[At this point, Rosalind is getting used to sleeping at his place. That suggests some kind of comfort and familiarity, though she hasn't really thought much about it. But it certainly says something about the two of them that Rosalind is put at ease within the presence of the Big, Bad Wolf, a man she knows terrorized people for centuries.
Normally, they have a little pattern to their evenings. Sometimes they'll fuck and sometimes they won't (though it's usually more the former than the latter). She might poke around and scavenge a dinner out of what few bits of food he has lying around, and sometimes she'll even share (because it is his food, after all). And then they'll head for a shower, or bed, and if she's got enough energy she'll spread her legs once more.
So tonight . . . tonight, there's something unusual about her, because she refuses to follow any of their established patterns. She's sedated and quiet, her posture sharp and contained. Don't touch me, her body language screams, and rather than the usual sharp barbs and delighted sarcasm, Rosalind simply responds to Bigby neutrally, shutting down any argument and avoiding any question about herself. It isn't that she's dazed, precisely . . . more distant, refusing to show any emotion, no matter what it is.
The second strange behavior: she won't let Bigby watch her undress. It's not as if he doesn't know she's bruised and battered after her kidnapped and torment, but she's trying her best to put off the moment of truth for the worst of it as long as possible. She takes a button-up out of his dresser and heads into the bathroom, emerging only when she's got it on. The collar is done up, the sleeves are down past her fingers, and yet she doesn't seem to mind that he's seeing her bare legs or panties. She doesn't even mind if he puts his hands on her, so long as he doesn't try and roll her sleeves up or unbutton the shirt.
But the oddest thing is how she acts once they head to bed. Rosalind slips in first, settling beneath the sheets, watching him carefully as he moves about his room. When he joins her, she scoots in close, pressing herself up tight against him. Her nose presses to the hollow of his throat, and he'll be able to hear how fast her heart is pounding. It's just as quick as it had been when she'd first arrived this afternoon: fearful, too quick, something that speaks of prey, of being chased and caught, of hiding and cowering.
It's dark and quiet here. His breathing is a steady rhythm, and she listens to it for a long few seconds.]
. . . I have a few questions for you.
[She says it quietly.]
If you'd be amenable to answering them, I'd be grateful.
Edited 2018-04-02 19:39 (UTC)
i left you hanging for another two weeks, i'm sorry
[ see, this is the thing about a relationship that goes from something short to something long. relationship is left undefined, whether it's as friends, partners, lovers or anything in between. Bigby is used to leaving any and all of the above in the category that falls under "short-lived", if only because most either realize his past or have always known and wanted nothing to do with him. as many might expect for a man who is used to life's unique design, he doesn't quite know how to handle when anyone tries to move themselves out of that group and into another altogether.
Rosalind is one of those. their getting together has become commonplace, for things as idle as conversations over the phone or simply stopping by when one or another is in Wyver or Olympia. and then there's the usual staying the night, which often involves Rosalind enjoying the empty expanse of his home. he's probably got her clothes tucked away somewhere so she has a spare outfit or four after the number of times she's shown up with holes in them, and there's no doubt newly added furniture that was her choosing. it frustrates him to no end trying to figure out how and why they've become this way, but... well. it happened. he can't explain it, but it did.
so yeah. when she acts off, he notices it from the get go. forget the fact that he can smell the uneasiness on her the moment she stepped inside. she practically shuns him as she goes about the night in her own unique way. Bigby leaves it alone at first, of course, not thinking it'd be worth his time to pry information out of her if she didn't choose to disclose. he didn't like when people pried into his when he got that way, so it's only fair.
then there's the matter of undressing and how she can't even get through that without a level of awkwardness that is found to be contagious. she no doubt hears the way he grunts and groans in frustration, because again, he doesn't ask. he resounds himself to that decision and even if it might not be the right one, he leaves her to her thoughts as she moves to the bed for the nightcap. if that's what we want to call it, anyway.
as if he wasn't confused enough, though, Rosalind is suddenly on him and their warmth is shared. hm. that was unexpected. Bigby doesn't immediately move to wrap his arms around her, instead leaning his head back to get a good look at her through the darkness of the now light-deprived room. she can tell he's looking at her. he doesn't answer her immediately, and she has to know it's because he is trying to actively read Rosalind's thoughts through her body's chemistry. doesn't work out too well, unfortunately. ]
Only if you realize I'm going to have questions of my own. But... yeah, ask away.
