...Yes. I was thinking about that — "any stallion can be tamed".
[He draws in a slow breath, eyes still low.]
I know something happened when I drank it. I heard sounds and saw things — you mentioned you saw me staring at you, I think. And I saw your silhouette turn green. Then, thereafter, when you were —
[Well. They both know what she was. No sense in putting it into words and making them both relive it, again.]
...What I mean is, I saw your eyes. Your eyes were green, too. I think — I think it is a drug, after all. Just...not in the way we expected.
Some of the chemical readings I saw . . . I couldn't understand them at first, but now I think I do. They're based around not incapacitating the user, but forcing that chemical effect outwards. And it isn't simply knocking a person out, but distorting their mind, making them desperate for it . . .
[It's all the best effects of methamphetamine and MDMA combined and forced out onto some unsuspecting victim. It's devious, and terribly clever, and right now, Rosalind feels sick just to think about it. Her arms fold over her chest, her fingers wrapping tight around her arms, as she stares at the green bottle.]
It seems...impossible. A drug you can drink yourself, to...possess someone else.
[It's nefarious, to say the least. Horrifying, too, that something like this has ended up in her possession — that it exists at all to come into her possession.
And what would've happened, he can't help but wonder, if he hadn't been so adamant about taking the risk upon himself? Would he have been the one suddenly rendered so eager to please? Would that really be so different from who he is, anyway — and yet, how would that have unfolded, with Rosalind's intellectual curiosities in the driver's seat instead of his own hesitation?
What an awful thought that is, and it's one he's understandably going to be keeping to himself. She would never hurt him, he's absolutely confident of that. But her ability to rationalize is unprecedented, too, and he'd be lying to himself if he pretended as though he didn't already know that.]
I'll be fine. I'm more worried about you, as it is.
[Herself is a topic she'd rather not think about at all, frankly-- or at least, not until he leaves. That filthy, sickening feeling is clawing its way up her throat, making her want to tremble and shudder and falter; the minute she gives it any room, it will overwhelm her, so best not to pay it mind until she's alone.
She digs her nails lightly into her arms, miming the way he'd held her too tightly a few minutes ago, and bites her tongue until the shocks of pain are the only things she can truly focus on.]
I meant it, you know. If this has-- if you're too uncomfortable after what's happened, I won't begrudge you that.
[Though her fingers tighten around her arms as she says that. But it's quite literally the least she can offer him; to not do so would be the height of irresponsibility, after all she'd said and done.]
I never meant-- I never wanted to put you in this position.
[Which isn't to say that this is something they'll be able to brush off and let go without addressing it, sooner or later. It's not something either of them is going to easily forget, if at all.
But it doesn't seem right to let her take responsibility for it, either, when her autonomy had been violated just as much as his own personal boundaries, and neither one of them possibly could have known that something like this would have happened.]
If it hadn't been me, then how would things have gone? You would've drunk it yourself, and then you would've been the one where I —
[Oh. Oh, what an ugly thought that is, just the same.]
...Would you have still insisted on testing it, if you'd known in advance what it would do? Even then?
If I'd known what it did, I would have no need to test it.
[Which isn't what he's asking. And really, it's not as if it's so difficult to answer, it's not as if she's hesitating over it, but frankly the thought of their positions reversed is just as ugly as the ones she's trying not to think about herself.]
Then I don't think it's right for you to claim all the responsibility for it, either. You didn't put me in that position. The drug did.
[Which is a hair-splitting and, frankly, sort of stubbornly naive way of insisting upon looking at it. But it's preferable, somehow, to the wedge she's seeking to drive between them — or at least, the one she's offering to him for him to drive himself.
Again, he catches himself thinking of Majima. Trying to come up with the right answer seems all but impossible, with no indication of where even to begin with figuring out what that might be.
So maybe the only thing to do is be selfish, right or wrong, and hope that there's still value in simply expressing what he's feeling, regardless.]
