Robert Lutece (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ablankpage) wrote2020-12-31 11:59 pm
ablankpage) wrote2020-12-31 11:59 pm
Apponitments - [ IC ]
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She's gone!
[Yeah Booker doesn't care that he's just barging into your "study" unannounced Robert - even if he did learn to knock during the mission.
He feels sick, his stomach won't stop turning and it like he's falling and there's no way to stop it. He saw Elizabeth get taken by those machines and all he could hear since then was the promise he made to her. That he would protect her. That promise was ruined once in Columbia, but Booker thought he could manage to keep her safe here at least.
It turns out he was wrong.]
I need you to open a te - [He's reminded instantly that they aren't the same ghosts he dealt with in Columbia. They can't open tears at will, they've been trying to work out how to since they both arrived. Booker feasibly couldn't do a damn thing but wait now.]
[Yeah Booker doesn't care that he's just barging into your "study" unannounced Robert - even if he did learn to knock during the mission.
He feels sick, his stomach won't stop turning and it like he's falling and there's no way to stop it. He saw Elizabeth get taken by those machines and all he could hear since then was the promise he made to her. That he would protect her. That promise was ruined once in Columbia, but Booker thought he could manage to keep her safe here at least.
It turns out he was wrong.]
I need you to open a te - [He's reminded instantly that they aren't the same ghosts he dealt with in Columbia. They can't open tears at will, they've been trying to work out how to since they both arrived. Booker feasibly couldn't do a damn thing but wait now.]
I know.
[Robert is standing when Booker comes in, leaned over his desk with the journal open.
He saw what Booker saw, heard it, and... now he can only stand without a thing he can do. Like opening a tear. He doesn't have the technology or the ability here.]
[Robert is standing when Booker comes in, leaned over his desk with the journal open.
He saw what Booker saw, heard it, and... now he can only stand without a thing he can do. Like opening a tear. He doesn't have the technology or the ability here.]
[So do something! He rages in his mind, outwardly doing nothing more than standing there with the same shell-shocked look he had when he burst in. Why are you just standing there, why don't you open a tear why don't you kill me for letting her be taken again why don't you act human why don't you do something.]
...Do we wait?
[He needs help, an answer of some kind because this is Robert Lutece. He has all the answers. If he can tell Booker what to do, by God he'll do it. If Robert told him the only way he could see Elizabeth again was to burn Luceti to the ground, he'd raze it all.
The realization makes him feel sick.]
...Do we wait?
[He needs help, an answer of some kind because this is Robert Lutece. He has all the answers. If he can tell Booker what to do, by God he'll do it. If Robert told him the only way he could see Elizabeth again was to burn Luceti to the ground, he'd raze it all.
The realization makes him feel sick.]
What else can we do?
[The words are very, very quiet.
Robert hasn't turned around, is still standing at his desk, his hands on it, braced. He hasn't gone to Rosalind yet, much as he wants to. Because he wants to be able to do something. To tell Booker even just to be patient. He wants to know how this ends.
But it's empty. He can't see anything beyond the present moment, can't be sure of what's coming. Or even have a sense of probability.]
I don't have our machine. There's nothing I can do, DeWitt.
[And it's eating at him, a slow, gnawing sensation.]
[The words are very, very quiet.
Robert hasn't turned around, is still standing at his desk, his hands on it, braced. He hasn't gone to Rosalind yet, much as he wants to. Because he wants to be able to do something. To tell Booker even just to be patient. He wants to know how this ends.
But it's empty. He can't see anything beyond the present moment, can't be sure of what's coming. Or even have a sense of probability.]
I don't have our machine. There's nothing I can do, DeWitt.
[And it's eating at him, a slow, gnawing sensation.]
-- Booker, Robert.
[He spits it out, grasping for the normalcy that they had developed in some strange way as housemates and through their mutual attachment to Elizabeth.
Beyond that, he would let Robert call him Comstock if he wanted to and if it meant he wouldn't hear his name DeWitt in that voice. It haunted his dreams for years and continued to do so still. He couldn't hear that now. He just couldn't.]
Jesus Christ.
[What had burst out like the crack of a gun finished in a whimper that had him sliding into the nearest chair with a hand running through his hair, trying to pull himself together but failing spectacularly.
He needed a drink, he needed it badly.
Several, in point of fact.]
[He spits it out, grasping for the normalcy that they had developed in some strange way as housemates and through their mutual attachment to Elizabeth.
Beyond that, he would let Robert call him Comstock if he wanted to and if it meant he wouldn't hear his name DeWitt in that voice. It haunted his dreams for years and continued to do so still. He couldn't hear that now. He just couldn't.]
