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[A beat, and then, coldly:]

My mistake.

[She'll wait until he's done, though, giving him ample time, before adding:]

You mistake intimacy for condescension.

[Jonathan realizes the mistake at her follow-up, but finds himself still irritated, even while he regrets being short with her.]

My apologies for the misunderstanding. Your words seemed to indicate the latter. That is my mistake.

[And her general demeanor.

Jonathan finally turns and kneels, using his bloody kerchief to grab up the dead mice and drop them into the bucket he'd thrown up in. It can all be disposed of.]

[To be fair: she probably wouldn't have helped either way. But now she's definitely not going to; instead, the sound of her heels clicking sharply as she heads to the kitchen fills the room. There's the distant sound of a microwave, and then--

Ah. It's the cup of her blood. She sets it on the table just a little too firmly; some of the liquid spills out, dripping down the side and over her hand. She curses quietly, raises her hand automatically to lick the fluid away, realizes just in time that she can't, and instead exhales irritably.]

For crissake--

[Jonathan's finished by the time she returns and is wiping off his hands as best he can. He'll need to lavatory for a more thorough wash, and is about to ask her, but Rosalind comes bearing that glass and Jonathan eyes it, feeling a mix of desire and disgust. The mice hadn't been satisfying at all and their taste had been wretched, even if he'd drunk them down like a man dying of thirst.

He licks his lips, watching the blood drip down the glass, paint her hand. There's a chance to warm the temperature between them here. One that will satisfy Jonathan's need to take some control with this brilliant, but vexing woman.]

This is an act of intimacy.

[The words are spoken as Jonathan catches Rosalind's eye, then takes her hand and lifts it to his lips. He licks the blood from her hand, the brush of his tongue cool over her relatively warm skin.]

[It most certainly is.

It's more intimate than she expected from him-- and, frankly, more intimate than she ought to want from a man from her time. Who is frustrating and stubbornly old-fashioned in some ways and frighteningly forward-thinking in others. Who drives her up a wall sometimes with his arrogance and his pride; who constantly leaves her drawn to him even as she wants nothing more than to put him down.

It's not that she's falling in love with him. Nothing so childish, and she hadn't been lying that day when she'd told him Robert has her heart wholly and completely.

But there's something-- well. Intimate about this, something that leaves her uncharacteristically quiet as he laps the blood from her hand. Her fingers curl, wrapping just slightly around his larger hand.]

You get to define which is which, is that it?

[But it's softly said. And unlike how it might normally be snapped or goaded, it's almost a tease: a joke of an echo of what their conversations might normally be.]

[He finishes by pressing a kiss to the back of her knuckles and letting go.]

Not singularly. But I will call it out as such so that we may be plain with one another, Madame Lutece. This dance between us confuses me. At times, it feels as though we are listening to entirely different songs. I simply wish to be direct.

[Jonathan looks to the glass of her blood and picks it up to drink. It's all right. Nothing as good as if he were tapping it direct, but it's palatable.]

[And just like that, things are all but back to normal. Rosalind exhales just once, shortly and sharply, her fingers curling again as she takes her hand back.]

You're right there.

[In that they have such a difficult time with one another sometimes. That's putting it nicely. She watches him for a few seconds, her gaze locked on the line of his throat as he swallows.]

Is that enough?

[There's a leading comment.]

Edited Date: 2019-01-10 10:12 pm (UTC)

It will suffice. [It's never enough, but he doesn't want her draining herself even more on her account.] Perhaps you'd like to show me your process for development of this substitute? With your leave, I can speak with some of the other vampires I know to see if it might work for them.

[She gives him a little look that suggests that wasn't the answer she expected, nor is it the answer she knows to be entirely true. But she'll let it go for the moment.]

Naturally. It's gotten shorter these past few weeks, it oughtn't take me too long. Half an hour, perhaps, at the most.

[She moves past him, settling in front of the table. Her hands work quickly, her head bent; she speaks only to clarify on what she's doing or how much of something she's adding. Any comments or suggestions he might have to offer are noted, but this demonstration is to show how she does it-- so while she might incorporate his suggestions later, right now, this is all her.

It's really not too complex, but nothing is once you understand how it's done. It's just a matter of figuring out the trick. Soon enough she has another vial, thick and red, a little too thick to be mistaken for proper blood.

And then she says:]

I was going to ask you to come to bed with me, if you wished to drink a little more.

[Jonathan watches with no small amount of interest, offering a suggestion here or there, but mainly keeping his thoughts to himself. There are some stylistic differences, but overall he can't fault much of her process. It accomplishes what she's set out to do and does it well enough.

He's examining the vial she created when she speaks up again. Jonathan goes momentarily still, thoughts stumbling over her words. That is... extraordinarily direct about it. After what happened on Patara he does know that she can escape him if he loses his control.]

I would request precautions if we were to retire together, madam.

[He finds himself blinking rapidly in embarrassment, but bulls ahead.]

Specifically that I do not feed any further upon you. You have given too much blood as it is.

I know my limits, Jonathan.

[She says it with a slight frown, though she knows she's picking a fight for little reason. But she can't help it, not with him; he sparks something in her when he says things like that. Not quite an order, but asserting his authority-- and oh, she can't stand that.]

You don't have to impose them.

[Jonathan's lips flatten for a moment, some of the awkwardness leaving him.]