I think...if I were to pull my thesis, to stop being your assistant, just...cut all ties here and now as a result of this...
[He hesitates.]
It feels like it would be running away. It'd neutralize this, end it, but it wouldn't...settle it. And I've run away from a tangled knot of feelings once already in my life. I don't...right or wrong, wise or foolish, I just don't want to do that again.
[Finally, she turns back to him, meeting his grey eyes with her own. She misses his green ones, she catches herself thinking, and wonders at such a banal thought in the midst of all this nonsense. But she does. She misses the way they'd stare at her strikingly between strands of red hair; grey eyes simply don't have the same effect.
The sensible thing to do right now would be to cut him off. To make her tone go flat and harsh, to order him out of her apartment, and come Monday morning make all the necessary phone calls to transfer him to some other professor. That's what she ought to do, she knows, because any hope of treating him as a mere assistant after tonight has gone out the window. She's never going to look at him as anything but Christopher again, Christopher with his motorbike and his long fingers and the way he'd focused on her mouth for a mere second as she'd begged to kiss him. And that's not fair; that's not fair to his thesis, to his career, that's not fair to him. He deserves the assurance of knowing he passed on his own merit, not because his professor had a stupid, petty, pathetic crush on him.
But--
What does she want? Selfishly, not the answer of responsibility. What does she want, here and now? She wants him to stay. She very simply wants him to stay here, on her couch; she wants to continue forward, no matter how they end up deciding things, so as to keep him close by. She can bear it if he doesn't want to-- to do anything in a romantic context, she can learn to live with that, but god, she doesn't want to lose his company, despite what she keeps telling him.
Absently, she presses her fingers to her lips.]
. . . then tell me what you want?
[And god, how different that sounds from the mewling little cry it had been before. She asks it softly, her eyes steady if not calm, and finally seems to settle into her seat instead of tensely perched upon it.]
. . . or would you prefer if I laid my feelings bare first?
[What a precarious question that is, isn't it? What does he want, when just moments ago those had been the buzzwords of a crisis situation. What does he want, really? Good or bad, right or wrong, what does he want?
It doesn't have to be right. It doesn't have to be the end-all, be-all. It just has to be his feelings, honestly and in good faith. He can do that, can't he?]
...I want to find a way to do this right. This...this. Whatever happens.
[He motions vaguely, one hand in midair.]
I don't want to make trouble for your career and I don't want to disrupt mine. I don't want to sacrifice my thesis or my degree. But...I know I can't weigh that against you and being your assistant, either. I can't pick one or the other. I want...to change what needs to be changed, so that this isn't wrong. I want it to work. Because...
[Again, he hesitates.]
Because whatever this is, all of this...I don't want to give it up.
[They'd said that to one another weeks ago, hadn't they? I don't want to lose this, he'd confessed to her, and she'd replied: you won't.]
Nor I.
[That's what it comes down to, doesn't it? Romantic or platonic, whatever it ends up being, they simply don't want to lose one another's company. And that's . . . that's comforting, really. They're at least on the same page regarding that.]
To make it work . . . well. I suppose we need to define what it is we want to work, hm?
[Perhaps that will help. Framing it as a scientific problem, a mass of numbers and logical sequences to see through to their end, yes, perhaps that will help her with this. Rosalind pushes a hand through her hair, sweeping the loose strands away from her face, and stretches her legs out.]
Answer me honestly. Just the one question, and then I promise you that you can ask me the same, if you want. But if-- if all the factors of our professional relationship weren't there, if it was just you and I, and we could act entirely on how we feel with no repercussions . . .
[She hesitates for just a moment, then plunges on:]
Would you want this-- us-- to be something romantic?
[God knows she would have him. She's been fixated on him for months now; if Fawkes was something so equal as a colleague, she'd have ignored all the sensibilities on dating a coworker and initiated something ages ago.
