originallutece | (no subject)

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...

[He hadn't looked upset, though. He'd looked threatening, sharp and imposing; he looked as though he was half a second away from grabbing her.]

I wasn't. For the record.

[She wraps the gauze firmly around his hand.]

I only wanted to provoke a reaction. But I had no intention of throwing it out.

[She glances up at him. He's all fixed up, but she doesn't let go of his hand just yet.]

In that moment, did you want to hurt me?

...That's horrible.

[Horrible enough that, if she weren't wisely holding on to his hand, he might've tried to make an escape of some variety. Fortunately, he's tethered by the warmth of her fingers, and so the notion never even has the chance to cross his mind.]

Of course I didn't. I wouldn't.

You wouldn't.

[She squeezes his fingers gently, though her gaze is steady.]

But perhaps your other self did, for just a few seconds.

My other self. As though I'm some sort of...of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

[Of course you're not, Fawkes, you're literal years out from having your ph.d. Don't get cocky, write your dissertation first and then we'll talk.]

Is that really any better? The idea that there's some sort of...monster inside me, that the "Other Me" is someone with no qualms about harming the people I would never hurt in my life?

Yes.

[She says it simply, without either sharpness or cloying sweetness clouding her words. Perhaps this is an attempt at comfort, but more likely it's simply logic, and hopefully he'll derive comfort from that.]

Because you aren't him. His personality, his experiences, his life, is separate from you. Not everyone in this city has a savory other life, but that doesn't mean it reflects on you.

And frankly, Christopher, even if he did have violent impulses-- and who doesn't, now and again?-- you didn't act on them. And that makes a great deal of difference.

[It strikes a chord, certainly, that bit about not everyone in this city has a savory other life. It's an interesting tack to take, because in truth she's not trying to convince him that he's above being a monster, or that it's impossible that he could've been. No, the way that she casts it is that regardless of his "other", his choices are what have made him who he is in the here and now.

And he wonders, of course, about his other's choices. His other, who felt safe around the one with the fire but liked the smile of the one who'd been fighting him. Why had they been fighting? Had it been over him? How had he ended up with friends that could do such breathtaking things?

And more importantly — why would people like that tolerate someone like him?

He bites his lip, catching the swell of it behind his teeth, and holds on to her hand a little more tightly than he's been.]

...I want to believe he wouldn't have hurt you, either.

[...]

I know there's no way of knowing. But it's what I want to believe.

[Sooner or later, they'll find out. Certainly Rosalind hopes he's correct. But there was something about that look . . . it wasn't just anger she saw there. It wasn't the glowering, sulking promise of pain that a thug might give. It was fury, fury and a merciless kind of attention. It had lasted all of a second, and yet her breath catches as she remembers it.

But his fingers are as soft as his expression, and Rosalind forces herself to stay in the present.]

Then for now, with no evidence proving either way, we might well believe that.

[She glances down at their hands.]

But you'd do well to remember that here and now, it's you sitting across from me. Not him. And whatever he was, whatever he would or wouldn't have done, I know for a fact that you wouldn't hurt me.