uncertainrelation | IC Inbox

And rightly so, I would imagine. You had a traumatic experience here; it's only to be expected that you'd associate anxieties with it.

[He knows how she hates that, though. Knows precisely what must be running through her head, too — that Madam Lutece oughtn't be afraid, Madam Lutece is supposed to be fearless in the pursuit of science, women grow fearful and cling to their men and she oughtn't be carrying on that way at all.

So he gives her a little squeeze again, skimming his hands over her back.]

I'll stay as long as you need me to. You know I will.

[And indeed, a little frown graces her lips, a noise sounding in her throat as she bites back a protest. I'm not anxious, I'm not afraid, I'm not traumatized, I'm perfectly all right . . . Funny, how automatic it is to keep up her defenses even after admitting she's anxious.

She slides her hands down, catching his shirt between her fingers. It is clinging, though you'd have to look close to see.]

It didn't even happen here.

No, but it did happen in the rugged wilderness, much like this. It doesn't look...

[He hums a little bit, absently moving one of his hands to cover over hers where she's clinging to him, just for that extra spot of attentiveness to her mood.]

...right. Lived-in. Columbia had nothing like this, and even home wasn't this...wild.

[That's true. Venturing out on the plains is a little nervewracking, because she's a city girl, not one suited to the wilderness. Even the forest is a bit better: it's the outdoors, yes, but it's a contained space.]

I'm glad we moved, you know. I didn't want . . . I liked the isolation, at first. But it's a bit better, being surrounded on both sides.

I'm glad we moved because I do believe you couldn't have got further from the city center if you'd tried.

[Yes, Robert, that was presumably sort of the point.]

Besides, the house feels more like...well, a house. Less temporary. More...ours.

Mm.

[She hesitates, then adds:]

It's . . . domestic. More relaxed. More comfortable than Columbia was.

[It would be easy to fool themselves into settling. Certainly the temptation is there; with Robert here, Rosalind finds herself utterly content. Ruby City has a hundred mysteries to solve, and what more has she ever wanted? Scientific work with him at her side, the two of them able to openly celebrate what they are . . . she couldn't imagine a better paradise if she tried.

Robert had wanted to integrate themselves back into Columbia, when all was said and done. He'd wanted a baby. Ruby City is a far, far better place than Columbia to raise a child.

And yet some part of her hesitates, even so. This is all well and good, but it can't possibly be their last stop. She isn't ready. They'd once had all the worlds at their fingertips; how on earth can she be expected to give that all up in exchange for domesticity?]

What do you think of it, now that you've settled in a fair bit?

[It's an abrupt subject change, but he'll follow along.]

Well...I suppose my inclination will still be to see things through the figurative rose-colored glasses, at this point. I've seen one of those strange occasions that this place seems to render on the populace, yet I've not been wholly inconvenienced by it. ...Yet.

[After all, their date as youths was fun and refreshing, wasn't it? And being surrounded by children...

No, that's hardly an inconvenience at all, now, is it.]

...D'you know I met a man who told me, quite enthusiastically, about his boyfriend? No qualms in the slightest. It was...pleasantly startling. To think, that someone here would be so free with something like that, and suffer nary a single repercussion.

I think it's a fresh start. A...rare chance. Certainly not one I'd want to squander, having lived the alternative for too long.

Fugo is paired off like that, you know.

[Though he hadn't been quite so enthusiastic about telling Rosalind. She presses in closer, just to feel his arms tighten fractionally around her.]

. . . a fresh start.

[She stares at nothing for a few seconds, then tips her head back, catching his eye.]

A start for what, though, precisely?

I would say, "for us"...but that isn't what you're getting at. You mean events, not participants.

[He raises his eyebrows slightly, gazing right back down at her — a perfect parallel, the two of them, neatly reflected in each other.]

You don't favor the domesticity.

Not yet.

[She does and she doesn't. Rosalind hesitates, then adds:]

I simply . . . there's so much we haven't yet done. There's so many worlds we haven't seen, and times we never got to visit. There's so much I can't remember, all that knowledge we once had. We were taken too early. I want that domesticity, I do, I want . . .

[Her eyes flicker down for a moment.]

. . . all of it. But to settle into this role feels akin to willingly giving up that other life.

You don't want this until you're quite finished with that, is it...

[He seems to chew on that a little bit, pondering over it. Certainly it makes sense, from her point of view, but there's also an aspect of it that seems...constrained, to his. Perhaps it's Rosalind's personal inclination to look for traps where he longs to see opportunities. Perhaps it's simply easier for him to dream of being whatever he wants on a moment's whim, because he's never been told there's any reason why he can't be anything he wants to begin with.]