(It's a little stunning to hear, frankly; stunning and underwhelming all at once. Here, now, is confirmation that he's felt the precise same things she has, and Rosalind shivers to hear it. He's dreamed about the same things, thought about the same things, fantasized about--
--and yet of course he has. She's suspected it for months, and to hear it confirmed isn't so much a giddy elation as a quiet relief: I was right).]
. . . we have the rest of the summer to contend with before I stop being your supervisor. And in that time, I can't-- I simply can't do anything with you before then. Even if we managed to keep it a secret, the threat alone of exposure . . . god, Fawkes, should anyone find out, we'd both be ruined.
You'd be the man who only got his thesis published because he was sleeping with his professor. Everything you ever did, every bit of work you ever offered, would be scrutinized and doubted and vilified, because of course you didn't initially pass on your own merit, so why should anything you ever write be any good? You'd have to work three times as hard to get half the credit you deserve, and I can't tell you how many years that reputation might last. You'd have to leave Recolle; you'd have to try and start your academic career somewhere else, and even then, that reputation would linger.
And I'd-- well.
[She shrugs, a tight little gesture. She's thought a lot about this, it seems.]
The repercussions towards me would be just as severe, albeit in a different direction.
[So. So if they're do to this, they're going to have to wait til summer's end. Til he's published his thesis and he's nothing more than a former assistant, perfectly free to pursue her (or not) at his leisure.]
. . . but.
[She wavers again, unsure if she truly wants to voice this thought or not, but then:]
I've . . . I've already thrown myself at you once tonight. I've offered to kiss you and-- and all kinds of things, when I wasn't in my right mind. And once we sort all that out, we shan't speak of it again, I think, and certainly not to anyone else.
And since we won't . . . since this night is, is to be secret anyway . . .
[God, but she's reaching, she really is, and yet she doesn't care. Rosalind presses her fingers to her lips again.]
I'd kiss you tonight. If we could pretend it never happened come Monday.
...For the sake of lasting the summer. To — to defuse the possibility of...escalation.
[It's absolutely absurd, frankly. The notion of treating this like something rational, of picking it apart as objectively as any other science experiment — it's nothing short of ridiculous, that two people as smart as the both of them seem to think they could possibly get away with it.
And yet maybe that's the whole reason why it will work — because neither one of them is normal, and they're both far more comfortable with logic than they are with emotion. Maybe that's the only way they'll both be able to navigate this and make his ultimate wish come true, that they can still find a way to manage to be Fawkes and Dr. Lutece without having to sacrifice that for the sake of gambling on Christopher and Rosalind.
Until the end of the summer. It almost makes him want to laugh, really. Speaking of memories of the end of summer — he'd run away from Kuro at the end of one, hadn't he? Poetic, almost, to think of running toward Rosalind come the end of this one.
He reaches up, scrubbing at his face.]
I think...you're right. The best thing to do is to carry on as usual, just as we are, until...until we can both gracefully set aside that imbalance between us. And — frankly, I don't want to rob myself of my time being your assistant, even in exchange for the chance at something more. And then, come the fall, when...all this isn't standing in the way, then — we'll see. Not "we will" or "we won't" — I mean let's make no decisions at all, either way, until we've even got the freedom to make them to begin with.
[But that also leaves the question of tonight hanging open, and that's probably deliberate, because he's pausing but he certainly doesn't sound as though he's finished.]
[She nods in agreement. It sounds so neat that way, so utterly perfect: they won't deny themselves completely, but rather just postpone it, because that's the most convenient solution. They'll have the best of both worlds, now and then, and Rosalind nods, pleased by that thought.]
Yes.
[She can wait til summer's end to see how this all turns out. And in the meantime, she'll be able to far better focus on being his professor, smart and keen and sharp, guiding him to the best of her ability without any romantic complications hindering her. She isn't so naive as to think they'll stay entirely professional, no, but at least if their touches linger or their words turn flirtatious, they'll know why-- and more importantly, know that those gestures won't go any further.
