originallutece | ic contact;

I'm alive, at least. All ten fingers and toes accounted for. More scars than I'd like, but I suppose I can be particularly dashing now.

What about you?

you've always been particularly dashing

[ a beat. ]

my right arm's gonna be out of commission for a while but it's okay

[ losing two hostages is more damaging in the long run. ]

you taking visitors?

No. But I can make an exception for you.

I'm home now. If you can manage to dodge the hellishly oppressive woman I've hired as a nurse, I'd welcome the company.

sounds like she might be the only person who can convince you to rest

[ honestly, it's a relief that she'll see him, when he's been so closed off after losing harry. seeing that she's alright — that he doesn't have to worry without knowing exactly how she is — means more than he'll say. ]

i'll come by then
can i get you anything?

A pack of cigarettes would be appreciated, thank you.

[But the nurse will at least let him in, even if she's grudging about it. Rosalind is up in her room (upstairs, can't miss it), her stupid little hippo nestled up against her. He's dozing now, as Rosalind sits up in bed. She seems buried in a mountain of books, stacked up on the bed and all around her. They range from scientific texts to decidedly more fictional ones (thank you, Dorian, for some of them), though thank god, she's reading the scientific one when he walks in.

And she looks . . . alive, anyway. Bruised and burned, and there's bandages from her hip to her chest. There's also a rather vivid scar on her forearm, deep and spanning her wrist to her forearm, but that looks a little older.]

Edited 2018-03-25 21:21 (UTC)

as you wish, madam

[ not long after, he arrives with his rucksack slung over his shoulder and a bouquet of yellow roses clutched awkwardly in his left hand, which features thin bandages. his right arm, however, is bandaged all the way from his fingers to his shoulder, and he does his best to keep it limp at his side. loose black trackies minimise his discomfort after the exposure to hazardous chemicals had his skin alight. otherwise, there are various minor cuts and burns visible on his exposed skin and a vibrant bruise on his jaw. lucky for him, his Kingsman suit guarded against the worst effects of the noxious mist. could've made it out without any major injuries, too, if he hadn't been so bloody thick.

he hangs back at the door for a moment, peaking at Rosalind's injuries and little Darwin from behind the flowers. alive. yeah. 'course she's still kicking and reading a bleedin' a-level book. he notes the older scar — and her other texts. one corner of his mouth tugs into an amused smile. ]

[ clearing his throat. ] The cigarettes are in my bag. Swear down. [ in case she's worried he subbed the flowers in for the good shit :') he peers outside her room again, checking the hall for her nurse. and then — ] Thought I was in for a strip search from your nurse for a minute there. [ he tips his head, looking to Rosalind. ] Reckon she knew I was aiding and abetting you.

[Her eyes flit over him, taking note of those injuries. The same ones that had hit Ozymandias, then, and Jamie too. Harmful, and she itches to take a look at his injured arm, but she keeps her fingers to herself. He's alive and well enough to come visit, and she ought to be thankful for that much.]

Likely. She's an uncanny sense for these kinds of things. You're lucky you escaped with your clothes intact. Come sit.

[She shifts, making room. The moment he comes near Darwin is wiggling forward, throwing himself into Eggsy's lap, burrowing his face against his stomach and making affectionate little noises. Rosalind's mouth purses, but she ignores him.]

And thank you. For the flowers and contraband both, I appreciate it.

[. . .]

If I ask you for more details regarding your injuries, are you going to lie?

'Course.

[ that's you're welcome. it's easy to smile then, too. he strolls over, sorting the flowers and cigarettes on the side before perching on the space she clears for him. hard not to be delighted by Darwin's attention, even if he forgets himself and shifts his right arm instead of his left to pet the little guy. he visibly winces, breathes, and corrects his movements.

at her shrewd question, eggsy makes a face like he's been caught in a lie already, features slack in sheepish surprise, and then looks down at Darwin. he hadn't planned on being straightforward, no, but this mission wasn't classified or associated with his very classified gig in wyver. seeing as he'd like to know exactly what (and who) happened to rosalind as well, maybe he should be more open than usual. ]

[ arching his brows. ] I'll tell the truth if you do, nosy.

