originallutece | (no subject)

[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.