[She dresses up far, far nicer than take-out requires, but Rosalind's been wearing the same dress for a week. She's exhausted and irritated and (beneath it all) a bit scared, and dressing up and going out with a friend seems a wonderful counter to that.
So: heels, a dress, and some bright red lipstick to complete the ensemble. She also has a bag, a large bulky thing that clinks in an alarmingly familiar way.]
[Some things never change, but today of all days, Rosalind is grateful for it. Sliding into his car, she settles her bag of bottles on her lap and waits for him to slip in beside her.]
Hunny, you are getting nothing less than a five star dining experience. I think we both deserve it after the crap we've put up with.
[And that is how shortly (after some speeding, always with the speeding) they're pulling up to a modern looking restaurant with a line beginning at an outdoor podium and wrapping around the block. Stepping of the car Tony hands the keys to a valet and then he's opening Roslaind's door and offering his hand to help her out. A quick glance at the maître d' and "Carter, back room, thanks" is enough to get them shown into a private room with sliding screen walls, but otherwise tastefully lowkey. Not a dragon or Bhuddha baby in sight.
When they're seated and alone, wait staff off fetching a bottle of wine...]
So are you going to tell me what the bag's about or am I going to have to play twenty questions?
[It's most certainly not what she expected, but that doesn't mean she isn't pleased. Rosalind smiles as they settle in, one leg crossing over the other, her posture finally relaxing as the door slides closed behind them.]
A bottle of bourbon I've been saving. I figured there was no better time than this.
If I didn't think my lawyer would suffer cardiac arrest the moment I even suggested dropping the bachelor life I'd propose to you right here. You— are a queen among woman. I'd call you Cleopatra, but she had a bit of a funny nose and you're kind of without peer.
[How to win a Carter over: knowing when to bring the spirits. ...Alcoholism does kind of run in the family. Regardless Tony's placing his wine glass in the middle of the table. Light him up, Rosalind.]
[She laughs despite herself and reaches beneath her chair, grabbing the bottle and opening it. It's good bourbon, the kind she really oughtn't be able to afford on a professor's salary. And maybe she shouldn't be enabling him like this, but on the other hand, he's a grown man. She's not giving him anything he wouldn't get on his own.
It's only once they've both drank and ordered their food that Rosalind speaks again.]
[One would think such a question would stop Tony mid-drink, but no he gives an appraising swish to his glass and a savoring sip. There's been way too much weirdness going on and only half of it is "drugs in the water" fueled. He's going to appreciate a good bourbon when it crosses his palate. So when he does speak, it's probably not as enthusiastic as one would expect.]
Yeah, I remembered I'm in the special forces. Code name Iron Man. I'm assuming it's a working title. Also memory me needs to change the locks on his doors. Did you remember being more than a mild-mannered professor with a kilowatt smile?
I'd be hurt by your incredulousness —I did think about joining the army at one time, you know— but it is pretty weird for me. My history of violence is...depressingly me getting my ass beat.
[SO.... No, he's just dancing around the facts because they're embarrassing and he doesn't want to share. Another sip of his bourbon.]
I don't know what branch. There was a James Bond villain in my house and he told me I wasn't the only...the only... [DOES HE HAVE TO SAY IT? He smooths his hand over his mouth.] He said I wasn't the only superhero. I feel like I'm going crazy. Okay. Your turn. What did you remember.
Edited (Ain't no Ada here autocorrect wrong canon) 2017-05-14 20:18 (UTC)
[Superhero. Rosalind stares at him for a long few seconds, trying to see if he's giving her shit, but . . . no. He wouldn't have shifted past the subject if he was teasing; he'd have lingered.
Well!]
Nothing nearly so dramatic. I remembered . . . I was in a rowboat on the sea. It was raining, and I was annoyed. Not just because of the rain, but because I was there at all, and because I was annoyed, I was picking a fight with the other person there: a man. I'd already bullied him into doing all the rowing, and that was what he was complaining about: that I wasn't helping out. So we bickered, back and forth, and . . . we were on our way to a lighthouse, and for some reason, it was vital we reached it.