[There's a small part of her, cowardly and selfish, that wants to push him away. It tells her that she could tip her head up and catch his mouth in a kiss that would be more desperate than hungry, and more likely than not if she was persistent she'd get her way. Maybe they'd fuck and maybe he'd push her away, but surely he wouldn't pursue the issue afterwards. They'd fall asleep in uneasy silence, and she'd feel sick, but then dawn would come and when it did she could successfully pretend as if everything was fine.
And eventually, surely, surely, everything would be fine.
Surely, and yet right now, she isn't so sure about that. She thinks that perhaps this state of being will last forever, because how could it not? How can everything go back to the way it was after all that?
She remembers going to the sea once, back when she was a girl. She'd gone too far into the water, brash and eager to explore, and before her nanny could call her back, there'd been a wave that had knocked her silly. She'd spun wildly beneath the surface, heels over head, and for a dizzying few seconds she quite literally hadn't known which way was up.
She feels like that now. Like she's been knocked over the head, like there's dark water all around and she's no idea how to even begin to free herself. Every movement she makes, every word she speaks, feels like an act; a puppet or a shadow of herself mouthing the words and performing the acts. Her pride is broken, her normal confidence shattered. Each action she takes has a tone of uncertainty to it, because of course it was her brash pride that had led her to ruin. So what is she to do if not act in such a way?
So she's been a shadow. She's kept to herself, she's not spoken of it to anyone. And now they're here, he's here, and it's dark and he's warm and larger than her and so achingly safe, and it's all she can do not to burrow beneath him and beg him not to let her go.
Pathetic. Pathetic, and she hates herself for feeling such things, but still she does.]
You've lived for so long you can't even remember your age. And I imagine, based on who and what you are, that you have been in so many fights that they've become similarly innumerable.
[It's hard to force the words forward. They stick in her throat, desperate not to be said, because that means she's committing to this.]
But there must have been some that you lost. And I wanted to know if there were any that you-- that you not simply lost, but were utterly outmatched. If, in your long life, you had ever once come close to dying.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
action; sometime in EARLY APRIL
Normally, they have a little pattern to their evenings. Sometimes they'll fuck and sometimes they won't (though it's usually more the former than the latter). She might poke around and scavenge a dinner out of what few bits of food he has lying around, and sometimes she'll even share (because it is his food, after all). And then they'll head for a shower, or bed, and if she's got enough energy she'll spread her legs once more.
So tonight . . . tonight, there's something unusual about her, because she refuses to follow any of their established patterns. She's sedated and quiet, her posture sharp and contained. Don't touch me, her body language screams, and rather than the usual sharp barbs and delighted sarcasm, Rosalind simply responds to Bigby neutrally, shutting down any argument and avoiding any question about herself. It isn't that she's dazed, precisely . . . more distant, refusing to show any emotion, no matter what it is.
The second strange behavior: she won't let Bigby watch her undress. It's not as if he doesn't know she's bruised and battered after her kidnapped and torment, but she's trying her best to put off the moment of truth for the worst of it as long as possible. She takes a button-up out of his dresser and heads into the bathroom, emerging only when she's got it on. The collar is done up, the sleeves are down past her fingers, and yet she doesn't seem to mind that he's seeing her bare legs or panties. She doesn't even mind if he puts his hands on her, so long as he doesn't try and roll her sleeves up or unbutton the shirt.
