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.
[Once her eyes are shut Tony types in the passcode and opens the door. Then it's just a matter of putting his hands on her shoulders from behind and lightly steering her into the room, the air becoming crisper with a smell she's doubtless very familiar with.]
The owner...of this hall is a bit of a collector. Has a big thing for the Enlightenment. As such... This is where I go when you're not answering my calls. You can look now.
[And when she does she'll find they're in an atmosphere controlled room, a display on the wall listing humidity, composition and so forth. But it's not just any room. It's a library with books of obvious age spanning the shelves. Some might be immediately familiar to her —the writings of Galileo will perhaps stick out— while others such as translations of Al-Kindi's treatises might be a little less. On one wall there are even scrolls of papyrus and a clay tablet or two. By the door is a table with a box of vinyl gloves, magnifying glasses, tweezers and whatever else one might need for working with such ancient texts.]
You call me Beast and that's going right on my Facebook wall. I don't have the hair for it, complete lies and slander. [Is what he says whenever she does look his way. Jokes completely mask he did a nice thing. But—] So how do you like it? Something of a...stimulating evening?
[If she doesn't stop him he'll reach up and tuck an escaping strand of hair behind her ear, more of an absentminded thing than anything plotted. It's been a good night. Not what he was expecting, but... They've had fun.]
[For the first time in a very long time, Rosalind is speechless.
It's just-- it's stunning. It's utterly stunning, and it takes everything in her not to don a pair of gloves and start running around, just to see what she'll find. Galileo, good god, and to her left she can see a lead box labeled Marie Curie. There's names she doesn't recognize, too, and papers she'd have to look closely at to understand, but god, the history in this place . . . Rosalind's eyes dart about, her mouth parted in obvious shock as she takes it all in.
She allows the familiar touch, both because Tony is a friend and she's giddy enough not to care. If he'd liked her smile before, he'll bask in this one: she's beaming as she turns to face him, looking a little younger than she is as she does her best not to bounce on the balls of her feet or take off running.]
Like it? Good god, Tony, I-- I don't think I have the words to express--
[She takes a steadying breath, containing some of her giddiness, and offers him a more even smile: just as bright, but with a little less excitement at the edge.]
Thank you. Truly. Not just for this, but all evening. This is . . . it means quite a bit that you went to all this trouble.
[He's normally not into photographing life events. But if he could have a picture of that smile he'd pay a couple hundred thousand for it. It's good to see her looking up. It really is. As such he gives a small laugh at the thanks.]
You've only helped my ass an thousand times over. I think this is the least I could do for one of the most gifted and patient women I know. [He is kind of an handful...all the time. Picking up the box of gloves he holds it out to her.] Get in there. We can stay as long as you want.
You might regret that. I could happily live in here if it wouldn't destroy the texts . . .
[But no, she's not going to give him a chance to take back that offer. Rosalind takes the gloves, careful in how she puts them on. She's not going to risk damaging anything in here-- not because she's afraid of legal or fiscal consequences, but because she knows how to respect history.]
[Tony sets the gloves aside and leans back against the table. He could jump in with her (learning for the sake of learning has always been a vice), but he knows he'd be outclassed in a microsecond. Better to just keep out of the way and leave her to it.]
About a year. Met Stannish —the owner— at a charity event. Said my books helped his daughter through his divorce and wanted to offer me something in thanks.
[A shrug. It's a little bit...ironic? Funny? Depressingly relatable that his books would help someone. That's not why he writes them (most of them anyway), but he understands the need to escape from reality to a world where problems are resolvable affairs. More than he cares to share.]
Haven't even been through an eighth if the texts in this room. If you want I can request access for you. There's a few historians and librarians he lets work in here.
I really am going to end up living here. I'd like that, if you wouldn't mind.
[Good god, the chance to be allowed to simply sit in here and look through all the texts . . . Rosalind starts forward, making a beeline for the Galileo texts. Marie Curie is given a longing look, but Rosalind won't touch those until she's got some lead-lined gloves and apron.]
. . . I'm not surprised. About your books and his daughter, I mean. They're wonderfully escapist.
I expect you'll come out for Christmas and dinners. Maybe classes.
[Far as his books... A vague raise of his hand.]
They're like candy. Netflix's not the only thing you can binge. Maybe not the most illuminating pieces as compared to our friends on the shelves here. But it's nice. Having a world where you know all the rules, the rug can't be pulled out from under you and you can pick up any time.
[Listen, this is the woman who reads romance novels in secret, so she knows precisely what he means. But far be it for her to admit that to anyone, ever, much less Tony Carter.]
