!

[It most certainly is mobile: as Rosalind takes a step forward, Punnett growls and edges behind her, trying to keep her close.]

He shan't attack you.

[She says that awfully confidently. And ah, there's something a little wicked about the way she's smirking as she adds:]

He would have by now, if he were going to. Your poor trousers would be utterly dissolved-- he can spit acid.

You are far too calm about this.

[HE IS GOING TO COMPLAIN THIS ENTIRE TIME. Also possibly find a chair and stand on it. Not that he can really do that with Ros still so nearby, but it's awfully tempting, even if it is also bruising to his man's pride.]

Has this creature been in here the whole time...?!

Mm, yes. I put him in the bathtub when I'm not at home. He gets preoccupied with the tap dripping.

[She's not laughing, precisely, but she's smirking enough that she might as well be.]

Heat and movement: he's attracted to both. The drip of the tap is both irregular and quick, which means he can't ever catch it, nor stop the issue, because he doesn't realize the tap is the problem.

[Her adorably stupid plant-pet. Who has apparently gotten over his confusion, by the by, and is now slowly edging towards Robert. It must be said that it's friendly edging, and there's nothing but eager affection in the way those acid-drooling mouths whine up at him.]

Astonishing. Absolutely horrifying.

[What markedly different reactions they are having to the same exact plant — but of course, Robert is a few months behind on his affection for the infernal thing, and has yet to catch up.

He doesn't cringe away, though, even as it moves closer. He's watching it intently, to be sure, but it seems as though his determination to maintain nerves of steel is winning out against common sense and self-preservation.]

And you use this as a...guard dog — plant — of sorts? When you called it a "pet"...

Yes.

[Punnett begins to feel him out, quite literally: tendrils slide against his leg, over his shoes, feeling out the differences in this not!Mum.]

I bring him into the forest with me, or on the plains. He's quite effective, both as a guard dog and general deterrent. I should think there's very few creatures left who don't know that to come near me is to be instantly killed.

[Right, well. He'll just be over here resisting the impulse to shriek like a little girl, then.]

...Good. It's — it's good, isn't it?

[HE'S NOT HESITANT ABOUT THE IDEA THAT IT'S GOOD, HE'S PREOCCUPIED WITH THE VINES RUBBING AROUND HIS LEGS LIKE AN OVEREAGER CAT, IS ALL]

Are you quite all right?

[No, of course he's not. But he's going to have to get used to Punnett sooner or later, so it might as well be now. The plant keeps spitting and whining, but soon seems to come to some sort of favorable conclusion, for the vines slowly relax. They curl around his ankles, not so much binding him as simply settling in.]

Well. There's a heat-seeking motion-sensitive acid-spitting hell plant cozying up to my legs.

[Hopefully it doesn't understand the Queen's English, he muses, as he very tentatively lowers his hand in a mirror of the way that Rosalind had done shortly before, two fingers out to try to touch and perhaps even pet what little of the ojigi he might reach.]

...Is it purring?

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