. . . I was very fond of him. The gentleman. I don't know why. I don't even know his name. But I was fiercely fond of him.
[He could crack some jokes. Tease her about having a fictional boyfriend. But he doesn't. Because as much as this sucks on a personal level to be having unexplained breaks with reality?
As a writer he's fascinated.]
And? Sounds like this memory really struck a chord with you. [He actually sets his glass down. Stop the presses. His hand bobs a few times, fingers thoughtfully gathered into the OK sign as he thinks. So... So, so, so.] Question: the feelings. Are they real? Are we just remembering things? Or are we regaining —to use an inaccurate term— things we're meant to think we "lost".
[His fingers tap the table. No, no. He's posing that thought too vaguely.]
What I'm saying is: if you saw this guy asking for change on a corner. Would you offer him your couch? No question?
[Would she? Rosalind hesitates. Sanity says no, because the thought of allowing some strange man in her house off the basis of a regained memory (a memory she doesn't understand, a memory with no context, a memory that might not even be real) is ludicrous. And yet . . .]
. . . I think so. And I don't know why. I don't even know his name, I don't know what he was to me, but I . . . yes. I think so. I think I would have done almost anything for him.
It's only worrying if I find the gentleman in question. As it is, I don't . . .
[No, that's not quite right.]
If he's here, I don't yet know it. Which is what I'm more worried about. I don't want--
[She purses her lips, reluctant to go on. Emotions, as a rule, are to be kept to herself, not shared among the class. She'd already gotten too emotional with Jack, she hardly needs to do so with Tony. So Rosalind takes a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is neutral and just a touch cold.]
I don't want to start remembering some man I feel such affection for if he's not even here.
[Haha oh Rosalind. Let him share his years of therapy some time. It never helped. But he did pick up the gamut of tips and tricks. So he takes his glass back in hand. Feelings conversation it is. ...That one thing he's kind of bad at. But he has helped raise a now young twenty something.
And Jack. Can't forget Jack. That's not from lack of trying on Tony's part.]
You mean you don't have control. And that scares you. [Swirling his bourbon around, letting it "breathe" though that's more of a wine thing. It's just something to focus on as he says this next bit:] Bet you're feeling all kinds of lonely now that you remember he exists.
[Isn't this precisely what she'd promised Jack she wouldn't do? Get lonely and go drinking with Tony, that's precisely it to the letter, and yet it wasn't a deliberate disobedience. And she's hardly going to let herself get drunk, nor do anything with Carter to try and alleviate that loneliness. So it's fine.]
Bullshit. Even if you weren't having feelings from experiences you never had you had a memory of something special you don't currently have. Anyone would be having the feelings you're having.
[He looks away, hand holding his glass vaguely waving.]
Hell I'd probably be in the bathroom, mascara running and not come out for a month.
[It's a joke. But thinking on it actually makes his skin crawl. Will he get a memory like that?
No. Not going to happen. It just won't. Because. It would break him something fierce.]
Edited (Jfc night shift tagging) 2017-05-14 22:34 (UTC)
I think that sentence is lacking something, grammatically.
[She says it to distract from the fact he's perfectly right. She's not devastated, because while she harbors that affection for this unknown man, she hasn't yet got all her memories of him back. But--
She's wildly out of her element, and that's terrifying. She's full of affection for a nameless man that might not even exist here, and that's terrifying. She's lonely and hates the fact that she is; she's desperate not to feel that way anymore.]
. . . I don't know what you'd have me say, Tony. I-- whether or not I'm feeling anything, allowing it to rise to the surface won't help me.
[Oh, she most certainly shouldn't be doing this. Rosalind hesitates, her fingers sliding over the glass. She thinks of Jack again, Jack and his surprisingly sensible warning, but then dismisses it. She won't get drunk. And while she's not fool enough to think drinking will solve her problems, it at least will extinguish her fear.]
We're getting a driver before anything. Ditching to do what, exactly?