[ That's Ms. Parker if you're nasty. ]

[Her mouth twitches in what might be a smile, as Darwin's coos of affection grow louder.]

You first. But yes. I'll answer your questions. I'll even tell you things that you don't ask, because I'd like the same from you, and I don't have the energy to run around asking you question after question to get the whole story.

So. Tell me what happened.

[ oh my god rosalind just read him for filth why don't you!!

he sighs. he takes a minute to think through the story, focusing his attention on Darwin in the meantime. ]

My group worked out that the potions crew was compromised, followed the trail to the robotics lab, and found a toxic booby trap waiting for us, with the added bonus of tripping the security system so it started open-firing. [ which is, obviously, frustrating in that it could have been avoided if they'd been more prepared. his mouth thins. ] It was like — smog or a haze, y'know? Only it burned our skin. [ thinking back to the sensation is horrifying, though he schools his features into neutrality. the hostages were worse off. ] Peg and I volunteered to shut down security so the others could get in and grab the hostages. And I couldn't let her get fucking shot while I was watching her back, yeah? [ he pauses. ] So, being the thickie that I am, I used a firearm in a chemical haze even though I knew that none of the hostiles were doing the same.[ as soon as he and peggy took off, he noticed it: the eerie whirr of purely mechanical weaponry firing from afar. ] And then I fired it two more times 'cause I'm a glutton for punishment.

[ well, because he was running on adrenaline, operating with kingsman's speed and precision until his brain caught up with the pain in his hand. hi tokarev is ruined (which isn't a conversation that he's looking forward to having with merlin, if he ever wakes up). ]

Boom. Chemical burns all up my good arm.

[ so he's almost useless if shit hits the fan again in the near future. and boy is he ever lucky he ended up in a universe with magic healing, not that he'll admit it. ]

Edited 2018-03-25 22:44 (UTC)

[She listens neutrally, not interrupting, listening to all that with a careful expression. Darwin whimpers anxiously more than once, but once again, Rosalind ignores him.]

It could have been far worse.

[Not that it's good what he did, but he's lucky that didn't take his face off. Chemical explosions are no joke; Rosalind won't ever allow even cigarettes in her lab, just in case.]

Any damage to your lungs? Your senses? Your mind?

[ Eggsy thinks back to one of his last conversations with Rosalind, when she told him Darwin mirrors her moods, and feels a rush of guilt, scooping Darwin up with his functional arm in an attempt to calm him down. ]

[ shaking his head. ] I made sure to keep my rebreather on, so I avoided the worst of it. Promise that's the truth.

[ and, for once, it is the truth. ]

[She pauses for a few seconds, her eyes darting over him as she assesses him. But finally:]

I believe you.

[She does. And as her own fear fades, so too do Darwin's anxious whimpers, though he presses himself tightly against Eggsy anyway. It's an affectionate pressing, meant to be comforting.]

Tell me if anything changes. I've a fair bit of experience with chemicals, as you may imagine. But . . . I think if no symptoms have popped up yet, you might be in the clear.

[Mostly. Beyond his arm, and she curls her fingers, staving off the itch to inspect it.

She's going to have to tell him her story in a moment. Fair's fair, after all, and she won't back out of the deal. But Rosalind pauses for just a moment, delaying it a little longer, as she tugs out a cigarette and sets it to her lips.

There's something ritualistic about the way she does it. Carefully she opens the package; gently she taps the box, drawing one out. There's a deliberateness to the way she slips it between her lips, and she savors the moment between flicking the lighter on and that first inhale.

She tips her head back, because she won't blow it out at him.]

Some of these came from the riots.