And as for tonight . . .? She doesn't ask. She's made her offer; whether he decides to ignore it and quietly let the matter drop or pursue it is entirely up to him.]
[When he speaks again, it's much quieter than before — softer, more vulnerable, but also with a touch more humor, albeit of the self-deprecating variety.]
I was jealous. When you'd talk about going out with — well. With anyone, really, just because...I knew I couldn't do that. It was nothing to do with thinking you preferred someone else over me, or anything so petty. I was just jealous that you would describe things that I knew deep down I could never be a part of in the same way.
[So nothing to do with Carter at all, really, and everything to do with the fact she was going out with him in the first place. And it's not as if she and Tony ever get up to anything particularly salacious, but Fawkes is perfectly correct: even those idle flirtations are beyond what he's allowed to do.
A fact for a fact. Rosalind stretches her legs out further, til she can nudge her toes against his leg. It's a fond gesture, yes, but it's also a quiet reminder of what she's about to bring up.]
The first night you slept over . . . that's when I knew I was in trouble. I ran to Ardyn after that, I-- well. I suppose I was hoping he'd tell me to cut it off, so I could put all the blame solely on him if I did so and I ended up hurting myself in the process. And he told me . . . he told me to pursue you.
[Despite herself, she laughs. Perhaps because that's somewhat of the same reaction she'd had, and perhaps because after all that's happened tonight, it feels good to laugh at something so mundane.]
He's a self-confessed romantic. And he, ah, he was aware of my feelings for you long before I was ready to acknowledge them. You came up as a possibility months ago, when he talked of setting me up with someone, and I emphatically denied any and all attraction to you.
...Majima told me to stop putting my feelings second to other people's. Hiding them for the sake of doing what I think will make them happy, that is. I suppose for a fair amount of tonight I've...tried to follow that advice.
[In other words: god they're apparently not subtle, huh. HUH.]
It wasn't quite so direct. At first, he brought you up because I kept bringing you up; I spoke about you far too often, again and again, and he realized why. He asked if I felt that way towards you, purely hypothetically, but within a conversation already about my dating someone. From there, we spoke of friendship between a professor and a student, and later on, I asked him what his opinions were should the connection turn romantic.
As to why he encouraged it . . . he spoke as a friend. And I think, as a friend, he wants to see me happy.
[Oh, well. Maybe she hadn't been intentionally seeking to do it when she'd said that, but in a way that just makes it all the more thrilling — and endearing: ]
[Simply said, but all the more honest for it. Her cheeks are a little red right now, but her voice is plain as she adds:]
Of course you would. You already do; a romantic relationship would only be an extension of that. I wasn't simply asking you over here night after night out of infatuation; I quite enjoy your company, Christopher.
[A moment, and a strange sort of smile crosses her face, there and gone, before she bites her bottom lip and hides it.]
...I can't in good conscience kiss my professor. No matter how often I might've...
[He pauses; but no, she's done her part at laying her thoughts and feelings bare for the moment, hasn't she? It's only right that he do the same, or at least his fair share.]
...thought about it.
[Oh, he's thought about it. It's mortifying to admit to, to be sure, but — again, fair is fair.
Still, he looks up at her, his gray-eyed gaze wandering over her features, and he mulls over the catch of her lip behind her teeth and the way she likes to push her fingers against her mouth when she's self-conscious, and muses.]
But...by the same token, I didn't come here tonight for the sake of my professor, either.
[He most certainly hadn't. They're very careful about that, aren't they? She'd asked for Christopher tonight, not Fawkes, and he in turn had responded with her given name, not her family name and title.
Her breath catches at the way his gaze so clearly wanders over her face. It's not the first time he's looked at her that way, to be sure, but it's the first time he's ever been so bold as to do it while she's watching. She can't help but respond to it: tipping her head slightly, giving implicit permission to look as her eyes dart down and she does the same to him.
