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[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.]

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