originallutece | ic contact;

Is that right?

[Her hand slides down, both her arms wrapping around his neck as they sway.]

State it correctly, then, if we're doing it for science. Our hypothesis is . . .?

Twofold. First: the location in which a kiss is shared bears no correlation to the potential social ramifications, if any, of that kiss.

[And around they go in an easy circle, spinning across the bedroom floor.]

And second: a kiss shared in present circumstances is measurably and demonstrably more satisfying than ones shared historically in Columbia.

The next step is experimentation, of course.

[She hesitates for just half a second, and then adds:]

Well? Shall we? There's no time like the present, and I should so like to come to a favorable conclusion before the end of the day.

One moment, before we do.

[Because "shall we" isn't even a question, is it — not when the delicious question is when shall we, rather.]

Valentine's Day. You have something in mind for it already, don't you?

. . . a few ideas.

[A beat. She pulls her arms back, though she doesn't try and squirm out of Robert's grip.]

Most of them simply celebrate the fact that-- well. You're here. [She lets that linger for a second, then adds quickly:] And we're in a place where we can enjoy being in public without repercussions.

Tell me. I know it's on your mind, you've mentioned it more than a few times now in passing.

[And because they'll do everything, of course, but she wouldn't be singling this out in particular if it weren't destined to be special in some unique capacity. That's what he needs to know, all told. He needs to know how to make that rare dream of hers a reality.]

Don't leave it to me just to guess, or I'll end up going off and plagiarizing Marlowe or somesuch again.

[That earns a quiet laugh. Rosalind glances away, though, her fingers curling anxiously in his shirt.]

. . . I--

[It's so stupid, is the thing. It's such a silly little fantasy, more befitting a teenager than a grown woman. It isn't as if she thinks Robert is going to laugh; god knows he's the one usually more inclined to these kinds of things. But perhaps that's why she's so hesitant to say it: this isn't her role, but his.]

I want to indulge in, in all the things normal couples get to. In public, I mean, I want--

[Hrgh.]

There's so much we're allowed to do now, Robert. Everything we once had to pass on, picnics and-- and walks on the beach and kissing and dancing, it's all ours for the taking. That's what I want. I want us to be able to celebrate our first Valentine's day in public. Dinner and dancing and-- and all the romantic trappings therein. I want to eat in public, and walk down the street under your arm, and kiss you at the end of the night, and not once be treated as if we were anything but ordinary.

...You want me to woo you.

[As it turns out, he actually does laugh, but it's not mean-spirited in the slightest. Quite the contrary, it's one of those erratic, breathless, surprised sorts of laughs that come out when one tries to fill a space without quite knowing how, when recognition bubbles up and tickles from the inside out, and giddiness escapes in little bursts like soap bubbles making rainbows in the sun.]

Start to finish — the whole ticket? A real, proper bout of courting you. Pick you up at the door, fumble the flowers I've brought you in my nervousness, babble something about how fine you look and cross two sentences together in my haste? Dinner, dancing, not wanting to say goodnight, making excuses to stretch out the night a little too long, keeping you out in the open air in a dress with no shoulders just to gallantly come to your rescue with my suit coat...

The first time that we've never yet had. That's what you'd like?

. . . yes.

[All of it. All the things they'd dreamed about when they were seventeen, all the gestures and words and acts they'd had to find in others. She'd had Henry and he'd had Victoria, and oh, they were all right, but there wasn't a year where the Luteces hadn't wished there was someone else in their suitor's place.

Even once they were united, it wasn't like that. Their first Valentine's day in person had been an exercise in terror, really. They'd celebrated, yes, but only within the confines of their home. Only once they'd both gone around to make sure all the curtains were firmly closed and the door locked, and even then, Rosalind had been absolutely certain someone was going to find them out. She'd been shaking as Robert tugged her up to dance, outright shivering in his arms, so utterly terrified that her happiness was about to be snatched away from her.

But here . . . here, they can do what they'd like. And god, but doesn't he paint a pretty picture? All the romance, all the awkwardness, all the fumbling gestures and little glances, the flowers and sweet words and badly disguised eagerness . . . yes. That's precisely what she wants.]

Please.

...Well, now I'm anxious. Botch this too badly and you might just realize you could land a far better catch than me after all.

[But he's grinning at her, bound and determined to draw a laugh out of her as well, as he whirls her in a circle one last time.]

Will you have any pity at all for me, should I flub it miserably?

Oh, honestly--

[It isn't a laugh, but she does bite her lip to suppress a smile, so well done Robert.]

I suppose it depends, doesn't it? I'll treat you just the same as any suitor of mine, so at least be assured you're being held to a fair standard. But pity will be entirely contingent on how precisely you err, if indeed you do.

Darling, didn't you all but eat alive all your other suitors? I'm not so sure how well I'll fare, by that standard...

[EAT SHIT HENRY]

I most certainly did not. Simply because they failed to meet the most basic standards is hardly my fault, is it?

[Eat shit, Henry.]