Jesus Christ.
[What had burst out like the crack of a gun finished in a whimper that had him sliding into the nearest chair with a hand running through his hair, trying to pull himself together but failing spectacularly.
He needed a drink, he needed it badly.
Several, in point of fact.]
[Robert finally turns his head, looking at the man.
They both needed a drink.
No, they both needed to start over. To shed at least some of their burdens. Luceti offered a kind of chance to move on, yes, but only from an artificial point, not what they both knew was the end.
A few moments later, with the quiet sound of rattling glass and liquid pouring, Robert sets a tumbler of neat whiskey down next to the other man, one in his hand as he slides into a chair of his own.]
Booker, then.
They both needed a drink.
No, they both needed to start over. To shed at least some of their burdens. Luceti offered a kind of chance to move on, yes, but only from an artificial point, not what they both knew was the end.
A few moments later, with the quiet sound of rattling glass and liquid pouring, Robert sets a tumbler of neat whiskey down next to the other man, one in his hand as he slides into a chair of his own.]
Booker, then.
[It feels familiar in a way that it shouldn't. That fucking shift that made him think he had a family here and that Robert and Rosalind were apart of it still sticks out in his mind sometimes. In moments like this, the fabricated memories come back. One in particular of Robert offering this same silent kind of comradery when his wife and Robert's then sister had died.
He doesn't like it. In many different ways he doesn't like it, particularly though, in that it makes him feel as if they're mourning Elizabeth. And she is not dead.]
Thanks.
[He mumbles curtly, too focused on the drink set in front of him to really be gracious and he doesn't waste his fucking time pouring it down his throat. He wants to be drunk he doesn't want to enjoy the slow burn. Not right now.]
He doesn't like it. In many different ways he doesn't like it, particularly though, in that it makes him feel as if they're mourning Elizabeth. And she is not dead.]
Thanks.
[He mumbles curtly, too focused on the drink set in front of him to really be gracious and he doesn't waste his fucking time pouring it down his throat. He wants to be drunk he doesn't want to enjoy the slow burn. Not right now.]
Her things are still here. That's... all I can offer.
[And he sounds, in his own way, miserable at that admission.
He is powerless. He doesn't even have his notebooks to begin to understand how this anomaly of a world works. To get back to where they were, he and Rosalind, so they can start unlocking this world's secrets.]
That means she's coming back.
[And he sounds, in his own way, miserable at that admission.
He is powerless. He doesn't even have his notebooks to begin to understand how this anomaly of a world works. To get back to where they were, he and Rosalind, so they can start unlocking this world's secrets.]
That means she's coming back.
[Hearing the obvious fact of the matter stated from Robert calms him more than the whiskey could. He knows, logically knows that Robert is just as mortal and fallible as he is here. That he isn't the omnipresent pain in the ass he knew when they first met.
Well...when his memory told him they first met...before the artifice was all stripped away.]
Okay.
[He offers back, sounding a lost and sad shell of a man as he goes to the bottle Robert poured from and serves himself another glass...
and another...
and a final third before he sits down.
This one, he doesn't finish in a gulp. This one he watches, as if he's expecting it to get up and walk away. Perhaps, subconsciously, he wants it to.]
Well...when his memory told him they first met...before the artifice was all stripped away.]
Okay.
[He offers back, sounding a lost and sad shell of a man as he goes to the bottle Robert poured from and serves himself another glass...
and another...
and a final third before he sits down.
This one, he doesn't finish in a gulp. This one he watches, as if he's expecting it to get up and walk away. Perhaps, subconsciously, he wants it to.]
[Rosalind returns to their room, when her conversation with Elizabeth is finished. She returns with what remains of the teapot, adulterated with an entire half of a lemon and too much honey and a nip of whiskey. The pot goes on the nightstand, the cup with her, from dresser to dressing-screen to bed. It's the sort of warm comfort she does not advertise her appreciation of to the world - as is the way she slips beneath the blankets with the predawn dark still lingering outside the windows, once she's again in her nightgown, and curls with feline self-assurance around the quiet form occupying the other half of the mattress.]
[Robert wasn't fully asleep. How could he be, after his talk with Elizabeh? He'd made another promise he wasn't sure he could keep. Still, he was asleep enough that he didn't really stir when Rosalind curled to him.
But he was awake enough that his hand went up, curling around one of Rosalind's, holding it snugly. She's definitely getting to the point of slight illness, and... no doubt he'll get it next. But that's hardly much of a concern.]
But he was awake enough that his hand went up, curling around one of Rosalind's, holding it snugly. She's definitely getting to the point of slight illness, and... no doubt he'll get it next. But that's hardly much of a concern.]