[It's a quiet remark, and she lifts her left arm, demonstrating that long, bright scar there. Her hand lifts, dragging over her throat; there's another scar there, smaller but no less noticeable, just beneath where someone might cut if they wanted to slit her throat.]

They were mostly focused on sleep deprivation at first. How we'd react to a random stimulus-- in this case, an alarm ringing-- as we were forced out of sleep again and again. They rang the alarm themselves, but we could as well. How long would it take us to turn on each other, they wondered. How would we react to our conditions? Would we band together or break?

Every so often they'd pull one or two of us out for questioning. That's where these come from.

[She gestures towards the burns and the bruises. They're methodically placed, deliberately inflicted, and he can well imagine what might have caused them. The worst are hidden, of course; the torn up flesh on her breastbone shan't see the light of day, because Rosalind is vain and proud.]

And then . . . later in the week, there was . . . I still don't know what it is. Some kind of creature, maybe. It . . . attacked us.

[In the end, she can't bring herself to tell him that it was in a dream. It sounds so ridiculous, like a child wailing about a nightmare. Better to pretend the deep gashes on her back are from her tormentors, not some mysterious creature that prowled her mind.]

I was blinded at the time, I couldn't see a damn thing, but I certainly felt it as it clawed up my back. I'm lucky it didn't sever my spine.

So.

[She glances back at him, a tight smile on her face. It's not genuine. He'd be able to tell that on his own, even if Darwin wasn't trembling against him.]

All in all: not as bad as it could have been.

[ he watches her movements, a sharpness to his look, as he often gets when he's purposefully observing someone, listening intently to her every word.

it's moments like this where eggsy hears a voice in his head remind him that he's in the wrong business. the description of her wounds from the riots alone make his mouth twist downward. he has no reason to doubt any aspect of the story, so he doesn't. and if there's wet glimmer to his eyes by the end, he blinks it back just in time. see, he knows that harry or roxy would be far more poised. perhaps they wouldn't even put themselves in the position of being this emotionally compromised.

selfishly, he thinks he should have been there. (to what? stop her from being taken? protect her in the interrogation like some arrogant fool?) the entire kidnapping affair has dredged up his insecurities, reacquainting him with a feeling of helplessness that he thought was behind him. for so many years, he couldn't protect himself or his mum. and now with all his training and gadgets, he still can't protect someone like rosalind.

at the mention of her spine, of how much worse it could have been, he reaches out with his good hand, tentatively brushing over her fingers. the cruelty of people is terrifying enough without creatures in the mix. eggsy doesn't know if grasping her hand is the sort of comfort she'll appreciate, so he leaves time for her to shift away. ]

I knew you were tough — [ he exhales sharply, attempting to release some of the tension from his body. ] — but, damn, Rosalind. [ ah. ] Madam. [ then, softly. ] That's fucked up.

[She starts when his fingers brush over hers, but before he can pull his hand back, she reaches for him, taking his hand and interlacing their fingers. It's a childish action, affectionate and needy, but she can't bring herself to regret it.]

You can call me Rosalind.

[Softly said. She looks younger in that moment-- not the proud Madam he knows, but someone exhausted and frightened and helplessly furious. But then she cocks half a smile.]

At least, just when it's the two of us. I'm too fond of hearing you say Madam to let you off the hook entirely.

[Her smile fades as quickly as it came.]

. . . odd, isn't it? I've seen torture before. I've witnessed it countless times. I've seen-- god, all kinds of tragedies and horrors, riots and uprisings. But I've never been a part of them before.

Tell me something. When you went off to be a soldier . . . they must have put you through some kind of training, yes? Some sort of breaking down of your personality in order to better fit in with the unit. Did you ever . . . did that affect you, when you'd come back? To have your previous beliefs and notions shatter . . . did it leave you uncertain when you returned to civilian life?