It's not "playing wife", you know. If that's — if that's part of it.

[Rosalind stares down at nothing for a long few seconds. Her breathing is shallow now, quick inhales that betray her nerves.]

In that hallucination. With-- with Astor.

[She doesn't dare use his first name. Bringing him up at all feels like a bad idea, and Rosalind is growing tense in Robert's arms, but he has to understand.]

It was domestic. It was-- we lived in a mansion, and I was his wife, his, his perfect wife, I was everything a lady ought to be. I had to be, because that was the way he wanted it, and god only knew what would happen to me if he grew so displeased that he kicked me out. So he was happy, because I was the bloody light of our home. And when he'd fallen asleep, that was the only time I was able to practice my little hobby, when he couldn't see me and disapprove.

God, Robert, I was so miserable. I was so . . . you wouldn't have recognized me.

It's not that I think you'd force me into that. God, even if we had a, a, a child, I don't think you'd ever force me into that, that's not it. But I don't want to . . .

. . . we've never been able to be domestic. Not properly. And I suppose I'm afraid that if I allow myself to give into that, I'll end up precisely where I was with Charlie Astor: miserable and cut off from all that makes my life worth living now.

Shhh, shh, shh.

[He knows better than to try to make her look at him right now, even if it's what he wants most desperately for himself; he tucks her head underneath his chin instead, and tightens his arms around her as much to help try to quell her trembling as to reassure her that he's here.

He wants to tell her that he'll never let that happen to her. He wants to, and yet he can't — because it's already happened to her, and he wasn't here to stop it, and all that promise will do really is remind her of his absence and his impotence against preventing the other.

A Rosalind so miserable he wouldn't have recognized her. What a repugnant, sobering thought.

He sucks in a slow, agonizing breath.]

I don't want a baby if it means your misery.

[He doesn't. And she didn't turn the focus of the topic to children specifically, but he does, because sometimes they're both a little bit awful in this one particular way, implicating the things they both want most for the sake of delivering a more self-centered point.]

I don't want to be married if it means that. Rosie, I don't want to be happy if it's not something I can share with you.

[Narcissus always did prioritize one thing above all else, after all.]

I just...I don't understand why you can't have both. What you see, that I don't...that's stopping you from having both.

I've never been able to have both.

[It's good he's tugged her in so close. It means that if her mouth trembles, if her voice shakes, if she admits that she's weak and vulnerable and scared, no one will be able to see. Rosalind squeezes her eyes shut tight, burying her face against him for a long few seconds.

She's always, always known what she wants, and her life has always revolved around achieving it. She'd looked to the future and wanted desperately to be a reputable scientist, someone who had gone farther than anyone else, and known even as a child that she could do it. She was brilliant beyond compare, and there was nothing that would stop her from exercising that brilliance.

But in order to accomplish that, she'd had to become ruthless. She'd done whatever it had taken to accomplish her goals, and forcibly cut out those elements which would seek to hold her back. Friends, family, lovers, all of them were entirely unimportant in the face of her goals. And emotions . . . oh, she'd long since learned to suppress those. Grief and anger, yes, but most importantly: regret. She had no time for regrets.

But that doesn't mean they weren't there.]

Wife or scientist, pretty or respected, friends or success, a baby or a career . . . good god, Robert, when have I ever been able to have both?

But we've never had this, either.

[He seems hesitant as he ventures that, pulling all of his remarks back carefully because he knows from the tightness in her tone that she's coming at this from a place where he's never had to venture — a divide between their worlds where he's always had the luxury of being both, and she hasn't.

So he's careful, mindfully scrutinizing his own tone to ensure that he's only pressing her, uncertain, instead of talking down to her with an authority he has no right to exercise over her.]

Isn't that just it, that things are different now...?

. . . it seems too good to be true.

[There, at last, is the problem. It's nothing to do with Robert, nor their circumstances. It's nothing tangible. It's just . . . thirty-eight years of defenses built up, all of them screaming at her not to trust this golden opportunity.]

...And what's too good to be true likely is.

[He finishes the thought effortlessly, as natural as breathing.]

I'll not ask you to be complacent with this. You know that. I've asked so much of you already...I won't ask for any more.

I know.

I want it. I do want it, I want . . . I can so well imagine what it might be like. It wouldn't be a, a concession to you. I want . . . all the things you do as well.

[She closes her eyes again. A long few seconds pass.]

. . . I want to talk about it. To start with.

Then we'll talk about it.

