(no subject)
WHO: Rick and Cygna Jones
WHAT: She's sorely lacking in spontaneity, and this might just be the ticket.
WHERE: Rick's place.
WHEN: Almost immediately after their conversation in his entry.
CYGNA: You certainly may.
After she closed the journal, Cygna realised exactly how quiet the apartment was. It didn't seem right, in a way, considering the sheer noise and turmoil going on in her head -- it was already buzzing with opportunities, imagining possibilities. A small heavy lump of excitement had taken up residence in her chest, setting a hitch into her breath and making it hard to focus. Airports, suitcases, foreign countries, travel. And Rick. She told herself she was excited about the travel -- the chance of seeing new lands, and of winging herself on a plane across the ocean. Yes, it had to be the travel. Just so.
She tore through the apartment. It wasn't panicked-nervous-cleaning this time; she was just searching, until she finally found her passport in a small desk drawer, crisp and entirely too unused for her liking. Cygna put it on the kitchen table and then stopped there for a moment, simply staring at the blue book. The room was quiet and it was just a book, but she could feel the uncharted future yawning ahead of her. Years now, she'd been so convinced she wanted to stay in one place. New York was where her family had been, and it was where she hoped to find them again.
But one sentence in a compendium, and now she knew that, no, what she wanted was new sights. A journey. She didn't call Velvet or even leave a message. All she knew was that she wanted to go talk to him. Very badly.
And so, slinging her handbag over one shoulder, Cygna flew down the streets and subways of New York until she got to Rick's apartment. She rang the doorbell.
JONES, R.
RICK: He had not been intending to purchase the extra ticket. The plan to leave New York had hatched in his head months prior, when all this Freemason rubbish started up; it seemed to be resolving now, but he couldn't be sure, and could not risk the double life he led here any longer. It was back to Europe, to hotel rooms and creaking guest beds, to hammocks and the occasional forced night under the open sky. It meant telling Cygna just what it was he did on his frequent excursions. It meant trusting her not to fuck it up.
It was a significant step, to say the least. Rick did not do relationships; but he did do trust, in very small increments, and Cygna, whether she was aware of it or not, had just been awarded one.
He adjusted the boarding passes unnecessarily on his desk, straightened the journal to lie straight on the writing pad. There were matters to arrange. Katie. Prudence. All his things from the office were systematically being cleared out as his unexpected final term came to a close. His father. Well; perhaps the old man could wait a few more days.
The doorbell rang, and a few moments later, Rosa, stuffing a cleaning flannel into her apron pocket, came bustling in from the other room. He heard Cygna's chirpy greeting before he saw her, and rose somewhat ceremoniously from his office to meet her.
"Cygna," he said, in that gravelly rumble, leaning against the doorframe to his office off the foyer. "That was quite the speedy trip."
CYGNA: "Was it?" She had to shoot a quick glance at the clock to be sure -- and when she saw how soon it'd been since they put down their compendiums, she blushed. Oh. "I-- um, I didn't notice." Ungainly rushing through the city aside, all she knew was that she'd made it to his office somehow, and her heart was pounding like a jackhammer. She told herself it was because of the running.
"What if I'd said no? It would've been such a waste of money. That was a gamble," Cygna said, half-serious, half-jokey. But Rick gambled. That's what he did, wasn't it? Even she wasn't entirely sure where she was going with this line of thought.
RICK: Now, really, Cygna. What kind of question was that? His heavy shoulders moved slightly under his button-down (having come from the university earlier) as he shrugged, that infuriating smirk in the corners of his mouth. He said nothing.
CYGNA: Huff. Well, now, that really wasn't a way to answer a legitimate question properly. To the contrary -- it made Cygna visibly squirm, standing expectant in an empty hallway and lacing her fingers together.
"I hope you know the sort of cliff I'm jumping off for you, you know. Vel will be saddled with rent if I'm gone for longer than a month, I haven't been planning for a vacation, I haven't asked for leave from the Hirschfeld, though they'll probably give it to me because I've been working my butt off there for literally years -- what sort of things do you need to pack for an extended trip, anyway? Where will we go?" A heartbeat's pause as she writhed even more. But before he could have a chance to stare implacably at her again, Cygna derailed her train of thought once more. "Except I'm going to be spontaneous. So I'm being spontaneous. I'll go with you to Europe and I don't even care when we leave or how long we're gone or anything else because I'll make it work, of course."
