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Rosalind Lutece

Doctor of physics, professor at Recollé University.

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[She's not surprised, not if she thinks about it. He's an easy person to talk to, and as far as she knows, he and Jack are fairly close anyway.]

Mm, to say the least.

. . . I was going to evoke all that. I'm going to, I suppose.

[She drains her glass again, blinking hard as the alcohol hits her. She's not a particularly large woman and that's not a low alcohol percentage, Christ.]

In, in our experiment.

Ooh, experiment. That makes it sound so fancy!

[ But he sees her hard blinking, so he stands, a little tipsy himself. ]

Got a guest bedroom if you wanna spend the night. No offense intended here, but buttercup, you can't knock 'em back like me and Tony do.

[She likely wouldn't have found much offense with that, except he slides in that diminutive and suddenly she's scowling. She's also not getting up, not least of which because she isn't sure she won't stumble.]

I'm not six bloody feet tall, of course you two can drink more than I can. And don't call me that. Rosie is one thing, that is quite another.

Babe. Baby. Darling. Honey. Sweetheart. Pussycat. Sugar cookie--

[ He has a million of them. And he's totally going to keep going if she doesn't interrupt him. ]

[He's standing, which means he's at the perfect height for her to just sort of kick him, right in the thigh, light enough to be teasing but hard enough to be felt.]

[ And he's in just the right mood to act wounded, clutching at his knee like she's stuck a~~n arrow~~ knife in it. He even pretends to lose his balance, dramatically collapsing to the floor.

Yeah. ]

[Delightful. Honestly, Rosalind looks entirely too smug at that, but you take your victories where you can get them. Besides: she's just tipsy enough that this is pretty funny, and she's laughing as she peers over the couch's edge.]

I hope you're not waiting for an apology, because you shan't get one. Poor thing, did I kick you too hard?

I can't talk to you, I'm dead.

[ Also the floor actually feels really nice and cool against his cheek right now? God. And no he's seriously carrying this joke a little longer, not getting up just yet. ]

Yep. Still dead.

[Oh, well, that suits her just fine; it means she gets to stretch out on the couch, and does, lying parallel to him. What a pair they make, but on the other hand, there's a bit more dignity to a couch compared to a floor.

Idly, she pats his shoulder.]

Does that mean I can say whatever I want without you arguing?

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