She misses his green eyes. But the softness of his mouth, the contrasting sharp angles of his cheekbones, the way his hair falls around his face and the way his neck is long and pale and begging to be bitten . . . oh, that more than makes up for it.]
And your friend. The one you came over tonight to see and keep safe. Are you going to kiss her?
[This is it, then. Quiet, simple — hidden away behind the four walls of the now-familiar apartment, where there are no eyes to see, no outside attachments save the ones they bring in with them — she asks are you going to kiss her and there's something about the subtle use of third person that catches at his heartstrings and tugs.
He's felt like that himself too often, recently, hasn't he? He's asked himself who am I, what am I really, who is Youko, how did they know the name "Kurama". He's wondered what he is and once was and what it all adds up to mean in the future. It's overwhelming and frightening and nervewracking, to say the least.
Rosalind, in contrast, makes the world so gentle, and so simple.
Unconsciously, he drags his tongue over his lips, wetting them where they've gone dry.]
Yes...I think so.
[They're this far gone as it is. The thought of finally slipping away all the pretense and simply coming to the point is...oddly liberating.]
I think she'd take comfort in it, with the sort of night that she's having. And I think...I'd like to comfort her that way, if she were willing. And only if she were willing.
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no subject
[He draws in a slow breath, eyes still low.]
I know something happened when I drank it. I heard sounds and saw things — you mentioned you saw me staring at you, I think. And I saw your silhouette turn green. Then, thereafter, when you were —
[Well. They both know what she was. No sense in putting it into words and making them both relive it, again.]
...What I mean is, I saw your eyes. Your eyes were green, too. I think — I think it is a drug, after all. Just...not in the way we expected.
no subject
[It's all the best effects of methamphetamine and MDMA combined and forced out onto some unsuspecting victim. It's devious, and terribly clever, and right now, Rosalind feels sick just to think about it. Her arms fold over her chest, her fingers wrapping tight around her arms, as she stares at the green bottle.]
Are you all right?
no subject
[It's nefarious, to say the least. Horrifying, too, that something like this has ended up in her possession — that it exists at all to come into her possession.
And what would've happened, he can't help but wonder, if he hadn't been so adamant about taking the risk upon himself? Would he have been the one suddenly rendered so eager to please? Would that really be so different from who he is, anyway — and yet, how would that have unfolded, with Rosalind's intellectual curiosities in the driver's seat instead of his own hesitation?
What an awful thought that is, and it's one he's understandably going to be keeping to himself. She would never hurt him, he's absolutely confident of that. But her ability to rationalize is unprecedented, too, and he'd be lying to himself if he pretended as though he didn't already know that.]
I'll be fine. I'm more worried about you, as it is.
no subject
She digs her nails lightly into her arms, miming the way he'd held her too tightly a few minutes ago, and bites her tongue until the shocks of pain are the only things she can truly focus on.]
I meant it, you know. If this has-- if you're too uncomfortable after what's happened, I won't begrudge you that.
[Though her fingers tighten around her arms as she says that. But it's quite literally the least she can offer him; to not do so would be the height of irresponsibility, after all she'd said and done.]
I never meant-- I never wanted to put you in this position.
no subject
[Which isn't to say that this is something they'll be able to brush off and let go without addressing it, sooner or later. It's not something either of them is going to easily forget, if at all.
But it doesn't seem right to let her take responsibility for it, either, when her autonomy had been violated just as much as his own personal boundaries, and neither one of them possibly could have known that something like this would have happened.]
If it hadn't been me, then how would things have gone? You would've drunk it yourself, and then you would've been the one where I —
[Oh. Oh, what an ugly thought that is, just the same.]
...Would you have still insisted on testing it, if you'd known in advance what it would do? Even then?
no subject
[Which isn't what he's asking. And really, it's not as if it's so difficult to answer, it's not as if she's hesitating over it, but frankly the thought of their positions reversed is just as ugly as the ones she's trying not to think about herself.]