Mmm.
[There's appreciation in that hum, even if there isn't an overabundance of happiness. It's a sound of simple satisfaction, perhaps, as she twists her hand in the grasp to interweave their fingers. Being allowed the grace of subtlety is one of the finer parts, she thinks, of being essentially the same person.]
A long night, then.
[There's appreciation in that hum, even if there isn't an overabundance of happiness. It's a sound of simple satisfaction, perhaps, as she twists her hand in the grasp to interweave their fingers. Being allowed the grace of subtlety is one of the finer parts, she thinks, of being essentially the same person.]
A long night, then.
Very.
[He looks down at their hands, at the asymmetry of their fingers woven together. Both thin hands, long fingers, but one decidedly more feminine. Constants and variables.]
The start of a long week, I think.
[Nothing he could worry about overmuch. After all, he couldn't alter it now, but that didn't mean there wasn't a bit of doubt in his mind.]
[He looks down at their hands, at the asymmetry of their fingers woven together. Both thin hands, long fingers, but one decidedly more feminine. Constants and variables.]
The start of a long week, I think.
[Nothing he could worry about overmuch. After all, he couldn't alter it now, but that didn't mean there wasn't a bit of doubt in his mind.]
A long week of morbid fancies, if rumours are to be believed.
[She twists higher on the bed, not as lithely as she might have years ago (or even days ago, without aches stitched through her sinews), but familiarity and practise necessitate a far lower expenditure of effort. There's a quirk to her lips as she looks down at Robert, hair tumbling over her shoulder, wavy from pins and twists.]
Was our first death not satisfyingly Shakespearean for you, brother? Would you dream us a second, strewn with even more strife and treachery?
[She twists higher on the bed, not as lithely as she might have years ago (or even days ago, without aches stitched through her sinews), but familiarity and practise necessitate a far lower expenditure of effort. There's a quirk to her lips as she looks down at Robert, hair tumbling over her shoulder, wavy from pins and twists.]
Was our first death not satisfyingly Shakespearean for you, brother? Would you dream us a second, strewn with even more strife and treachery?
Can you blame me?
[He looks up at her, his voice quiet and warm while his fingers find a curl of her hair. He twists the piece between two of his fingers and smiles faintly. A bit tired but focused.]
She is a very powerful woman who has been deeply wronged.
I'd be equally -- more, actually -- afraid if I'd so wronged you.
[There's no shame in admitting it, either. Rosalind is an intelligent, powerful woman. Anyone who had done her wrong? Would have cause to be afraid.
And she didn't have the power to open tears of her own volition, without machinery.]
[He looks up at her, his voice quiet and warm while his fingers find a curl of her hair. He twists the piece between two of his fingers and smiles faintly. A bit tired but focused.]
She is a very powerful woman who has been deeply wronged.
I'd be equally -- more, actually -- afraid if I'd so wronged you.
[There's no shame in admitting it, either. Rosalind is an intelligent, powerful woman. Anyone who had done her wrong? Would have cause to be afraid.
And she didn't have the power to open tears of her own volition, without machinery.]
Now that, at least, is sensible.
[A faint hint of a preen, the affected coolness of a look even as she bows to the distracted play of his fingers - those are her laughs, her puns, sublimated to an almost transparent shimmer, the heat-halo around an open flame.It dissipates just as easily, and she studies his brow, the stray lick of hair she flicks away from fair skin.]
Think, though. She wishes to be known as she is, in truth and entirety, not as an abstract or guise. Why would she destroy those who come most near to understanding that truth?
[A faint hint of a preen, the affected coolness of a look even as she bows to the distracted play of his fingers - those are her laughs, her puns, sublimated to an almost transparent shimmer, the heat-halo around an open flame.It dissipates just as easily, and she studies his brow, the stray lick of hair she flicks away from fair skin.]
Think, though. She wishes to be known as she is, in truth and entirety, not as an abstract or guise. Why would she destroy those who come most near to understanding that truth?
Because sometimes the desire to be understood falls short of the need for what is considered justice.
[Understanding would go only so far.
Still, even as he says it, he doesn't seem too worried. He has no intentions of leaving this place, and death isn't permanent here. Different in some ways but similar in others to what they had known before. They weren't infinite here, but there was a sense of immortality from everything he'd heard.
It would be interesting, once the Elizabeth they'd been with here in Luceti returned and learned what had been kept from her. Watching her over the slow journey that would create whatever kind of woman she would become.]
We'll see what she does, I suppose.
[Understanding would go only so far.