[He does think about giving her the usual spiel. About it being a breeze, just what comes naturally and how grateful he is for the international response to his books, et cetera, please contain feelings of nausea to the trash can in the corner. ...But they are having a nice time. A nicer time than he has with most people even.
So he crosses his arms and gives her a real answer.]
Depends on what I'm writing. Sometimes it's difficult. Hurts. I try to draw on my own experiences as much as possible. But other times— it's the best feeling in the world. Wouldn't give it up for anything.
[And that is the truth. He may be a sellout, but writing is all he's ever wanted to do and he stuck it out through some hellish situations to make it this far. It's his first wife and his only wife. But anyway...]
Too serious? Who're you starting with. He's got some texts in here I didn't even know exist. Pretty mindblowing.
[Some men are pretty bad about looking themselves in the mirror. Metaphorically speaking. Time for a new subject.]
[She glances up, meeting his eyes for that answer, quietly pleased by the honesty of it. She doesn't expect that all the time, but it's pleasant to hear something truthful instead of some line.]
Galileo. I won't make you stand by while I read through them all, because I have no doubt that'd be very dull for you, but . . . I wanted to at least get to see him, if nothing else.
[A beat. She glances down at the texts, then meets his gaze again, a little smile on her face.]
It's timely, I suppose. One of the first reasons Galileo wanted to test the theory of gravity was because he refused to accept the explanation that things returned to the earth because they wanted to, or because it was in there inherent nature to fall. He wanted an explanation, rather than just accepting a handwaved explanation or what others had declared authoritatively true, but which he questioned.
. . . I still don't know what's going on here. Not with the app, nor all the changes it seems to inspire. But it's soothing, I suppose, to look at the writings of a man who was in the same position.
[He wouldn't agree with her on the dullness. He has some fond memories of sitting around just reading with Jack's late wife —his best friend— before they grew too old and life became too complicated. That's the kind of story even Jack couldn't drag out of him though so he'll let the comment sit unchallenged.
Instead he tilts his head, listening. Rosalind really is brilliant and not just in a crunching numbers kind of way. Sofia (said bestie) had had a thing she liked to say about people. That they had a beautiful soul. He can definitely see it in Rosalind.
In today's questionable Tony nos: learned all his better social niceties from a dead woman. Welp. Least he doesn't share??]
You'll figure it out. Two hundred isn't a number to sneeze at far as communities go; you're not working alone. And the scientifically dim like myself can pick up the takeout tab when it's been a long...week. Sounds like a win-win to me.
That's because you're a sane woman. Other people are a jackasses. Especially when they work in your field.
[Words of wisdom from a man who's done one too many "but Tony think of the press if you just did a collaboration with Lisa Frank/Stephen King lite/my grandma" projects. "I work alone" was an acceptable motto for Batguy; he's feeling it's an acceptable motto for the rest of them.]
Also I don't know how anyone follows that app. Half the posts are like a sad...awkward version of Craig's List. I feel embarrassed just having it up on my phone.
[Okay maybe don't listen to Tony he is kind of a snob.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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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The owner...of this hall is a bit of a collector. Has a big thing for the Enlightenment. As such... This is where I go when you're not answering my calls. You can look now.
[And when she does she'll find they're in an atmosphere controlled room, a display on the wall listing humidity, composition and so forth. But it's not just any room. It's a library with books of obvious age spanning the shelves. Some might be immediately familiar to her —the writings of Galileo will perhaps stick out— while others such as translations of Al-Kindi's treatises might be a little less. On one wall there are even scrolls of papyrus and a clay tablet or two. By the door is a table with a box of vinyl gloves, magnifying glasses, tweezers and whatever else one might need for working with such ancient texts.]
You call me Beast and that's going right on my Facebook wall. I don't have the hair for it, complete lies and slander. [Is what he says whenever she does look his way. Jokes completely mask he did a nice thing. But—] So how do you like it? Something of a...stimulating evening?
[If she doesn't stop him he'll reach up and tuck an escaping strand of hair behind her ear, more of an absentminded thing than anything plotted. It's been a good night. Not what he was expecting, but... They've had fun.]
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It's just-- it's stunning. It's utterly stunning, and it takes everything in her not to don a pair of gloves and start running around, just to see what she'll find. Galileo, good god, and to her left she can see a lead box labeled Marie Curie. There's names she doesn't recognize, too, and papers she'd have to look closely at to understand, but god, the history in this place . . . Rosalind's eyes dart about, her mouth parted in obvious shock as she takes it all in.