No. I wouldn't have. And certainly not with you.
no subject
[Which is a hair-splitting and, frankly, sort of stubbornly naive way of insisting upon looking at it. But it's preferable, somehow, to the wedge she's seeking to drive between them — or at least, the one she's offering to him for him to drive himself.
Again, he catches himself thinking of Majima. Trying to come up with the right answer seems all but impossible, with no indication of where even to begin with figuring out what that might be.
So maybe the only thing to do is be selfish, right or wrong, and hope that there's still value in simply expressing what he's feeling, regardless.]
I think...if I were to pull my thesis, to stop being your assistant, just...cut all ties here and now as a result of this...
[He hesitates.]
It feels like it would be running away. It'd neutralize this, end it, but it wouldn't...settle it. And I've run away from a tangled knot of feelings once already in my life. I don't...right or wrong, wise or foolish, I just don't want to do that again.
no subject
The sensible thing to do right now would be to cut him off. To make her tone go flat and harsh, to order him out of her apartment, and come Monday morning make all the necessary phone calls to transfer him to some other professor. That's what she ought to do, she knows, because any hope of treating him as a mere assistant after tonight has gone out the window. She's never going to look at him as anything but Christopher again, Christopher with his motorbike and his long fingers and the way he'd focused on her mouth for a mere second as she'd begged to kiss him. And that's not fair; that's not fair to his thesis, to his career, that's not fair to him. He deserves the assurance of knowing he passed on his own merit, not because his professor had a stupid, petty, pathetic crush on him.
But--
What does she want? Selfishly, not the answer of responsibility. What does she want, here and now? She wants him to stay. She very simply wants him to stay here, on her couch; she wants to continue forward, no matter how they end up deciding things, so as to keep him close by. She can bear it if he doesn't want to-- to do anything in a romantic context, she can learn to live with that, but god, she doesn't want to lose his company, despite what she keeps telling him.
Absently, she presses her fingers to her lips.]
. . . then tell me what you want?
[And god, how different that sounds from the mewling little cry it had been before. She asks it softly, her eyes steady if not calm, and finally seems to settle into her seat instead of tensely perched upon it.]
. . . or would you prefer if I laid my feelings bare first?
no subject
It doesn't have to be right. It doesn't have to be the end-all, be-all. It just has to be his feelings, honestly and in good faith. He can do that, can't he?]
...I want to find a way to do this right. This...this. Whatever happens.
[He motions vaguely, one hand in midair.]
I don't want to make trouble for your career and I don't want to disrupt mine. I don't want to sacrifice my thesis or my degree. But...I know I can't weigh that against you and being your assistant, either. I can't pick one or the other. I want...to change what needs to be changed, so that this isn't wrong. I want it to work. Because...
[Again, he hesitates.]
Because whatever this is, all of this...I don't want to give it up.
no subject
Nor I.
[That's what it comes down to, doesn't it? Romantic or platonic, whatever it ends up being, they simply don't want to lose one another's company. And that's . . . that's comforting, really. They're at least on the same page regarding that.]
To make it work . . . well. I suppose we need to define what it is we want to work, hm?
[Perhaps that will help. Framing it as a scientific problem, a mass of numbers and logical sequences to see through to their end, yes, perhaps that will help her with this. Rosalind pushes a hand through her hair, sweeping the loose strands away from her face, and stretches her legs out.]
Answer me honestly. Just the one question, and then I promise you that you can ask me the same, if you want. But if-- if all the factors of our professional relationship weren't there, if it was just you and I, and we could act entirely on how we feel with no repercussions . . .
[She hesitates for just a moment, then plunges on:]
Would you want this-- us-- to be something romantic?
no subject
[But that's not an answer, not at all.]
If there were nothing else at stake, no...external factors to make it unwise...
[He pauses, the corner of his lip catching beneath his teeth.]
...I think I'd have kissed you already, well before now. Or tried to, at least.
no subject
[God knows she would have him. She's been fixated on him for months now; if Fawkes was something so equal as a colleague, she'd have ignored all the sensibilities on dating a coworker and initiated something ages ago.