Still, even as he says it, he doesn't seem too worried. He has no intentions of leaving this place, and death isn't permanent here. Different in some ways but similar in others to what they had known before. They weren't infinite here, but there was a sense of immortality from everything he'd heard.
It would be interesting, once the Elizabeth they'd been with here in Luceti returned and learned what had been kept from her. Watching her over the slow journey that would create whatever kind of woman she would become.]
We'll see what she does, I suppose.
We shall.
[And perhaps that shall be the last thing they see, if Elizabeth is determined and clever and in possession of the priorities Robert seems to imagine her to hold. They'll still have done what they set out to do.
There's a peace in that thought that there has never been and never will be in flowers and sonorous hymns, and however grim it is, it brings a rare flicker of a smile to her lips as she bows lower, pauses to think better of it, and redirects the intended kiss toward his brow.]
[And perhaps that shall be the last thing they see, if Elizabeth is determined and clever and in possession of the priorities Robert seems to imagine her to hold. They'll still have done what they set out to do.
There's a peace in that thought that there has never been and never will be in flowers and sonorous hymns, and however grim it is, it brings a rare flicker of a smile to her lips as she bows lower, pauses to think better of it, and redirects the intended kiss toward his brow.]
[They will have done what they set out to do. Finished the course he shoved them on. And yet, if a wolf comes howling at the door, Rosalind won't leave him to fend for himself. She'll be with him.
When she kisses his brown, Robert chuckles. His hand cups her cheek, running the pad of the thumb across it. A very minor fever. Nothing too concerning. And he shits to bring his lips to hers tenderly.]
I'll get it too anyway.
[They live and work in the same space, rarely away from one another. The germs are shared whether he does it or not.]
When she kisses his brown, Robert chuckles. His hand cups her cheek, running the pad of the thumb across it. A very minor fever. Nothing too concerning. And he shits to bring his lips to hers tenderly.]
I'll get it too anyway.
[They live and work in the same space, rarely away from one another. The germs are shared whether he does it or not.]
[It had seemed ridiculous, once, that this could be a reassurance. Facts and achievements were reassurances, gestures were nebulous things that thrived on cross-purposes.
Except there are now gestures which are proofs themselves, of the fact that Robert exists and is near to her as might be possible, and she breathes a quiet sigh of content to remember that this, this is a constant.]
Almost certainly, now.
[She muses without heat or resentment, resting her cheek against his palm.]
At least we are sensible enough to take turns.
Except there are now gestures which are proofs themselves, of the fact that Robert exists and is near to her as might be possible, and she breathes a quiet sigh of content to remember that this, this is a constant.]
Almost certainly, now.
[She muses without heat or resentment, resting her cheek against his palm.]
At least we are sensible enough to take turns.
[They are constants. For all their struggles, for all their uncertainties before and after the Tear... they have become a constant. Even in death, they had been together, and it had been the consolation, unexpected as it had been, to their fate.
This? Is right. The months before Rosalind came? Entirely wrong. Everything had been off, been missing half. And now that was righted.]
Not too debilitating, at least.
This? Is right. The months before Rosalind came? Entirely wrong. Everything had been off, been missing half. And now that was righted.]
Not too debilitating, at least.
[Robert watches him for a few moments, watches the final drink, and tilts his head.]
At least there's no price on anything here. That's very good whiskey you're not even bothering to taste.
[An... almost kind way of remarking on it.
Kind, especially, for Robert Lutece.]
At least there's no price on anything here. That's very good whiskey you're not even bothering to taste.
[An... almost kind way of remarking on it.
Kind, especially, for Robert Lutece.]
Perhaps less so to you, even.
[She regards him with a faint lift of her eyebrows.]
You have been sleeping for longer than I have, after all. Is it still-?
[She regards him with a faint lift of her eyebrows.]
You have been sleeping for longer than I have, after all. Is it still-?
Still strange, though it's become a little more familiar.
[But now he has a host of nightmares. Things he hasn't yet told her about, just like he's been protecting Elizabeth from information...]
[But now he has a host of nightmares. Things he hasn't yet told her about, just like he's been protecting Elizabeth from information...]
Shut up.
[He spits it and feels anger rise in him like bile; acidic and harsh. He chokes it down with the rest of his glass, mostly just to spite Robert and his goddamn sensibilities.]
It's drink. I'd take the worse moonshine ever created right now.
[If it got me drunk.]
[He spits it and feels anger rise in him like bile; acidic and harsh. He chokes it down with the rest of his glass, mostly just to spite Robert and his goddamn sensibilities.]
It's drink. I'd take the worse moonshine ever created right now.
[If it got me drunk.]
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