And you're the one hoping I'll take advantage. That's flattering.
[A few seconds pass, and there's another photo: Darwin, his black beady eyes enlarged as he peers curiously through those thick spectacles.] Until eight.
[She does not, in fact, get them off the animal (until he starts snorting in amusement, and then she picks them up before he breaks them). And periodically, once an hour or so, Richie gets helpful little updates.
They're photos of his glasses in various places: on her lab table; perched atop a beaker; set atop what appears to be notes for a nonfictional novel Rosalind is going to write . . . once they're very near a snake, so go figure that out. But in all of them, they're safe and sound, because she's a considerate kidnapper like that.
The last one comes in at about seven or so. It's his glasses perched atop a familiar mop of red hair, with a text: I think they've developed Stockholm Syndrome.]
[the actual jungle book came out in 1894 ros get out of the lab and touch grass
anyway
There's a knock on her door soon enough. When she pries it open she'll find him stooped on her porch, a walking stick clacking at the frame and dark shades over his eyes. He calls out in the voice of a man who if not being on the brink of death, was surely rolling towards it on a rickety, brake-less wheelchair.]
Hallo?! Hallo! I'm must speak with the preacher, I've been stricken blind! It'll be over for me soon! You must hear my confession, I beg of you! Set my soul to rights before its too late!
[She stares down at him, her expression cool but not cold.]
Try again.
[At least she doesn't slam the door closed. Her hips rest against the edge of the doorframe, and she crosses her arms under her chest. A thought occurs to her, and a smile flickers on her face as she adds:]
Try an impression of someone who might impress me.
Oh, is that how it's going to be? Fine, suit yourself.
[He tosses the stick to the side (it lands in a bush, RIP your topiaries Ros) and whips off the glasses. When he goes to fold up the arms his back has gone rigid straight, and his fingers move with the delicacy and precision of a person who makes no wasted moves.
And the voice?]
Well then, shall we get on with it? If you've got the mad notion that playing charades on my doorstep will get you so much as a finger's width closer to my affections, you're sorely mistaken.
[Well. She brought that on herself, she knows. She'd thought . . . oh, his silly Oxford professor voice, perhaps, or some variation on it. Maybe something subversively filthy, just because he's contrary, but no. He'd gone with the clear winner.
But to hear an impression of her voice (and it is her voice, he has it down perfectly, all the same variations and intonations, all the little distinctions that don't just make it a British voice, but her voice) said in such a masculine way . . .
Of course all he ends up doing is reminding her of Robert.
But let's be fair, she thinks distantly, with her eyes widened and that easy grace suddenly gone from her body, let's be entirely fair. Either way, it still ends up being someone who impresses me.]
You--
[It doesn't last. She shoves that emotion away and takes a step back, allowing him in.]
You manage to say all that, knowing damn well it's the truth, and yet somehow continue doing your silly impressions. Come on.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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i knew you only wanted me for my body
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[A few seconds pass, and there's another photo: Darwin, his black beady eyes enlarged as he peers curiously through those thick spectacles.]
Until eight.
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Fine I'll see you then, fuck
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They're photos of his glasses in various places: on her lab table; perched atop a beaker; set atop what appears to be notes for a nonfictional novel Rosalind is going to write . . . once they're very near a snake, so go figure that out. But in all of them, they're safe and sound, because she's a considerate kidnapper like that.
The last one comes in at about seven or so. It's his glasses perched atop a familiar mop of red hair, with a text: I think they've developed Stockholm Syndrome.]
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Why do you have a fucking snake, don't you need a permit to run a zoo?
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You can well imagine the fights he and Darwin have had. Though to be fair to Ben, I think anyone would be deterred by a small hippo screaming at you.
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Pour a shot of something, I'm on my way
Scotch or bourbon or rye
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I'm a physicist, not a bartender.
[. . . but she will pour them both some scotch, because that sounds rather good.]
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anyway
There's a knock on her door soon enough. When she pries it open she'll find him stooped on her porch, a walking stick clacking at the frame and dark shades over his eyes. He calls out in the voice of a man who if not being on the brink of death, was surely rolling towards it on a rickety, brake-less wheelchair.]
Hallo?! Hallo! I'm must speak with the preacher, I've been stricken blind! It'll be over for me soon! You must hear my confession, I beg of you! Set my soul to rights before its too late!
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Try again.
[At least she doesn't slam the door closed. Her hips rest against the edge of the doorframe, and she crosses her arms under her chest. A thought occurs to her, and a smile flickers on her face as she adds:]
Try an impression of someone who might impress me.
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[He tosses the stick to the side (it lands in a bush, RIP your topiaries Ros) and whips off the glasses. When he goes to fold up the arms his back has gone rigid straight, and his fingers move with the delicacy and precision of a person who makes no wasted moves.
And the voice?]
Well then, shall we get on with it? If you've got the mad notion that playing charades on my doorstep will get you so much as a finger's width closer to my affections, you're sorely mistaken.
[It's her own.]
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But to hear an impression of her voice (and it is her voice, he has it down perfectly, all the same variations and intonations, all the little distinctions that don't just make it a British voice, but her voice) said in such a masculine way . . .
Of course all he ends up doing is reminding her of Robert.
But let's be fair, she thinks distantly, with her eyes widened and that easy grace suddenly gone from her body, let's be entirely fair. Either way, it still ends up being someone who impresses me.]
You--
[It doesn't last. She shoves that emotion away and takes a step back, allowing him in.]
You manage to say all that, knowing damn well it's the truth, and yet somehow continue doing your silly impressions. Come on.