originallutece | (no subject)

That it's possessive, and a bit covetous. It isn't "keep them close", nor some tripe about being thankful for what you have, that sort of thing. Simply "keep".

When I hear it, I find myself focusing on the underlying implication — the fear of potentially losing what you have.

I'm not surprised.

What was the context for the phrase, if any?

I was talking to someone on this app. He said he's remembered over fifty things, of his...former life, I suppose.

We were discussing how to cope with the return of those memories, when one is happy with the person they are, and uncomfortable with the person they evidently once were. The phrase I told you was his advice.

I see.

Are you so uncomfortable with what you've remembered? Or is the loss of your current personality in any context that's worrying you?

I think it's the latter, really.

Or, well. It's the feeling that this life of mine is all just a farce, somehow. That the things I've done are false. That the choices I've made are invalid.

That my mother is a lie, somehow.

And yet you must know factually that such a feeling isn't true.

Of course I do. But it isn't rationality that drove me to seek reassurance from you.

I don't know if I'm the best person for reassurance in the first place. But given it's you, I'll do my best.

Which is to say . . . while the revelation that there's some other self might lead to you feel such things, they're not true. What you've done in this life, all the things you've accomplished, are perfectly valid in their own right. You've made brilliant strides in a thesis I'm eager to see published; you've a great deal of potential and a long life ahead of you in which to accomplish it. This is new, and strange, and frightening, yes, of course, and we still don't fully understand what it means. But that doesn't mean it automatically renders you, Christopher Fawkes, into a lesser shadow of whatever person you keep remembering.

And your mother, who is alive and real and as proud of you as I am, would say the same.

Professor Lutece, it's not often that you're incorrect about anything — but there is one thing I'm afraid you're wrong about.

You're precisely the right person for that sort of reassurance. That's why I came to you.

I'm glad I could be of some help, then.

Tell me you're not alone, pondering all this.

I can't do that without lying to you.

[There's a pause, and then:]

It's a bit late to invite you over for company's sake, I suppose.

[And an equal pause from him in return.]

It'd be questionable at best, if I were to accept something like that.

[And he doesn't even have a car, as far as she knows, which means he'd either have to take the bus or wait for her to pick him up. It is questionable, and really, not at all a good idea, but . . .]

You kept me company, the night I was rattled because of my package. I should think it's the least I could do to return the favor.

A favor repaid.

It'd make us even, then, wouldn't it?

A debt fulfilled, if you'd like to think about it in those terms.

Come over.

It makes it easier to decide, when you put it like that.

I'm on my way.

[It's summer, but her apartment is cool, and that's all the excuse Rosalind needs to make some hot chocolate for both of them. It's a silly impulse, maybe, but she remembers her mother doing it for her when she was very small. She'd had awful nightmares when she was a girl, and sometimes when she couldn't go back to sleep, her mother would take her down to the kitchen and make something hot for her, talking soothingly all the while. There'd been something wonderfully intimate about those moments, and perhaps that's what she's hoping emulate in the here and now.

Or perhaps she's simply hoping to appeal to his sweet tooth. It might go either way.

She's getting a bit too used to having him over this late. There's no hesitance in the way she opens the door and stands aside to let him in, nor any awkwardness over the fact she's dressed down in front of him yet again.]

[There's no hesitance in her, perhaps, and that makes one of them. Even as he stands at the door waiting for it to open, Fawkes is second-guessing the merits of this idea; there are plenty of reasons why he should've said no, and the justification they'd used to bring this about is flimsy at best and outright laughable at worst.

But she'd told him to come, and so here he is. And before he can think better of it, she's opening the door, and it's too late to do anything but indulge his guilt and trot dutifully inside when she motions him to.]

Thank you for having me, Dr. Lutece.

[You might as well call me Rosalind, she does not say, because there's lines and lines. Why her first name is more sacred than having him over past nine PM she has no idea, but there they are.

Dr. Lutece sounds wrong, but Rosalind would sound worse.]

One of those mugs is yours.

[She nods towards the coffee table. That's where they're sitting, apparently: on the couch, Rosalind curled up on one end and Fawkes sitting as he'd like, facing one another instead of out towards the room proper.]

At this rate I'm going to beggar you from bus fare alone. I'd offer to come to your apartment some time, but I don't think that would work out particularly well, hm?

Oh.

[Well. That's...a unique way of arranging the two of them, but it's not as though this is his house and he really doesn't have any right to complain or critique it. So he simply lowers himself down tentatively onto the cushions, a little more withdrawn than his usual, but not precisely tense, either.]

I — no, I don't think that would be a good idea, honestly. It's not really...

[...]

It's not very suited for entertaining.

[Something in the set of her shoulders relaxes as he sits. There, now, they're settled in and set for the night. Good idea or bad, they've crossed the line from contemplation to action, and so there's no use in being anxious about it anymore.]

It's that small, is it? Or just too messy for me to see?

[Indeed: she's relaxed enough to tease, even mildly.]

A little of both, really.

[Eager for something to do with his hands, he leans to reach for his mug and picks it up without sipping it, simply holding it with his fingers curled around the cylinder of its circumference, almost contemplative in nature.]

It's hardly untidy, but — well, it's precisely as I said. I don't often have guests, so the way it is suits me. And, er, me alone, to some degree.

Well. Make it suitable for guests sometime, and I'll come by that evening. It seems fair, and given we started this evening on the subject of fairness . . .

[Well, actually, they'd begun this evening on a far more depressing note, but who wants to think about that?]