originallutece | (no subject)

[He does smile at the sight of her text, actually, as he sets about the routine of heading to their usual coffee place and procuring a pair of cups, each to their own respective specifications. It's a little unwieldy to accomplish with the box and shattered mirror in tow, but his sense of balance has always been unusually good and he's juggled worse in his graduate student career, anyway.

So it's shortly thereafter that he makes his way to Rosalind's office, nodding a hello around the stack of box and coffee carrier tray that's all but obscuring his face from view as he makes his way in the door.]

Here I am — it's just me.

Good lord--

[She's swift to rise, grabbing the coffee tray, and smiling as the motion reveals his face. There he is, gray eyes and red hair, mouth a little pursed as he focuses on keeping it all in balance.]

Got the rest of it?

Yes, I've got it — thank you, much obliged.

[Oh. The coffee blockade disappears and it's replaced by a smiling Professor Lutece. That's not a bad trade-off at all, is it? It's good to see her smiling again.]

You're "Ada Lovelace" today. I think that should be the cup on your right.

Hah.

[She is indeed the cup on the right, and Rosalind smiles at the scrawled name there.]

Take a seat. And tell me: do they ever get tired of you giving them false names?

Oh, I'm certain of it. But I make sure they never mind the inanity of yours, in the face of the outright impossibility of mine. Case in point — I'm "Dostoevsky" today.

[He's a sadist is what he is. A smiling sadist, however, as he does as she bids and finds himself a place to sit.]

One of these days they'll simply write "redheaded bastard", I'm sure, and be done with it.

I'm shocked they haven't already.

[She's smiling over her coffee, though. Crossing one leg over the other, she nods down at his other packages.]

Shall we? I admit, I'm a fair bit eager to see this mirror of yours.

Yes, of course.

[Shuffling his coffee off to one side where it'll be secure from spills or getting bumped, he pries the tape off the package again and lifts the flaps of the box, tilting it so that she can see the broken mirror resting within.]

Surprisingly small, isn't it?

Mm. And antiquated, it looks like.

[She reaches into the box, mindful of the broken glass as she picks it up. She ought to have asked, but part of discovering his attachment to this is seeing what happens when someone else handles it without warning.]

Do you still have that same initial impression of it?

[He watches her reach for it, watches her hands close over the sides of it, and unconsciously, he sucks in a sharp breath as she lifts it and brings it into her possession. But really, it's fine, she'll give it back, and it's not as though it's really his, regardless of how he'd gotten it, but —

But his gray eyes are locked onto it now, there in her hands, and he hasn't even noticed yet that he can't seem to bring himself to look away from it.]

...Pardon?

[Hm. Rosalind's fingers tighten around the mirror, though she doesn't yet manipulate it any further.]

Do you still regard it as evil?

...Yes. I don't know why, but there's just something about...the look of it.

[He frowns, though, pursing his lips tightly, and then switches to chewing idly at the corner before finally seeming to work up the courage to venture an addendum.]

Look at the broken glass, the way it's shattered. Is there anything about it that...what do you think of it?

[You know, like the fact that it looks like it shattered because someone shot it.]

[She turns her attention back to the mirror, trying to see what it is he sees. Rosalind brushes her fingers carefully against one of the cracks, mouth pursing.]

It does look like it was broken violently. Not dropped, but hit by something.

[She flicks her eyes back up at him.]

You wanted me to interrogate you, before. But I think an experiment might be more beneficial.

An experiment?

[His eyes lock onto her fingers, and he finds himself holding his breath, like a talisman against the possibility that she'll cut herself and bleed.]

What kind of experiment?

[In one swift movement Rosalind stands, handling the mirror carelessly as she strides towards the trash. Her motions are deliberate and swift, a sharp decisiveness filling her: this is what will happen, he's going to lose his mirror in an instant, she'll throw it out and toss it into the dumpster and that's it, it'll be gone forever, of course it will, because she has every intention of doing just that.

(He hasn't quite agreed to this, but she thinks he'll forgive her in the long run).]

[And just like that, he's on his feet in an instant, eyes wide and body rigid with tension as he perceives what she's about to do without even consciously processing it — and in an instant, knows to the very fiber of his soul that he can't let that happen.

(How could she? How could she? He'd trusted her to take it and now she's — she's —)

He doesn't remember moving, doesn't remember putting his body between her and the bin she's about to chuck the thing into, and he has no idea what the expression on his face looks like just then, but there's a sharpness to it that out-cuts every jagged edge of that mirror in its promises of danger.

For just an instant, he looks like an animal instead of a young man. Then, in the next instant, it's gone — and he's vaguely aware of a painful stinging in his palms, where he's dug in his nails so hard they've started to bleed.]