[And for a while, then, he just holds her, keeping one eye on their surroundings but the rest of his focus on gently comforting her. It's only at length that he ventures a thought, and when he does it's light, and evidently calculated to try to ease a smile out of her.]

You did get both once, you know. When the universe said, "which Lutece will it be: Robert or Rosalind".

You didn't settle for anything less than "both".

[And indeed, she does smile: thinly, yes, but genuinely all the same. And with that smile comes a slight easing of tension. She's still upset, yes, but not quite as panic-stricken as she'd been a few moments ago.]

. . . do you want to get married?

...Yes. I do.

[And it's hard, sort of, to admit that. It's nervewracking on the heels of comparisons to Charlie Astor, and how bitter a pill it still is to think of...well, everything that she'd endured, in that delusion.

But they're talking. The point is to talk, and it does them no good to keep quiet.]

Not because we need to be, or anything so stupid as that. But because I want to do it — stand up before the crowd, call you mine, put a ring on your finger...see you in a white dress. All of it. The...ceremony of it. I do want that.

[Her eyes flick downwards again, her breath leaving her unsteadily. They're only just getting used to telling other people about what they truly are, and that's nervewracking. Each time she tells someone, she has to steel herself for the worst. The thought of a giant party loudly boasting that fact is . . . uncomfortable. Never mind the fact she'd be expected to be emotional, not just in front of Robert, but everyone . . . god, what a prospect.

It's not that she's opposed to the idea. Marriage itself, the ring and the state of being both, that suits her just fine. It's all the fuss surrounding the event she has trouble squaring away, but that fuss is precisely what Robert wants.]

Tell me why.

[She reaches for one of his hands, gripping it tightly.]

Do you . . . is it because we've never gotten to be affectionate in public before?

No. It's not — it's nothing to do with proving a point, or having something we can't, or...

[He hesitates, like he's searching for words and not precisely sure he'll be able to come up with them in any sort of satisfactory way.]

It's just...well, what purpose is there of a birthday party, or a graduation ceremony? It's a lot of pomp and circumstance and spectacle, and none of it has a single thing to do with what you have learned or haven't you. It's being surrounded by people you care for, and sharing — being happy together, and —

[And gradually he falls silent, as the act of actually spelling out his whim seems to bring the weight of reality back into them. Because of course, that's a dream for a universe where he belongs, isn't it? One that takes for granted the presence of parents and friends, and being known.

It begs the sobering question: even if they were married tomorrow, who would he even invite?

He draws in a slow breath, contemplating the crumbling of his fancies, and shakes his head.]

...It's just a whim. I can't explain it any further than that.

[She sees it: the moment his enthusiasm fades and reality sets in. His expression fades, the light and enthusiasm flickering out of his gaze. Who would they invite? Her students? Her friends? But they all of them are still hers. Oh, they're all friendly enough to Robert, but-- well. Urameshi had only meant it as a compliment, but he'd put it quite well: we already have our Dr. Lutece.

It stings. It had stung twenty years ago, too, when he'd asked about their parents and friends and realized that neither group would ever know who he was.]

. . . we'll indulge it.

[She meets his eyes. It would be for him, yes, but not entirely. The ceremony, the fuss, the party . . . that would be for him, and she would deal with it, for his sake. But the state of marriage itself-- that, Rosalind would enjoy very much.]

We can do it here. Or we can wait, and . . .

[She hesitates for a long few moments.]

If we resume our other state of being. We could do it in your universe.

You know, it's...

[It's his turn to hesitate now, fumbling for his thoughts in a way that he usually doesn't, and it strikes him that it's going back and forth between them at this point, this inclination to find themselves at a loss and have to grasp around blindly for a way to proceed. It's so antithetical to science and so standard for emotions, he thinks idly, and not without a touch of wry humor. Perhaps they ought to just stick with being scientists; it's not as though they've ever had difficulties with that.

But he ducks his chin, kissing into her hair more for his own comfort than to impart it onto her, and casts around for his vocabulary once again.]

We've never been normal, have we? You haven't and I haven't. But I think...you've taken to being extraordinary better than I have, sometimes. You're content to be extraordinary, and I sometimes find myself still longing for the normal.

[...But that's just it, he thinks, and realizes abruptly that this is one thought he shouldn't keep to just his thoughts, and reopens his mouth instead.]

But — no. No, it's that I'm allowed to long for normal, and you're not. Because a "normal" woman is...less than...a normal man. And that's why —

[He hesitates again.]

That...is why, isn't it...?

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originallutece - 2017-04-29 23:05 (UTC) - Expand

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