It's not Jack. Jack's probably the only person left who's known Tony the longest besides Jack's in-laws. But twenty years of watching Tony on television, reading about him in magazines and occasionally showing up in the middle of the night to kick his ass doesn't really make for much. Rosalind's fielded his 2am calls about nuclear fission, quantum mechanics and anything else in the field of science (and sometimes not science). She's been not only a resource, but an inspiration and good company for more dinners than just this one.
That's not even including the fact she teaches several of his scholarship students. Suffice to say Miss Lutece has managed to pass the grade beyond pleb unlike most of the general population. Tony's not about to share his deepest, darkest secrets, but he's not going to escort her down to the Razzle Dazzle Club and buy her a lapdance from a male stripper either. Blessings come in many forms?]
Concert hall. Taking a page out of Disney's book. It's going to be cringingly cheesey and you're going to roll your eyes at me, but there's worse ways to spend an hour. Or several.
[...And there's that kilowatt smile. He hadn't been lying; she really does light up a room. In response he pulls out his phone, turns it on silent and holds it out to her.]
Wouldn't dream of it. Tonight's all about you. Let's make a date of it, yes?
[Things Tony Carter is really good at: being charming. Things Tony Carter is really bad at: thinking things through. But hey, it's just one night. How wrong could this possibly go?
When she's ready to go he talks to the mâitre d' and leads her outside. A limo is waiting for them of which he will gallantly open the door. For a guy who could use an education in the art of conversational manners he at least has the 1930s chivalry down. From there it's a drive over to the Stannish Concert Hall where an orchestra is currently playing a selection of classical pieces composed for royalty and nobles (or purportedly by said royalty and nobles; no one can escape Greensleeves). It's all very enriching and Tony is, perhaps surprisingly, fairly learned about classical compositions. Because, what else, he wrote a book on two composers in love during Maria Theresa's reign of Austria. Star crossed lovers, et cetera, the usual tripe and, of course, a lot of factual accuracy on the life of composers in the 1700s that won him an award. Great stuff not really, but it does provide him with knowledge for good conversation.
When the concert's done (or Rosalind is ready to leave, whichever comes first really) he will take her upstairs to the third level because Wait, There's More™. The third floor is seemingly a collection of administrative offices and equipment rooms, currently empty due to the late hour. Tony stops their little galavant outside of a door with a keypad next to it.]
I believe I said cheesey? In fact, cringingly so? This is the part where you close your eyes and roll them really hard. It'll be worth it. Promise.
((I will leave it to you to choose where you want to pick up in all this. Def don't feel you need to go right to the end of the timeline if you have things before that you want to play out/Rosalind wouldn't have gone along/etc etc stuff. Whatever you want to do is good with me!))
[It's a bit of an overwhelming evening, but only in the best possible way. The concert is splendid, and she'd delighted to learn that he knows more about what they're listening to than she does (so it's not just an entertaining evening, but an educational one, and who doesn't love that?). His tugging her up to the third floor earns another laugh, because really, she would have been entirely content with dinner and nothing else.
She hesitates for a moment as he says that, gives him a slight Look that she doesn't really mean, and then closes her eyes.]
All right. They're closed, and I'm not looking, I promise.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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So: heels, a dress, and some bright red lipstick to complete the ensemble. She also has a bag, a large bulky thing that clinks in an alarmingly familiar way.]
What a week.
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[He opens the passneger door of the car for her, sort of gentleman that he is.]
Have I seen that dress before? I don't think I have.
[Nevermind, scratch that. Some things just don't change.]
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[Some things never change, but today of all days, Rosalind is grateful for it. Sliding into his car, she settles her bag of bottles on her lap and waits for him to slip in beside her.]
Are we picking up the food or ordering in, Tony?
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[And that is how shortly (after some speeding, always with the speeding) they're pulling up to a modern looking restaurant with a line beginning at an outdoor podium and wrapping around the block. Stepping of the car Tony hands the keys to a valet and then he's opening Roslaind's door and offering his hand to help her out. A quick glance at the maître d' and "Carter, back room, thanks" is enough to get them shown into a private room with sliding screen walls, but otherwise tastefully lowkey. Not a dragon or Bhuddha baby in sight.