[ her touch is an anchor, better grounding him in the moment and helping him regain his composure. any other day, her comment about calling her madam would have him roaring with laughter and taking the piss. today, it makes him smile, unabashedly fond. a few questions rise in his throat, about what tortures she witnessed, but it seems inappropriate, when she goes on.

he recalls his royal marines training vividly, but it's obviously not what he thinks of now. instead, he thinks of signing his name on a body bag in his horrid handwriting — and of looking JB in the eyes, holding his kingsman pistol with a shaky hand — and harry, of course, firing back in the bloody loo.

eggsy looks down at their linked hands, brushing his thumb in soothing circles. ]

There was a lot of that. [ training and breaking down. it's a quiet admission, despite being the sort of vague answer that he knows isn't to her liking. yet he can't bear to lie to her again, not right now. ] Don't think I've been certain since I started my training. [ unable to distinguish real and unreal, right and wrong. then, quickly. ] No, that's not true.

[ when he turned his weapon on arthur, he knew he would never shoot the dog. and that he would never regret not doing it, either, even if it meant disappointing the one person who believed in him and failing again, like he always does. some prices are just too high, no matter how much you long for the prize. ] Reckon I'm more uncertain than ever about most everything, yeah, but I'm certain about... some things. [ he tips his head to one side, finally regarding her again. ] Sorry, that probably doesn't even make sense. [ firmer this time. ] I know what I won't give up, not for anything.

[ there are things he can't trade, essential pieces of himself that he refuses to carve out of his chest. that's why he'll never be the best agent. ]

And in everything else, Rosalind? [ a beat. ] I haven't a fucking clue.

[ he almost laughs at how troubling it is to admit that, even shrouded in doublespeak and half-truths. ]

[She laughs, soft and wry and bitter, and squeezes his hand in return. For a moment she has the most absurd urge to pull him closer and lie down against him, like they had that first frigid night they'd met. Nothing sexual, nothing like that, but just . . . lying against someone. Pure physical contact, focused on comfort and nothing else.

She quells it, of course. But she also doesn't let go of his hand.]

That's one answer, anyway, and I thank you for it.

[She glances down, studying the way his thumb looks gliding over her hand.]

I've . . . ever since I was a child, eight, nine, I knew what I wanted. I knew with absolute certainty what it was I was meant to be doing, and what steps I had to take in order to accomplish that. Attend university, find a wealthy patron, make a discovery before anyone else . . . and the smaller things, too, that it took to make it in the scientific world.

[Becoming emotionless, becoming sharp, becoming a figure made of diamonds instead of a proper person.]

That was my guiding principle. And when Robert came, he became a part of it. Protect Robert, keep him close, achieve things no one else has ever done before, that was why I did anything and everything I ever did. But here . . . restored to life, brought back when I didn't want to be, separated from Robert and placed into a world where I'm nothing and everything all at once . . .

I've grown to realize nothing is as I knew it. And so it follows that my own guiding principles mean nothing anymore. I've stuck to them these past few months, and they haven't done me much good.

[Her free hand reaches up, brushing against the scar on her throat. But then she realizes what she's doing, how she's going on, and wrinkles her nose, shaking her head to try and dismiss her sudden swell of emotions.]

In any case. I ask simply because now I suppose I'm trying to understand other people and what it is that makes them tick.

[ eggsy leans forward in obvious interest, intrigued to hear rosalind speak like this. he can see traces of her words in who she is now — but they seem more apt for the person he knew in their first months here. ultimately, she says a great deal without revealing too much. perhaps that's a skill they share.

without so much as a flicker of concern in his face, he notes the way her hand flutters over the scar on her neck. ]

Dunno if it's that simple. [ to say her guiding principles mean nothing here and now, that they relate to the terrible things happening in any way. the logic is too scientific for someone like eggsy, who considers chance to be a key factor in all things. rosalind talks about people in a similar manner — a bit like they're puzzles. when she finishes speaking, he allows for an extended pause, considering whether or not to ask something. then, he cants his head. ] What do you think makes me tick?