(It's a little stunning to hear, frankly; stunning and underwhelming all at once. Here, now, is confirmation that he's felt the precise same things she has, and Rosalind shivers to hear it. He's dreamed about the same things, thought about the same things, fantasized about--
--and yet of course he has. She's suspected it for months, and to hear it confirmed isn't so much a giddy elation as a quiet relief: I was right).]
. . . we have the rest of the summer to contend with before I stop being your supervisor. And in that time, I can't-- I simply can't do anything with you before then. Even if we managed to keep it a secret, the threat alone of exposure . . . god, Fawkes, should anyone find out, we'd both be ruined.
You'd be the man who only got his thesis published because he was sleeping with his professor. Everything you ever did, every bit of work you ever offered, would be scrutinized and doubted and vilified, because of course you didn't initially pass on your own merit, so why should anything you ever write be any good? You'd have to work three times as hard to get half the credit you deserve, and I can't tell you how many years that reputation might last. You'd have to leave Recolle; you'd have to try and start your academic career somewhere else, and even then, that reputation would linger.
And I'd-- well.
[She shrugs, a tight little gesture. She's thought a lot about this, it seems.]
The repercussions towards me would be just as severe, albeit in a different direction.
[So. So if they're do to this, they're going to have to wait til summer's end. Til he's published his thesis and he's nothing more than a former assistant, perfectly free to pursue her (or not) at his leisure.]
. . . but.
[She wavers again, unsure if she truly wants to voice this thought or not, but then:]
I've . . . I've already thrown myself at you once tonight. I've offered to kiss you and-- and all kinds of things, when I wasn't in my right mind. And once we sort all that out, we shan't speak of it again, I think, and certainly not to anyone else.
And since we won't . . . since this night is, is to be secret anyway . . .
[God, but she's reaching, she really is, and yet she doesn't care. Rosalind presses her fingers to her lips again.]
I'd kiss you tonight. If we could pretend it never happened come Monday.
no subject
[It's absolutely absurd, frankly. The notion of treating this like something rational, of picking it apart as objectively as any other science experiment — it's nothing short of ridiculous, that two people as smart as the both of them seem to think they could possibly get away with it.
And yet maybe that's the whole reason why it will work — because neither one of them is normal, and they're both far more comfortable with logic than they are with emotion. Maybe that's the only way they'll both be able to navigate this and make his ultimate wish come true, that they can still find a way to manage to be Fawkes and Dr. Lutece without having to sacrifice that for the sake of gambling on Christopher and Rosalind.
Until the end of the summer. It almost makes him want to laugh, really. Speaking of memories of the end of summer — he'd run away from Kuro at the end of one, hadn't he? Poetic, almost, to think of running toward Rosalind come the end of this one.
He reaches up, scrubbing at his face.]
I think...you're right. The best thing to do is to carry on as usual, just as we are, until...until we can both gracefully set aside that imbalance between us. And — frankly, I don't want to rob myself of my time being your assistant, even in exchange for the chance at something more. And then, come the fall, when...all this isn't standing in the way, then — we'll see. Not "we will" or "we won't" — I mean let's make no decisions at all, either way, until we've even got the freedom to make them to begin with.
[But that also leaves the question of tonight hanging open, and that's probably deliberate, because he's pausing but he certainly doesn't sound as though he's finished.]
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Yes.
[She can wait til summer's end to see how this all turns out. And in the meantime, she'll be able to far better focus on being his professor, smart and keen and sharp, guiding him to the best of her ability without any romantic complications hindering her. She isn't so naive as to think they'll stay entirely professional, no, but at least if their touches linger or their words turn flirtatious, they'll know why-- and more importantly, know that those gestures won't go any further.
And as for tonight . . .? She doesn't ask. She's made her offer; whether he decides to ignore it and quietly let the matter drop or pursue it is entirely up to him.]
