originallutece | (no subject)

...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.

I'm glad. That you know that.

[He ducks his chin a moment, but then picks his head up again and offers her a faint half-smile.]

Your opinion means the world to me.

[They're still holding hands. She's very aware of that, as he smiles at her and offers up that compliment. She's holding his hand, and his fingers are long and slender and warm, and now her breath catches for a very different reason.]

I think by now I know quite a bit about you.

[She takes in a sharp breath and tugs her hand back, pulling away as she sits back in her chair.]

Too much, perhaps. How's your hand?

Too much, but far from everything.

[He's not sure whether he's relieved that the moment seems to have broken, or some other emotion that isn't actually relieved, but something else entirely.]

It feels better, wrapped. I appreciate the kindness.

I appreciate the chance to study your newest gift. I think we've found a fair few conclusions, even if we haven't quite solved the mystery of the mirror, hm?

[She hesitates, appears to debate with herself, then adds:]

The boy who shot the mirror . . . do you remember a gun? Or do you just know it was shot?

That's twice now we've met up to ponder the mysteries of mysterious parcels. Really, this is getting to be a habit.

[But he glances up, surprised by the question, and his brow furrows as the oddity of the remark gives him pause.]

He...

[He frowns, then closes his eyes as he tries to imagine it, and absently his hand comes up again, thumb up and index finger extended, as he makes a sort of "bang" motion with his hand.]

...A bullet wouldn't reflect off a mirror. He had to have thought it would behave like light would. Light reflects...and I remember him aiming.

[His eyes open, slowly.]

But I don't remember a gun.

[She nods. That seems to be the answer she was expecting, and she's pleased by that. Rosalind's eyes skim up and down Fawkes' form, a gaze purely evaluating, before she nods.]

Perhaps I'll have gotten something new by the time you come by this Saturday.

[For cooking, she means. For when he'll come by her house of his own volition to teach her how to cook, and talk to her, and generally spend a pleasant evening together. Her fingers curl again.]

...Given the way the last one affected you, I almost hope you don't.

[And that's not actually what she meant, and he knows it, but he interprets it that way anyway, knowingly and willingly.]

What are we making this Saturday? Any requests?

How do you feel about fish and chips?

[And that's the signal for them to relax fully, it seems, because Rosalind settles back against the chair.]

Ah. Comfort food? I'm all for it.

[He says, as the thought brings a faint smile to his face.]

Mm, and one of my favorite kinds, too. Victoria and I used to get them after midterms. It seems only right to follow the theme you set the other week.

Very well, then. In the interest of pursuing your favorites, we'll attempt to succeed at fish and chips this weekend.

...You have a lot of fond memories of Victoria, don't you?

Yes.

[She smiles faintly.]

In truth, I think we worked because we were so different. I was a stark contrast to her typical friends, and she was . . . vivid. Very vivid.

Vivid in a way that lent color to your life, perhaps?

And ensured I didn't spend all of my college years hiding in the library, yes. I wouldn't have gone out at all had it not been for her. As it is, I can now proudly boast I've gone to a club all of three times.

Ah...

[He glances to the side, chewing the corner of his lip.]

Well, then. I've got you beat in that respect, it seems.

Really? I admit, I can't see you as the dancing type, but it's not as if I'm particularly privy to your social life.

[Or at least, she hadn't been. Nowadays it seems as if she's a part of it, one way or another.]

You enjoy it, then? Or is it more that your friends drag you along?

Ah — no, I like it. The high school prom was rather an extension of that, I think. I like the noise and the energy of a crowd, and the opportunity to simply lose myself for a little while.

[He pauses a moment.]

Admittedly there's a loneliness about it, too. Sometimes a crowd is nothing so much as it is...isolating. But sometimes it's a wellspring of energy, and you can make yourself a conduit for that.

You make it sound poetic. Certainly more cathartic than my experiences.

[You should show me sometime, she doesn't say, though the words are on the tip of her tongue.]

I'll leave more of your Friday nights open, in that case.