originallutece | (no subject)

Yes. I told Ardyn on there, but I wasn't pleased about doing it on the network at all. I got this package this morning, but I was so preoccupied with the color loss I didn't realize until a few hours ago.

[She glances over at him for a few seconds, then opens the book, turning towards the publication page.]

Look at what year it was written.

[1893, that's when, and maybe that will explain why the color has drained from her cheeks.]

...This has your name on it.

[He frowns slightly, reaching to take the book from her — more because he can see how it's distressing her than for the sake of having a better look at it.]

And the year is — that can't be right...

The language is consistent with the late nineteenth century. She calls herself Madam Lutece. And there are entire sections missing, Fawkes-- entire chapters with only one or two sentences in them, but the rest blank.

[She hands it over willingly, and stands with her arms crossed over her chest, mouth drawn.]

It's not-- it's not as if it makes much of a difference. It's hardly the worst thing people have discovered about themselves.

...But it frightens you.

[She won't admit to it, probably; she's not that sort of person in the slightest. And yet, maybe that's the whole point of asking him here, to some extent — because he'll say it, and if he says it, then she doesn't have to.]

Because you think this is you, somehow. Not a misprint, not a trick. Just...you.

[She won't admit it. She refuses. But nor does she argue with him on that point, which really ends up amounting to the same thing.]

. . . I don't understand what it means. I don't understand why I apparently come from the nineteenth century, why I alone remember things from that time when everyone else seems to have more modern memories. I don't understand why I have this book of all things, and what it is that this stupid app decreed so important or dangerous that they had to wipe half of it out.

[Her arms cross tighter over her.]

I don't understand why we can't see blue or green anymore, or why even that isn't consistent-- there's a few people who have retained outfits or eye colors, so clearly we're not all color blind, which means the color itself is suddenly gone from our city. I don't understand how it was possible we spent half a week six inches tall, and I don't understand how it is that all known laws of science are so arbitrarily being broken! And I'm so bloody sick of it, I'm sick of all this stupid nonsense and the fact that I don't even know what's happening to me!

[And this, again, is one of those moments when he finds himself beside himself with gratitude for what Majima had unknowingly done when he'd set them up together that day in recent memory. He can't help but be grateful for the revelations that had come of that encounter, those words he'd shared, that perspective he'd imparted — because having seen it once means that now, Fawkes can look at the woman in front of him and process what he's seeing for what it is, as opposed to what he assumes it should be.

She's not impenetrable. She's not made of marble, not a statue raised up on a pedestal. She's not perfect. She's not unflappable. She's not untouchable.

What she is, rather, is a young woman — yes, older than him, but still fundamentally a young woman — who still feels fear and fury and frustration with the best of them, yet always has to appear as though she's controlled and moderated and stable, because of how much she stands to lose if she's ever seen as anything but.

She's terrified. Or at least, if she's not terrified, then she's rattled, and upset, and...human. She's vulnerable, erratic, human.

If she were anyone else, he'd know exactly what to do about that.]

Dr. Lutece...

[She shakes her head almost immediately, glancing away for a few seconds as she takes a deep breath.]

I'm sorry. I shouldn't have--

[Another deep breath, and then she offers him a tight smile, entirely false.]

I've been losing my temper too often lately. I apologize. I don't take well to things I can't immediately dissect and understand.

You don't have to do that.

[He says, the words out of his mouth before he can think better of it — and then once they're out, he's got nothing to lose by owning them, after all.]

That — what you're doing, right now. Bearing up, because that's what's expected of you. Smiling, because it's what you're supposed to show. I'm not expecting anything, so don't — don't twist yourself to meet expectations I don't even have, professor. Please.

[It's the please that gets to her. She might have denied it otherwise, but his voice is so quiet, and it's an entreaty, not a demand. She glances away again, the false smile fading.]

. . . it's stupid to be rattled by a book. She isn't me. And whatever it is she discovered, surely I'll eventually remember.

And you're not allowed to be stupid.

[There's no accusation in it; it's simply a statement, soft and steady.]

You didn't ask me here for no reason. You asked me here because you didn't want to be alone with that feeling, didn't you?

. . . yes.

[He's her assistant, not her friend, and emotional support doesn't come under the job description. She ought to have called Jack, or Tony, or Ardyn . . . but the thought of baring her soul to any of them is repugnant. She trusts them, but they're all older. They're more established, they're male, and despite what they say, Rosalind is certain that all it will take is one slip before they think of her as someone flighty and overemotional.

But Fawkes . . . he's younger. He's shown himself mature and capable, and thus able to handle emotions like these, but he's younger and she has nothing to lose if he thinks her foolish.]

I shouldn't have. But yes.

I won't tell anyone.

[He's not sure why that's the notion that comes out of his mouth. There's something conspiratorial to it, almost, as he absentmindedly closes the book and holds it against his chest like a textbook while he watches her.]