When they're seated and alone, wait staff off fetching a bottle of wine...]
So are you going to tell me what the bag's about or am I going to have to play twenty questions?
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A bottle of bourbon I've been saving. I figured there was no better time than this.
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[How to win a Carter over: knowing when to bring the spirits. ...Alcoholism does kind of run in the family. Regardless Tony's placing his wine glass in the middle of the table. Light him up, Rosalind.]
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It's only once they've both drank and ordered their food that Rosalind speaks again.]
. . . have you gotten any memories back yet?
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Yeah, I remembered I'm in the special forces. Code name Iron Man. I'm assuming it's a working title. Also memory me needs to change the locks on his doors. Did you remember being more than a mild-mannered professor with a kilowatt smile?
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You were-- sorry, you were in the army? Or-- or the air force, whatever-- you were military?
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I'd be hurt by your incredulousness —I did think about joining the army at one time, you know— but it is pretty weird for me. My history of violence is...depressingly me getting my ass beat.
[SO.... No, he's just dancing around the facts because they're embarrassing and he doesn't want to share. Another sip of his bourbon.]
I don't know what branch. There was a James Bond villain in my house and he told me I wasn't the only...the only... [DOES HE HAVE TO SAY IT? He smooths his hand over his mouth.] He said I wasn't the only superhero. I feel like I'm going crazy. Okay. Your turn. What did you remember.
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Well!]
Nothing nearly so dramatic. I remembered . . . I was in a rowboat on the sea. It was raining, and I was annoyed. Not just because of the rain, but because I was there at all, and because I was annoyed, I was picking a fight with the other person there: a man. I'd already bullied him into doing all the rowing, and that was what he was complaining about: that I wasn't helping out. So we bickered, back and forth, and . . . we were on our way to a lighthouse, and for some reason, it was vital we reached it.
. . . I was very fond of him. The gentleman. I don't know why. I don't even know his name. But I was fiercely fond of him.
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As a writer he's fascinated.]
And? Sounds like this memory really struck a chord with you. [He actually sets his glass down. Stop the presses. His hand bobs a few times, fingers thoughtfully gathered into the OK sign as he thinks. So... So, so, so.] Question: the feelings. Are they real? Are we just remembering things? Or are we regaining —to use an inaccurate term— things we're meant to think we "lost".
[His fingers tap the table. No, no. He's posing that thought too vaguely.]
What I'm saying is: if you saw this guy asking for change on a corner. Would you offer him your couch? No question?
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[Would she? Rosalind hesitates. Sanity says no, because the thought of allowing some strange man in her house off the basis of a regained memory (a memory she doesn't understand, a memory with no context, a memory that might not even be real) is ludicrous. And yet . . .]
. . . I think so. And I don't know why. I don't even know his name, I don't know what he was to me, but I . . . yes. I think so. I think I would have done almost anything for him.
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That's a little more worrying than just remembering things that never happened. Don't you think.
[And yet he doesn't sound too worried. Mainly it just...
Thrills him.]
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[No, that's not quite right.]
If he's here, I don't yet know it. Which is what I'm more worried about. I don't want--
[She purses her lips, reluctant to go on. Emotions, as a rule, are to be kept to herself, not shared among the class. She'd already gotten too emotional with Jack, she hardly needs to do so with Tony. So Rosalind takes a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is neutral and just a touch cold.]
I don't want to start remembering some man I feel such affection for if he's not even here.
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And Jack. Can't forget Jack. That's not from lack of trying on Tony's part.]
You mean you don't have control. And that scares you. [Swirling his bourbon around, letting it "breathe" though that's more of a wine thing. It's just something to focus on as he says this next bit:] Bet you're feeling all kinds of lonely now that you remember he exists.
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I'm perfectly all right.
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[He looks away, hand holding his glass vaguely waving.]
Hell I'd probably be in the bathroom, mascara running and not come out for a month.
[It's a joke. But thinking on it actually makes his skin crawl. Will he get a memory like that?