[ in the past, ros has read him remarkably well, particularly given how much information he withholds. ]

[She watches him for a long few minutes, studying his face, trying to think back to everything she knows about him. About his father, dead when he was a child; about his joining the military and then how quickly he'd quit, just to protect his mother and sister.

How he'd happily curled against her that first night, eager to stave off the cold, his humor gentle and his hands not straying an inch where they ought to be. How he looks at her now, his expression neutral but his fingers interlaced with hers, his gaze so bloody earnest.]

. . . I think you're guided by your heart more often than not, even when your head is telling you otherwise. I think you try and protect people, even when you don't know them. Perhaps especially when you don't know them. And I think, if it came down to it, you'd happily get yourself wildly injured if it meant someone else would be all right.

[ at all that, he appears somewhat sheepish, glancing down at their hands again. does it confirm thoughts he has about himself? yes. the conclusions fit neatly alongside the things that he and harry had fought over, too. you have to think, eggsy. and don't pretend you aren't clever enough to do so. now, is it a good thing that she knows him so well, with only a few pieces missing? the description doesn't sound like anyone else in his line of work, an arguable strength. 'course he knows it isn't so simply spun as something positive.

maybe their friendship is separate from all that. Rosalind isn't the sort of person he'd have ever have known in London, let alone have been invited to see her in such a private, vulnerable state. in any case, there's plenty for him to unpack tonight. he shifts their interlaced fingers slightly, lifting her hand to his lips, like he had months ago when they first arrived. ]

Not far off at all, Madam. [ that might be a genuine or a distracting gesture — or both, in the end. ] I think you've got plenty of heart in you, too, for the record. [ not all logic and old principles, no, not in his experience. the corners of his mouth tick up again. ] Just not too much.

[ she is, without a doubt, far more sensible than most people, including himself. ]

[She smiles softly, endeared despite herself, at that kiss. Though the tenderness of it is broken a moment later when he adds that quiet assessment of her, and she shakes her head.]

You give me too much credit. It's Robert who has the heart, Eggsy. Not I.

[A little pause, and she pulls her hand free, fingers gliding lightly against his cheek for a precious few seconds before she straightens up.]

But I appreciate it. I truly do.

[She looks him over again. He really is something, isn't it? All earnest convictions and desperate desire to help . . . she'd thought that would bleed away after a few months. It usually does. People wake up; their optimism is shaken, battered, destroyed, and they either turn cruel or turn tail and give up. Even Elizabeth had, in the end. She'd gone from idealistic and eager to jaded and sharp, and Rosalind had been glad for it, because it had meant she'd been more prepared to endure the world's cruelties. But Eggsy . . .

What is he? A civilian. An ordinary boy stranded in the midst of extraordinary people. She forgets sometimes, she really does . . . but think of it from his perspective. A boy whose highest dreams had been a quiet life with his mother and his sister safe. A tailor's apprentice, thrown in with immortals and fairy tale wolves and ghosts, beings immortal and powerful . . . even the humans are usually talented in some way. John has his medical training; Isabela is a fierce and formidable fighter. Richie . . . no, Rosalind thinks, Richie is ordinary too. Perhaps he and Eggsy ought to form a club.

In any case.

There's no real point to this train of thought, she supposes, save that she's impressed by him. Which is a rare enough thing, god knows. But it's an admirable thing, to have lived here for so long as nothing more than an ordinary boy, and not only come out alive, but with his earnestness and good spirit intact. She knows better than most that such a thing is extraordinarily rare.

(Is it odd? No. Yes. Maybe, and it isn't that she suspects anything, but at the same time, anything odd sticks out to her, and somewhere in the very back of her mind, she writes that down and sticks it in a filing cabinet marked oddities. Perhaps it's nothing more than it seems, and certainly she thinks so right here and now. But maybe someday she'll revisit that file).

She's been staring at him a moment too long, she realizes, and blinks, focusing herself.]

