originallutece | (no subject)

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.

Do you want me to try to...set you off?

[It's a tactful question, one that comes couched very carefully in a soft expression and the steady gaze of wide gray eyes.]

Like a brushfire clearing dead undergrowth. Sometimes a controlled burn can be a beneficial thing to the long-term health of the ecosystem.

. . . how?

[She meets his gaze. It's so startling to catch grey eyes instead of green ones, and she wonders if it's just as shocking in return.]

...It's not hard to guess what might make you angry. And I don't care if you need me to be a target for your anger. If it ends in catharsis for you, I'm fine with it.

[It might work. He certainly knows her well enough to bait her, and she's on edge enough that it wouldn't take very much. She'd get angry, and she'd snap and yell and tear into him for no reason at all save that it would vent her fury, and he'd endure it all for her sake.

But she's been angry all day. And despite the fact he's willing, Rosalind doesn't want to get angry at him, not him.]

. . . I'd rather a distraction. I know it's not, perhaps, what I ought to be doing, but . . . it's what I want.

A distraction...

[All right, well. No pressure. What does he do when he needs a distraction?

...Plays video games or scales the sides of buildings. Uh.]

Watching a movie of some variety, perhaps?

Show me how to cook something.

[They haven't yet started those lessons, but perhaps now is as good a time as any. Her fridge isn't particularly well-stocked, but nor is it bare; she's certain they can pull something together. And she'll be able to focus all her attention on the lesson, instead of that damned book.]

...All right. Do you happen to have eggs and rice?

[English recipes, she'd said, and maybe that's what he ought to be trying to come up with instead, but when she'd mentioned cooking his mind had immediately gone to comfort food, and obviously his definition of comfort food has its roots somewhere else.]

Yes.

[It's instant rice, but it's a full box, so they'll have plenty. She gets to her feet and tugs out a box of a dozen eggs, then glances over at him, waiting for instruction. This is going to be something Japanese, clearly, but that's perfectly acceptable. It'd be more interesting than an English breakfast anyway.]

All right, then. Come here.

[For a second, he hesitates, visibly seeming to debate with himself about something. But whatever answer it is that he settles on, he seems to be committed to it, folly or not.

Which is why, when he crosses over to her, personal space goes a little by the wayside as his hands come to rest on her shoulders and he steers her over to stand in front of the stove where he wants her.]

The proper ratio for rice is a half-cup of water for every third-cup of rice. That's an important ratio to remember because one third-cup of rice is approximately one portion. All right?