No. Not going to happen. It just won't. Because. It would break him something fierce.]
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[She says it to distract from the fact he's perfectly right. She's not devastated, because while she harbors that affection for this unknown man, she hasn't yet got all her memories of him back. But--
She's wildly out of her element, and that's terrifying. She's full of affection for a nameless man that might not even exist here, and that's terrifying. She's lonely and hates the fact that she is; she's desperate not to feel that way anymore.]
. . . I don't know what you'd have me say, Tony. I-- whether or not I'm feeling anything, allowing it to rise to the surface won't help me.
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[Reaching over he pushes her wine glass a little closer—]
So as your emotional rebound for the evening... Drink up and eat your kung pow chicken. We're going to ditch.
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[Oh, she most certainly shouldn't be doing this. Rosalind hesitates, her fingers sliding over the glass. She thinks of Jack again, Jack and his surprisingly sensible warning, but then dismisses it. She won't get drunk. And while she's not fool enough to think drinking will solve her problems, it at least will extinguish her fear.]
We're getting a driver before anything. Ditching to do what, exactly?
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It's not Jack. Jack's probably the only person left who's known Tony the longest besides Jack's in-laws. But twenty years of watching Tony on television, reading about him in magazines and occasionally showing up in the middle of the night to kick his ass doesn't really make for much. Rosalind's fielded his 2am calls about nuclear fission, quantum mechanics and anything else in the field of science (and sometimes not science). She's been not only a resource, but an inspiration and good company for more dinners than just this one.
That's not even including the fact she teaches several of his scholarship students. Suffice to say Miss Lutece has managed to pass the grade beyond pleb unlike most of the general population. Tony's not about to share his deepest, darkest secrets, but he's not going to escort her down to the Razzle Dazzle Club and buy her a lapdance from a male stripper either. Blessings come in many forms?]
Concert hall. Taking a page out of Disney's book. It's going to be cringingly cheesey and you're going to roll your eyes at me, but there's worse ways to spend an hour. Or several.
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All right. The concert hall it is.
[And oh, look at that: she's smiling now, delighted (and, beneath it all, a bit touched).]
Though if you answer your cell phone during it, Tony Carter, I'll be quite annoyed.
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Wouldn't dream of it. Tonight's all about you. Let's make a date of it, yes?
[Things Tony Carter is really good at: being charming. Things Tony Carter is really bad at: thinking things through. But hey, it's just one night. How wrong could this possibly go?
When she's ready to go he talks to the mâitre d' and leads her outside. A limo is waiting for them of which he will gallantly open the door. For a guy who could use an education in the art of conversational manners he at least has the 1930s chivalry down. From there it's a drive over to the Stannish Concert Hall where an orchestra is currently playing a selection of classical pieces composed for royalty and nobles (or purportedly by said royalty and nobles; no one can escape Greensleeves). It's all very enriching and Tony is, perhaps surprisingly, fairly learned about classical compositions. Because, what else, he wrote a book on two composers in love during Maria Theresa's reign of Austria. Star crossed lovers, et cetera, the usual tripe and, of course, a lot of factual accuracy on the life of composers in the 1700s that won him an award. Great stuff
not really, but it does provide him with knowledge for good conversation.When the concert's done (or Rosalind is ready to leave, whichever comes first really) he will take her upstairs to the third level because Wait, There's More™. The third floor is seemingly a collection of administrative offices and equipment rooms, currently empty due to the late hour. Tony stops their little galavant outside of a door with a keypad next to it.]
I believe I said cheesey? In fact, cringingly so? This is the part where you close your eyes and roll them really hard. It'll be worth it. Promise.
((I will leave it to you to choose where you want to pick up in all this. Def don't feel you need to go right to the end of the timeline if you have things before that you want to play out/Rosalind wouldn't have gone along/etc etc stuff. Whatever you want to do is good with me!))
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She hesitates for a moment as he says that, gives him a slight Look that she doesn't really mean, and then closes her eyes.]
All right. They're closed, and I'm not looking, I promise.
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