Madam, I impose limits on myself as much as I impose them on you. And I can see your blood, the pulse of your veins, the beat of your heart. You are at your limit for my personal comfort as a physician.

[There's a moment where it seems as though she might argue. Certainly she wants to. But she is drained, and arguing with him seems the right way towards the two of them blowing up once more.]

Then say that. Don't try and restrict me.

[But FINE, she won't bleed, I GUESS.]

You would have hated when I was younger. I used to bleed myself to the point of fainting for Robert's sake.

[That does bother him.]

He is a lucky man to have such devotion from you.

And I him.

[A beat. Something seems to occur to her, and she adds:]

If I ask you something, will you give your honest opinion? Not a polite one, but what you truly think.

If you will accept an honest opinion given politely, yes.

[He does try not to be rude.]

Do you regard me as someone who, sooner or later, needs to submit to your good sense and will?

[This is a fun foreplay talk.]

[He gives her the courtesy of pausing to seriously consider her question.]

That is a... complicated question, Madam Lutece. I look at you and I see an intellectual equal. In matters of chemistry and science I consider you a compatriot. I have little use for someone who would simply bend to my will. A clash of ideas and debate leads to some of the most fantastic discoveries. I do not wish for you to be needlessly contrary, but I would never ask you to dim your curiosity and fervor.

In matters of courting... you vex me. I am not a man accustomed to... any of this. I have not been terribly interested in relations for a very long time. There are more fulfilling things I find to do with my time. Since they are a fact of life here, though, and because this place has seen fit to mark me as a lesser, I feel I must make some effort to retain my control. In that way, I would wish you would not press at me or my temper so sometimes.

[It's a far better answer than a flat no, though her heart beats a little faster as he continues on. It's hard to control her temper around him, she finds, and this is a topic that leaves her heated anyway.]

If it matters, Jonathan . . . it isn't just you. And you're certainly not the first person to ask such a thing of me.

[Though she privately thinks some men could use a bit of an ego adjustment, but. Whatever.

She steps forward, approaching him.]

I'm used to needing to be blunt. To demanding instead of asking. It isn't a result of-- of Dominants or Submissives, nothing like that. I don't see you as lesser.

[A beat, and she smiles faintly, just a little amused.]

Frankly, Jonathan . . . I've never dealt with any matter of courtship with a man from our time. Robert and I knew each other from letters before we ever met; by the time we did, he already had my heart. And I deliberately sabotaged any other men who wanted to try.

So in some ways, while I know how to-- to demand things, to goad others into them, to get what I want . . . nor have I ever faced a man and simply . . . gotten on with him. Certainly not in courtships, but not even in day to day interactions.

[The mention of Robert has Jonathan frowning, leaning back slightly.]

We should not be courting. Perhaps that is part of the trouble between us. A thing known, but never spoken of. You have your Robert. I have my Elisabeth. We know this connection should not be so, and so, we sabotage it. Each in our own way.

[That earns a little frown, mildly exasperated.]

I use courting because you seem uncomfortable each time I use the word fuck. But I have no delusions that you're falling for me, Jonathan. This isn't a courtship, you aren't trying to earn my adoration or my love, nor I yours. Your bed, perhaps, and your company, but . . .

You've never just slept with someone solely to sleep with them, have you? Perhaps that's the difference. I have.

I fulfill my quota each month. [He glances away, shame prickling at his spine. All of his quota for the past month has been thanks to Nissen and what he's done to them.] I know that certain physical things may not mean love, but I... I should like them to mean something.

[He's a man of science, but there are certain matters, matters of the heart, where some of his poet's soul creeps in.]

[She regards him for a few seconds, silent and contemplative. She's still a little tense, uncertain as to what they're doing or how to navigate it, but some of the frustration has faded.]

Come here.

[She reaches for his wrist, slender fingers wrapping around it. Tugging him along, she pulls him into her bedroom. Not for sex, although he might be forgiven for thinking it. But no, just to sit somewhere a little more intimate while they discuss this, rather than simply standing in the hall, half-arguing.

Unlike the rest of the apartment, which is solely a lab and little else, this, at least, feels homey. Painted in deep reds with gold accents, there's books stacked neatly here and there, a desk with a journal on it-- and around that, several pieces of paper. There's drawings there, lightly sketched in pencil: a young man, a city, a lighthouse . . .

But for now: she sits on the bed.]

Tell me, now, and tell me plainly: what is it, exactly, you'd like some kind of-- of sexual relationship to mean?

[He follows her and he does think she means to have him, but they only sit on the bed and that settles him more than the prospect of some carnal encounter when his mind is scattered about with different feelings for her. He looks down at her hands where she's holding him, and Jonathan twists his wrist so that he's holding her hand.]

Plainly? I... do not know. Connection? Friendship? Those acts I have engaged in absent some... outside force, they have been with those I feel closest to. I've used equipment for such encounters, asked leave of my friends not to participate for fear of losing myself and harming them. I have not been with a woman here as you ask. And so, I do not know.

Mm.

[His hand is pleasantly large, his fingers interlacing with hers. He's cooler than she always expects, but it's no bad thing. And she can admit: it is rather nice to be here like this, quiet and, if not intimate, at least softer.]

And what is it you would like, if you and I went to bed now? When we aren't clouded by-- by drugs or lust or whatever other affects this city forces upon us. When it's just you and I.

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Jonathan Reid, MD