You shan't think a good evening consists of a glass of wine, a my, don't you look pretty, my girl, and a quick trip back to one's dormitory, now will you?

Dearest, you can't very well ask me that, when I'm already biased. Any evening that I get to call you my girl is a good evening, as far as I'm concerned.

[He says, lifting her up into his arms for another twirl this time.]

Who did that? Was it Henry? It sounds like Henry. Charles would've said "milady" or something equally merriment-killing.

[Well okay no, there's no responding right away, not when he's twirling her. Rosalind finally laughs, first content to simply move as he directs her, and then pressing up close when he sets her down.]

Of course it was Henry. Charles had an aneurysm when I implied I might like something more than a chaste kiss on the cheek.

[Her smile doesn't falter. But there's a moment, there and gone, where a flash of false memory slips to the front of her mind. Charles never liked to kiss me in public, ten years worth of false memories and assumed hallucinations inform her. He preferred chastity in public, and modesty; he was always harping on about virtues . . .

No. No, he wasn't, because that wasn't real. Rosalind blinks, dismissing the thought, and adds:]

Ah-- Henry, on the other hand, was gung-ho from the first outing. Which was rather flattering, I suppose.

Charles's brave self-denial is as admirable as it is stupid.

[He says as he sets her down, freeing up one of his hands to catch her chin and hold it in place while he ducks in to kiss her thoroughly.

Eat shit, Charles, and eat shit, virtues, too.]

And I feel certain I can more than outperform Henry — in quite a few aspects of the endeavor, come to think of it.

[She rises to her toes, leaning forward to try and catch his mouth for a second the instant he pulls away. That kind of kiss isn't allowed to be limited to one. But oh, he's speaking, and Rosalind lingers close by, pleased at the way she can feel his breath against her mouth.]

There's little use in trying to sway me. You're going to have to prove it, Robert.

I fully intend to prove it, my darling. But you must grant me some time to prepare — for strategy, if you will, prior to my courtship debut.

[He says, and kisses her again.]

[God, but she's missed this. Sometimes it seems as if she might simply spend the next five months marveling over every little gesture he makes. Every kiss, every touch, each time he yanks her into his lap or murmurs an endearment, she'll simply have to spend a few seconds gasping in delight.

Silently, of course. It won't do to spend half her life gawping at him like a fool.]

Mm. How long do you require?

Let's see. To arrange for attire, venue, and gifts...

[Hmm. Hmm, hmm, indeed.]

With good luck and fair sailing, I would expect the outside of a week?

Call it a fortnight, then.

[Two weeks. Two weeks, and oh, it's silly, but her heart races at the thought. Two weeks, and they'll get to enjoy one another as they've never gotten to before.]

But for now . . . you still owe me a kiss, darling.

[A kiss in public. What an utterly absurd thing to be excited about.]

Can't wait a fortnight for that, eh?

[But that's fine, really. Especially when she's so close at hand like this, standing right in his arms at the perfect height for him to lower his chin and gaze down into her face as she looks back up at him; especially when it puts her at the perfect angle to hold her cheek in one hand and stroke her hair back behind her ear with the other, and finally bring both to frame her face like she's something precious and fragile — which she is and is not, respectively.]

Then let's be off. For science.

[It's just as instantaneous a process as she remembers it: one moment, they're in the house, and the next, they're standing beneath the obelisk. There's no traveling, no zip or zing: they're simply there, as easily as if they'd just taken a step. The only difference now is that Robert's arms are around her the entire time, keeping her pressed close.

It's still strange that he kept their powers and she hadn't, but it isn't such an inconvenience. Not if he can move them both around.]

Ready?

[Unnecessary. Of course he's ready. But Rosalind, perhaps, isn't. God, even standing out here pressed together is risky, and it takes everything in her not to take a large step back.]

Not quite. Come here.

[He reaches for her shoulders, lightly guiding her to turn around until they're facing the same direction, and then draws her back against him so that he can hold her loosely from behind. It means that everything he sees, she sees; it means her back is protected by his presence, and his arms are securing her in the front.

He stands there with her, simply holding her in silence for a few moments as they look out over the city center stretched out around them, and then leans down to murmur against her ear.]

No Fink. No Comstock. No Columbia.

[He gives her a squeeze.]

Just us.

Just us.

[Just them. No more boundaries. No more rules. No more forcing herself into the rigid role of Madam Lutece; no more needing to demand respect every minute of every hour of every day. No more keeping Robert at an arm's length in public; no more watching her words and guarding her emotions behind an iron mask. No more devoting all their time and energy to guide a man through an endeavor so hopeless it had taken them a hundred and twenty-three attempts to get it right.

No more responsibilities. No more lying. Just them, and the future stretching out before them.]

. . . it's still unreal to me.

[She shifts her weight, resting back against him.]

Not just the concept of us. Even the way people treat me here . . . there hasn't been a person yet who's argued my title. Even dressing like this, they all accept me as Doctor Lutece, just as they do you.

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