But the oddest thing is how she acts once they head to bed. Rosalind slips in first, settling beneath the sheets, watching him carefully as he moves about his room. When he joins her, she scoots in close, pressing herself up tight against him. Her nose presses to the hollow of his throat, and he'll be able to hear how fast her heart is pounding. It's just as quick as it had been when she'd first arrived this afternoon: fearful, too quick, something that speaks of prey, of being chased and caught, of hiding and cowering.
It's dark and quiet here. His breathing is a steady rhythm, and she listens to it for a long few seconds.]
. . . I have a few questions for you.
[She says it quietly.]
If you'd be amenable to answering them, I'd be grateful.
i left you hanging for another two weeks, i'm sorry
Rosalind is one of those. their getting together has become commonplace, for things as idle as conversations over the phone or simply stopping by when one or another is in Wyver or Olympia. and then there's the usual staying the night, which often involves Rosalind enjoying the empty expanse of his home. he's probably got her clothes tucked away somewhere so she has a spare outfit or four after the number of times she's shown up with holes in them, and there's no doubt newly added furniture that was her choosing. it frustrates him to no end trying to figure out how and why they've become this way, but... well. it happened. he can't explain it, but it did.
so yeah. when she acts off, he notices it from the get go. forget the fact that he can smell the uneasiness on her the moment she stepped inside. she practically shuns him as she goes about the night in her own unique way. Bigby leaves it alone at first, of course, not thinking it'd be worth his time to pry information out of her if she didn't choose to disclose. he didn't like when people pried into his when he got that way, so it's only fair.
then there's the matter of undressing and how she can't even get through that without a level of awkwardness that is found to be contagious. she no doubt hears the way he grunts and groans in frustration, because again, he doesn't ask. he resounds himself to that decision and even if it might not be the right one, he leaves her to her thoughts as she moves to the bed for the nightcap. if that's what we want to call it, anyway.
as if he wasn't confused enough, though, Rosalind is suddenly on him and their warmth is shared. hm. that was unexpected. Bigby doesn't immediately move to wrap his arms around her, instead leaning his head back to get a good look at her through the darkness of the now light-deprived room. she can tell he's looking at her. he doesn't answer her immediately, and she has to know it's because he is trying to actively read Rosalind's thoughts through her body's chemistry. doesn't work out too well, unfortunately. ]
Only if you realize I'm going to have questions of my own. But... yeah, ask away.
no subject
And eventually, surely, surely, everything would be fine.
Surely, and yet right now, she isn't so sure about that. She thinks that perhaps this state of being will last forever, because how could it not? How can everything go back to the way it was after all that?
She remembers going to the sea once, back when she was a girl. She'd gone too far into the water, brash and eager to explore, and before her nanny could call her back, there'd been a wave that had knocked her silly. She'd spun wildly beneath the surface, heels over head, and for a dizzying few seconds she quite literally hadn't known which way was up.
She feels like that now. Like she's been knocked over the head, like there's dark water all around and she's no idea how to even begin to free herself. Every movement she makes, every word she speaks, feels like an act; a puppet or a shadow of herself mouthing the words and performing the acts. Her pride is broken, her normal confidence shattered. Each action she takes has a tone of uncertainty to it, because of course it was her brash pride that had led her to ruin. So what is she to do if not act in such a way?
So she's been a shadow. She's kept to herself, she's not spoken of it to anyone. And now they're here, he's here, and it's dark and he's warm and larger than her and so achingly safe, and it's all she can do not to burrow beneath him and beg him not to let her go.
Pathetic. Pathetic, and she hates herself for feeling such things, but still she does.]
You've lived for so long you can't even remember your age. And I imagine, based on who and what you are, that you have been in so many fights that they've become similarly innumerable.
[It's hard to force the words forward. They stick in her throat, desperate not to be said, because that means she's committing to this.]
But there must have been some that you lost. And I wanted to know if there were any that you-- that you not simply lost, but were utterly outmatched. If, in your long life, you had ever once come close to dying.