[Rosalind gasps, skidding to a halt as he appears before her, so swiftly it's almost like magic. He's just suddenly there, solid and foreboding, glaring down at her as he never has before. He's tall, she notices faintly, a shrill little observation in the back of her mind. He's tall and he's strong, all whipcord strength and lean muscle. She'd never paid that much mind before, but now it's all she can think of.

It's not that he's touched her. There's still an inch of space between them. But Rosalind's breath is shaky as she stares up at him. For a long few seconds she doesn't move, too intent on watching him to make sure he stays put. That expression had only been there for an instant, but it's burned itself in her memory. She had no idea he could look like that; she had no idea she could be so terrified by nothing more than a glare.]

. . . well.

[She breathes it out, her eyes not leaving his for a second.]

Now we know how vital it is to you.

[It's the way she's looking at him that makes him reel back a step, knocking into the trash bin and almost tripping in the way it jostles him and makes him fight to have to keep his balance. He stumbles, ultimately landing against the wall with a thump where his shoulder connects, and his hand comes up to his face to scrub at his eyes as he tries to get his bearings and work out why it is he's suddenly on his feet instead of seated like he'd been just an instant ago.]

I —

[What is he doing?]

I-I...

Kit--

[In an instant fear of him has become fear for him; she sets the mirror aside, reaching for his wrist instead. Her eyes dart about his face as her fingers try to find his pulse.]

Kit, look at me. Can you hear me?

I'm sorry.

[Oh. Oh, she's got his wrist, all right, yes, she's making contact, yes, he knows where he is because he's tethered to something, good, yes, and she's not going to throw out the mirror and it's fine, it's fine, he's fine, everything is fine.]

That — that was the experiment. Wasn't it.

Yes.

[Her other hand lifts, hesitates, then falters, falling back to her side. She doesn't let go of his wrist, though.]

I knew you'd react, but I didn't realize it would be so . . . so much. Are you all right?

[He hadn't touched her, and she certainly hadn't him-- and yet Rosalind's eyes keep darting down to focus on his nose, expecting . . . what? Blood? Yes, although she can't say why. It simply seems right, that's all: that he suffered some kind of shock, and so he ought to be bleeding from the nose. But Fawkes has never suffered nosebleeds, not as far as she knows, and perhaps on another day she'd pay that vague thought mind, but not right now.]

I-I don't...understand.

[He shakes his head a little, disoriented, and ends up finding himself with his eyes turned in the direction of the mirror again before he realizes what it is he's doing. Then, and only then, does he make the conscious effort to look back at her face — and to all appearances, it really is an effort, because there's guilt written all over his expression and most of it seems to be for her sake.]

It's as I was describing to someone else before. It's not...mine, I know it's not. But I need it, even so...

Why?

[She hasn't let go of his wrist, but the question comes sharply, her eyes narrowing. She uses what Fawkes had once lovingly described as her professor's voice: whipcrack quick, sharp and no nonsense, demanding an answer instantly.

(And yet despite the sharpness of her tone, she can't help but glance down once more at his face. There is blood there, just a trace; his hand is bloody, he must have left a trail. It's certainly not a nosebleed, and yet Rosalind keeps waiting for it, holding her breath for it. Why?)]

Edited 2017-06-06 00:00 (UTC)

[And instantly she gets the response she's looking for, because there are some things that one just gets attuned to over time, that go directly to the subconscious without bothering to stop at the conscious along the way, and That Voice is one of them.

That doesn't mean it's going to be a good answer, mind, or even a coherent one. But it's immediate and that's what matters.]

Because he was there. The both of them, they were there, they were there and I was there and so was this and he broke it, he, he shot it and it broke —

Why? Why did he shoot it?

[She snaps it out, her fingers tightening around his wrist. Wrong, something tells her, wrong that's wrong don't use that tone, that isn't what he needs, he needs something soft, he needs music, he needs--

No. He needs to understand this memory, and that means an interrogation.]

Because...because...

[It's difficult to sift through, this memory, because of how he'd treated it when it'd originally crashed down over his head between the conclusion of their texting conversation and his arrival here. It'd happened, and he'd reeled from it, but because he'd been relatively alone he'd forced it away and made himself function despite it, because he had to. He had to, and when he has to do something, he always does it, even at his own expense.

But the consequence of that is that he's lost and buried pieces of it, like a dream with too many of its sticky strands severed to recollect properly, and now that she's snapping at him he's simply spitting out words as they come, dragging the memory back up out of the sand and tossing it at her feet for her to examine herself.]

The one, the one with the fire in his hands, he was there, and they were fighting, but he was too fast. I thought we were friends? But they were fighting each other, the both of them, and he was too fast, my friend was too fast so the other one, he saw the mirror and...

[Vaguely, he makes a makeshift gun out of his hand, thumb and finger, and points it at nothing.]

And it reflected...

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