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[When he speaks again, it's much quieter than before — softer, more vulnerable, but also with a touch more humor, albeit of the self-deprecating variety.]
I was jealous. When you'd talk about going out with — well. With anyone, really, just because...I knew I couldn't do that. It was nothing to do with thinking you preferred someone else over me, or anything so petty. I was just jealous that you would describe things that I knew deep down I could never be a part of in the same way.
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A fact for a fact. Rosalind stretches her legs out further, til she can nudge her toes against his leg. It's a fond gesture, yes, but it's also a quiet reminder of what she's about to bring up.]
The first night you slept over . . . that's when I knew I was in trouble. I ran to Ardyn after that, I-- well. I suppose I was hoping he'd tell me to cut it off, so I could put all the blame solely on him if I did so and I ended up hurting myself in the process. And he told me . . . he told me to pursue you.
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[OKAY THAT'S WORTH A BRIEF PAUSE IN THE FLOW OF THE CONVERSATION BECAUSE: HOLY SHIT??]
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He's a self-confessed romantic. And he, ah, he was aware of my feelings for you long before I was ready to acknowledge them. You came up as a possibility months ago, when he talked of setting me up with someone, and I emphatically denied any and all attraction to you.
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[In other words: god they're apparently not subtle, huh. HUH.]
Why did he want to set you up with me?
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As to why he encouraged it . . . he spoke as a friend. And I think, as a friend, he wants to see me happy.
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[Oh, well. Maybe she hadn't been intentionally seeking to do it when she'd said that, but in a way that just makes it all the more thrilling — and endearing: ]
And I would...make you happy?
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[Simply said, but all the more honest for it. Her cheeks are a little red right now, but her voice is plain as she adds:]
Of course you would. You already do; a romantic relationship would only be an extension of that. I wasn't simply asking you over here night after night out of infatuation; I quite enjoy your company, Christopher.
[A moment, and a strange sort of smile crosses her face, there and gone, before she bites her bottom lip and hides it.]
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[He pauses; but no, she's done her part at laying her thoughts and feelings bare for the moment, hasn't she? It's only right that he do the same, or at least his fair share.]
...thought about it.
[Oh, he's thought about it. It's mortifying to admit to, to be sure, but — again, fair is fair.
Still, he looks up at her, his gray-eyed gaze wandering over her features, and he mulls over the catch of her lip behind her teeth and the way she likes to push her fingers against her mouth when she's self-conscious, and muses.]
But...by the same token, I didn't come here tonight for the sake of my professor, either.
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[He most certainly hadn't. They're very careful about that, aren't they? She'd asked for Christopher tonight, not Fawkes, and he in turn had responded with her given name, not her family name and title.
Her breath catches at the way his gaze so clearly wanders over her face. It's not the first time he's looked at her that way, to be sure, but it's the first time he's ever been so bold as to do it while she's watching. She can't help but respond to it: tipping her head slightly, giving implicit permission to look as her eyes dart down and she does the same to him.
She misses his green eyes. But the softness of his mouth, the contrasting sharp angles of his cheekbones, the way his hair falls around his face and the way his neck is long and pale and begging to be bitten . . . oh, that more than makes up for it.]
And your friend. The one you came over tonight to see and keep safe. Are you going to kiss her?
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He's felt like that himself too often, recently, hasn't he? He's asked himself who am I, what am I really, who is Youko, how did they know the name "Kurama". He's wondered what he is and once was and what it all adds up to mean in the future. It's overwhelming and frightening and nervewracking, to say the least.
Rosalind, in contrast, makes the world so gentle, and so simple.
Unconsciously, he drags his tongue over his lips, wetting them where they've gone dry.]
Yes...I think so.
[They're this far gone as it is. The thought of finally slipping away all the pretense and simply coming to the point is...oddly liberating.]
I think she'd take comfort in it, with the sort of night that she's having. And I think...I'd like to comfort her that way, if she were willing. And only if she were willing.
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