She allows the familiar touch, both because Tony is a friend and she's giddy enough not to care. If he'd liked her smile before, he'll bask in this one: she's beaming as she turns to face him, looking a little younger than she is as she does her best not to bounce on the balls of her feet or take off running.]
Like it? Good god, Tony, I-- I don't think I have the words to express--
[She takes a steadying breath, containing some of her giddiness, and offers him a more even smile: just as bright, but with a little less excitement at the edge.]
Thank you. Truly. Not just for this, but all evening. This is . . . it means quite a bit that you went to all this trouble.
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You've only helped my ass an thousand times over. I think this is the least I could do for one of the most gifted and patient women I know. [He is kind of an handful...all the time. Picking up the box of gloves he holds it out to her.] Get in there. We can stay as long as you want.
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[But no, she's not going to give him a chance to take back that offer. Rosalind takes the gloves, careful in how she puts them on. She's not going to risk damaging anything in here-- not because she's afraid of legal or fiscal consequences, but because she knows how to respect history.]
How long have you known about this?
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About a year. Met Stannish —the owner— at a charity event. Said my books helped his daughter through his divorce and wanted to offer me something in thanks.
[A shrug. It's a little bit...ironic? Funny? Depressingly relatable that his books would help someone. That's not why he writes them (most of them anyway), but he understands the need to escape from reality to a world where problems are resolvable affairs. More than he cares to share.]
Haven't even been through an eighth if the texts in this room. If you want I can request access for you. There's a few historians and librarians he lets work in here.
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[Good god, the chance to be allowed to simply sit in here and look through all the texts . . . Rosalind starts forward, making a beeline for the Galileo texts. Marie Curie is given a longing look, but Rosalind won't touch those until she's got some lead-lined gloves and apron.]
. . . I'm not surprised. About your books and his daughter, I mean. They're wonderfully escapist.
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[Far as his books... A vague raise of his hand.]
They're like candy. Netflix's not the only thing you can binge. Maybe not the most illuminating pieces as compared to our friends on the shelves here. But it's nice. Having a world where you know all the rules, the rug can't be pulled out from under you and you can pick up any time.
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Is it as soothing to write them?
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So he crosses his arms and gives her a real answer.]
Depends on what I'm writing. Sometimes it's difficult. Hurts. I try to draw on my own experiences as much as possible. But other times— it's the best feeling in the world. Wouldn't give it up for anything.
[And that is the truth. He may be a sellout, but writing is all he's ever wanted to do and he stuck it out through some hellish situations to make it this far. It's his first wife and his only wife. But anyway...]
Too serious? Who're you starting with. He's got some texts in here I didn't even know exist. Pretty mindblowing.
[Some men are pretty bad about looking themselves in the mirror. Metaphorically speaking. Time for a new subject.]
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Galileo. I won't make you stand by while I read through them all, because I have no doubt that'd be very dull for you, but . . . I wanted to at least get to see him, if nothing else.
[A beat. She glances down at the texts, then meets his gaze again, a little smile on her face.]
It's timely, I suppose. One of the first reasons Galileo wanted to test the theory of gravity was because he refused to accept the explanation that things returned to the earth because they wanted to, or because it was in there inherent nature to fall. He wanted an explanation, rather than just accepting a handwaved explanation or what others had declared authoritatively true, but which he questioned.
. . . I still don't know what's going on here. Not with the app, nor all the changes it seems to inspire. But it's soothing, I suppose, to look at the writings of a man who was in the same position.
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Instead he tilts his head, listening. Rosalind really is brilliant and not just in a crunching numbers kind of way. Sofia (said bestie) had had a thing she liked to say about people. That they had a beautiful soul. He can definitely see it in Rosalind.
In today's questionable Tony nos: learned all his better social niceties from a dead woman. Welp. Least he doesn't share??]
You'll figure it out. Two hundred isn't a number to sneeze at far as communities go; you're not working alone. And the scientifically dim like myself can pick up the takeout tab when it's been a long...week. Sounds like a win-win to me.
"May you live in interesting times."
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[She pauses for a moment, then offers another smile.]
You know, you're the third person this month to say that. That I ought to post to the community and see what other people have done. I still haven't.
[She wrinkles her nose.]
It's a sensible idea. But I hate collaboration.
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[Words of wisdom from a man who's done one too many "but Tony think of the press if you just did a collaboration with Lisa Frank/Stephen King lite/my grandma" projects. "I work alone" was an acceptable motto for Batguy; he's feeling it's an acceptable motto for the rest of them.]
Also I don't know how anyone follows that app. Half the posts are like a sad...awkward version of Craig's List. I feel embarrassed just having it up on my phone.
[Okay maybe don't listen to Tony he is kind of a snob.]
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