This meeting can be an "it never happened", if that would help you feel better about it.

That's not your job. You shouldn't be-- I shouldn't be asking you to do any of this for me. I shouldn't have even asked you to stop by, not for this.

[She isn't moving, though.]

Much less keep a secret, no matter how mundane.

No. You're likely right about that.

[He falls quiet, just for a moment.]

...But you did. So regardless of all of that...here we are.

[Here they are, and for a long few moments she stares at the wall, trying to decide what it is she wants to do with that.]

. . . I won't ask you to stay, if you don't want to. If you're not willing to, to-- if you don't want to do this, I shan't hold it against you. I'll give you a ride home and we can pretend this never happened.

[But hangs in the air between them, unspoken but implied. But if you want to stay . . .]

...I'm staying, professor.

[She stares at the wall, and he just watches her through his careful now-gray eyes, waiting patiently for the moment when her attention will return to him — because he knows it will.]

I'm not going anywhere.

[And that, it seems, is the right response-- or at least, the response that makes some of the tension ease out of her. All right, and though her hand goes absently to her throat, she focuses her gaze back on him.]

. . . we might as well sit.

[She does, at least, sitting in the same spot she had when he'd come over to grade those undergraduate papers.]

I'd offer you wine, but I don't think that'd be a good idea. Not tonight.

[He's not precisely sure why he keeps hold of the book as he goes to sit near her. Maybe it's because he knows full well that it's the catalyst of her pain; maybe it's because he thinks if he keeps hold of it, then somehow its potential to hurt her will be blunted.

Either way, it ends up with the two of them sitting, his body angled toward hers almost instinctively as they find their positions.]

No, I think you're right about that.

[For several reasons.]

I think . . . I think whatever was in those chapters was something important.

[She nods towards the book, still safely contained in his arms.]

I've never published a book. Papers, yes, but I've never had enough material to justify publishing an entire book. But she has. She thought she had something to say that was so important that she was justified in doing so. So whatever theories she had, they had to be particularly radical.

[She drums her fingers on the table.]

I looked it up. Why she calls herself Madam. The first woman to get a doctorate in the nineteenth century was in 1874, and she was in Germany. England was fairly conservative during that time. I can't imagine that Rosalind could have gotten it.

Perhaps they were more than theories. Or rather, that what she had to say went beyond theories. Maybe these pages...maybe what they took out were her discoveries.

["Her." Does it make it easier, talking about the person she once might've been as though she's a completely different entity to begin with?]

Her era worked against her even more than your own circumstances did, is what you mean.

Yes. Which makes her all the more--

[She hesitates.]

. . . I lost my temper at Majima this morning. We were talking about fighting, and I told him I couldn't understand the urge to brawl. He replied it was because I was a woman.

He didn't mean it offensively. But I took issue with it, and rather chewed him out for it, far more than was called for. And in part, I think, it was because of that thought. That this other self, this . . . other Rosalind, dealt with so much more sexism than I have. So much so that she couldn't even accomplish getting her doctorate.

...They wouldn't give it to her, professor.

[He says, quietly.]

I doubt it had anything to do with her accomplishments. Put that way, it sounds like..."if she'd just tried harder, perhaps she could've been". But it had nothing to do with that, and everything to do with the bastards who wouldn't recognize her no matter what she did.

[It does feel that way, though. That if only this other self had worked harder, put in more hours, outsmarted those bastards-- but no. She's being stupid. She knows for a fact that it wasn't a matter of laziness or dull wit; too many women in history have been overlooked and dismissed solely for their gender.

Perhaps it's a case of her being too hard on herself. It isn't that she doubts this other Rosalind; she simply holds herself to an impossibly high standard, and hates the thought of falling short, no matter in what context.]

Perhaps that's why she published the book. To spite them. I'm surprised it was published at all, in those circumstances.

. . . you're right, though. And if her theories really were so radical, perhaps that's why they wouldn't give it to her. Because they dismissed her as someone too fanciful.

Rather like your fears on your own dissertation.

Perhaps, yes. But this isn't about me.

[There are a handful of reasons why she might've brought that last bit up, of course. Perhaps she's trying to connect with him in some meaningful way, to share the experience that's taking place. Perhaps she's simply objectively noting a similarity.

But it's also possible that she's trying to deflect discussion off of the topic of her and these enigmas onto a different, less personal tack, and while he can respect that, it also rubs him wrong to let the topic of conversation turn onto him and his frivolous anxieties when he's supposed to be supporting her instead.]

The fact that you snapped at Majima this morning...you're bottling this up, without giving it an outlet. But sooner or later it's going to get free in some capacity, you know that.

Yes.

[She wishes, suddenly, that she had wine. It's a stupid idea for half a hundred reasons, especially tonight, especially with him, but perhaps this would all come a little easier if she was tipsy.]

The truth is, Fawkes, I haven't any idea how to give it an outlet. I don't usually-- I don't. Ever.