. . . tell me something, will you? Since you woke up here . . . how has it been for you? I simply mean . . . I'm aware of this universe's oddities. And I'm aware that while I take them in stride because of who and what I am, it might not be so easy for someone like you. And yet you seem to simply adapt. But surely all this strangeness must have affected you at some point or another. Everyone has their breaking point, and from what you've told me, your old universe was particularly ordinary. So all of this . . . it must have struck you as insanity at one point or another.

[ He wants to push his point, to quibble with Rosalind's classification of herself, but she shuts him up by touching his cheek and looking at him with such sharpness in her eyes. And there it is, the faintest blush. 'Course she still has the power, even when she's bedridden.

As she elaborates on her question, his stomach turns. His mouth twists downward, ostensibly in thought or over the breaking points that come to his mind. Is his world ordinary by comparison, even with all the spies and doomsday plots? Quite, but it's not entirely ordinary, no, not in the way that he knows she means. He could tell her everything, then, about an organisation that no longer exists, designed to protect a world that was lost — but that would expose Harry and Roxy. It's not an option, however much it pains him to omit the truth. ]

The first person I met here was a wizard. [ James. God, he thinks he'll miss James most of all. Forever, maybe. You don't often meet someone who you immediately know and have the privilege of being known by in return. ] Didn't blow my mind then 'cause he was such a lad. [ a friend like any other. James had felt as helpless as Eggsy had, unable to protect his son or prevent death even with fantastic magic. ] He was somebody's dad, too. Guess that set the tone.

[ He shrugs, a lopsided movement given his injury. Even the extraordinary is grounded in everyday relations and natural concerns. When Alan told him about the fantasy world awaiting him on the ground, he asked if it was all nobles and peasants because he knows exactly which category he falls into, particularly after Byerly reminded him. No questions about bloodthirsty dragons or alien attacks came to mind, not as the biggest of his concerns. Still, his confidence falters, a flicker of hesitation belying the missing piece of his answer. Then, his features soften. He can't tell her any of his shared truths, but he can still give her private pieces of himself. You trust different people with different things. That's the rule.

His voice comes out steady, if coloured by melancholy. ]

And I can think of a few things just as frightening as magic spells and sea monsters. [ She'll know what he means, as the only person on the planet who knows how he left the Marines. ] Ordinary as they are.

[ At least you can stab a sea monster and watch it sink to the depths, blood suffusing the water as evidence of your triumph. He couldn't even hit Dean before Kingsman. And the world ended before he got the chance to know if that had truly changed. ]

You're right there.

[It hadn't been magic spells or supernatural things that had ended Rosalind and Robert Lutece, after all. Just an old man's paranoia and a young man's greed. For all their wondrous inventions, for all their awe-inspiring deeds, they'd died like ordinary people, their bodies broken and battered, killed by pathetically ordinary means.]

I'm glad, though. That you aren't . . .

[She wrinkles her nose.]

Frightened sounds infantile, but I simply mean that you aren't the sort to cower from it all. Most are. I can't tell you how many times my inventions were simplified and babied to make it easier to feed to the general public, all because they were frightened of new things.

But a place like this . . . I have my resentments. I have my problems with this world, and they are numerous. And I won't say I wouldn't bolt to my old state of existence the moment it became available to me if I had the chance.

But there's something wondrous about it as well, isn't there? About the unknown, getting to discover it all and go through things no one has ever gone through before. All these people gathered together, sharing in the same phenomenon . . . there's never been anything like it. I worked my entire life to try and open the same sort of doorway. To try and explore other worlds, just to see what they were like, and why.

[There's Robert. That's him, not her, that shining optimism and almost childish eagerness; the wide-eyed desire to see the unknown and push the limits. She'd thought that part of her long since suppressed, but Eggsy tends to bring out her better half.]

ic contact;

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inhales sharply i love the smell of dramatic irony in the morning

how DARE you

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