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[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...

He shot it? With a gun?

[It never pays to assume, and if this one friend can manipulate fire, perhaps the other one has a different power. Rosalind's eyes dart about Fawke's face-- he looks miserable, but this will be over with soon, and the result will be worth it.]

Look at it. The way the glass broke, it's all around a...a center, a focal point.

[Again, as if drawn on invisible marionette strings, he takes aim and points, this time at the break in the mirror itself.]

He shot it. But — I don't understand, why were they fighting...?

Why were they fighting?

[She takes half a step forward, closing in on him.]

Think about him. The boy who could manipulate fire, think about just him, and tell me why they were fighting.

He...

[He squeezes his eyes shut, like he's trying to recapture the image of it in his mind with every tool to aid him that he can think of, and for a few seconds he's just quiet.]

He was the aggressor. He did...something. The other one was trying to stop him, his life was in danger, I don't understand...

[He shakes his head slightly, uncertain and disoriented.]

I remember feeling safe around him, in other things I've remembered. But I'm sure he was trying to kill the other one, and I...I'm sure the one who broke the mirror was in the right. So why...

We don't know yet.

[That's the worst part about these memories, frankly. There's no context. There's no explanation; just snatches of scenes and feelings, presented entirely without explanation or timeline. Perhaps Fawkes had once trusted the boy with fire and he'd betrayed him; perhaps this all took place before trust had set in. There's no way to know, not until they get more evidence.]

Tell me about the other one. Not the boy with fire, the one who shot the mirror.

That one...

[His eyes shut tightly again, and he ducks his head so that his bangs fall across his eyes, like he's trying to subconsciously shield himself from outside stimuli as he tries to reach and grasp for the facts she's asking of him.

That one. That one, that one...he has all these pieces floating free, bits and slivers of memories that, the longer he looks at them, the more he's able to make sense of. It's as though the players are the same, even if the scenes are disjointed. That one, the one who shot the mirror, the lucky fool —]

...He's a lucky fool.

[And that's a turn of phrase Ros might just remember, because it's not the first time she's heard it.]

He didn't know it would work. He — he's cavalier, he made me...laugh. He...

[...Oh. His eyes open abruptly, hazy and distant and unfocused.]

He's the one who called me that nickname. The one with the gun...that's the one who called me Fox-Boy.

[The phrasing strikes at her, but Rosalind pays it no mind, not right now. She'll think about it later, once they sit down together and analyze things, piece by piece.]

Ah.

[There's a connection. So . . . what do they have, here? That this boy, this foolish boy, he'd been fond of Fawkes, fond enough to give him such a familiar nickname. He'd also been with him during all this mirror nonsense; he'd outright shot it, perhaps because something about it was threatening Fawkes. He'd also done it to attack the boy with fire, who was at the time a danger.

So . . . so put the fool, then, on a higher rank than the boy with fire. That's what this points to. That he'd been someone closer to Fawkes, able to make him laugh, fond enough to bestow a nickname and protect him while he was in danger.]

Do you remember his face?

...He had brown eyes.

[He sucks in a slow breath, followed by a longer, lengthier sigh.]

Brown eyes and...I can't remember what else. But I'm sure he's important. They both are.

All right.

[They've gotten a lot of information out of this. It's frustrating that there isn't more, that they don't have any names or faces or even context, but they're getting there. They've somewhat solved the mystery of his companion, that's certainly a victory.

She's still holding on to his wrist, she realizes, and pulls her hand back.]

Do you want to sit?

[He frowns a little, brow furrowing as he regards his wrist and the sudden emptiness and loss of heat left behind by the release of her fingers. It's a little befuddling, almost; one second her grip was there and the next second it's not, and obviously he's quite literally lost something by her doing that, but somehow it feels like more of a loss than it ought to.

He doesn't have much time to ruminate on it, however, because something else gradually catches his attention. Absently, he turns his hand over, and almost stupidly squints his eyes at the bloody crescents his nails made into his palms.]

...I think I need a bandage.

[She hisses in sympathy and turns, reaching for a first-aid kit on the top shelf.]

And here I thought I'd never get to use this . . . come here.

[She waits until he's sat back down before taking his hand. Her thumb brushes over his fingers in a silent bid to keep them uncurled, and her mouth purses as she reaches for the disinfectant.]

. . . when I made as though I was going to throw the mirror out . . . the way you looked at me . . . I've never seen you look like that before. You looked as though you'd--

[Well. She shakes her head slightly, dismissing the end of that sentence.]

[Oh. What a juxtaposition this is, the way the gentle attention to his hand makes him want to let down all the walls he usually maintains and simply bask in the feeling for the few seconds of being cared for that it'll afford him, combined with the sudden apprehension of hearing how she might've wanted to finish that sentence, and feeling as though those same walls ought to be made even higher because of it.]

...As though I'd...

[Is this really something he wants to hear?]

...I'm sorry.

You didn't do anything.

[She glances up for a moment, just long enough to meet his gaze, before focusing on his hand again.]

There's no need to apologize. I only bring it up because I wanted to know if you remember what you were thinking at the moment.

To be perfectly honest...I don't remember thinking about anything. Just that — oh. No, I felt...

[Hmm. No, that's worth hesitating over, for at least a few moments.]

That's not the same thing, though, is it. I don't think I thought anything, really. But I remember I felt...upset. That I'd trusted you with it, and you were going to...