She met his gaze evenly, head raised, chin jutting somewhat.
RICK: "Good," he said simply, finally pushing off from the wall. His hand found a place at her neck, practiced and smooth, somewhere between concern and affection--the only way Rick could properly display the latter, really, aside from knocking things off desks and knocking women onto them. But Cygna didn't really seem like she'd appreciate that, so he refrained, and instead gave her jaw a little brush with his calloused thumb, and a small kiss on the side of her forehead, like they'd been married for years. Good.
Then his hand was gone as abruptly as it had gotten there, and in his usual mix of efficiency and lazy certainty, began trundling off towards the kitchen, hands in his pockets. Cygna would follow; Rick, unfortunately, could play the girl like a harp. "Care for a drink?" he said, as if the two weren't planning to vacate the country on a semi-permanent basis.
CYGNA: Well, good. Pretending it was nothing meant that she could pretend it was nothing, hardly anything, not too important or amazing at all, not simply globe-trotting with the man who had walked and moved and felt like her husband ever since she'd met him. As expected, she trailed after -- it's not like she could go wandering off into his office or bedroom without him. And they had things to discuss, and she still had more she needed to say, and--
The drink sounded like a good idea. She and alcohol weren't old friends, but there was a time and a place for these things, and this seemed like it.
"Yes, certainly. You're being very monotonic, you know." Cygna was by his side when they reached the kitchen, elbows resting on one of his counters, glancing around and surveying the room which was, presumably, Rosa's primary domain.
"Normally, people saying very little might mean that they're angry -- but you almost talk more when you're annoyed with something, so this must mean something else entirely."
Oh, Cygna. Now you're just thinking aloud.
RICK: He let her prattle. If there was one thing Rick had learned about women, it was never to interrupt them unless it was really necessary. Instead he busied himself with the drinks, pulling out a can of lager, vodka, and cranberry juice from the fridge, as well as two chilled glasses. Rosa kept a small stock in there, for the Englishman liked his drinks cool. He literally had no idea what he would do without the woman, some days. She had even handled news of his leaving with all the clucking, no-nonsense acceptance with which she had handled all the other things he'd thrown her way: broken ribs, slews of aliases, crumbling artifacts, a 9mm Glock she was to forget existed. He would be back, certainly, after a while, but not with nearly enough frequency to merit Rosa's staying on. A pity, that.
But those were concerns for another time. He dropped a few ice cubes in Cygna's glass, covered them with Smirnoff and cranberry, and then poured the lager for himself. Oh, beer, his old friend. "Well, I've give you a hint," he said after a generous, thoughtful sip. "I'm not annoyed." Wry grin. Rick wasn't about to come out and say he was pleased, since it was the rare moment Rick ever really was pleased. But this came close, and he wasn't about to go running his mouth off about it like a silly--well. One of them could handle that department, at least.
"Now," he said, after another long sip, smacking his lips as he put thoughts together carefully. His tone fell into the slightly pedantic drawl of Professor Jones; he couldn't help it. "I imagine you'll have some affairs to get in order before we go. You've a passport and all that? No aversion to rain or warmer climes? Willingness to put up with a crotchety old man when, say, my back inevitably goes out. You know." He shrugged ruefully, as if his age were really the determining factor here.
CYGNA: Oh, good. Professorly talk. Cygna could handle this.
"I imagine I do -- yes -- no -- and yes," were her respective responses, and she answered in a slew of syllables before she could quieten herself with the vodka cranberry. The silence as she drank gave Cygna a few spare moments to finally, finally reel her frazzled mental state together. The pause gave her thought, and when she emerged from a liberal gulp of the drink, the woman seemed remarkably calmed. Maybe it was the drink; maybe it was the silence; maybe it was the fact that Rick was starting to kid around.
She folded her hands in front of her, and for a brief moment, that strange mixture of timidity and composure flickered in her look.
"My passport's still valid from when our theatre group went to France in senior year. And for the record, while I'm entirely willing to put up with a crotchety old man when his back gives out, you are not to get hurt and leak blood everywhere again, because that'll scare me to death and I swear to god I'll just turn that plane right around when that happens."
The temporary severity in her voice meant to rang jokingly, but it quavered halfway through. Whoops. Still can't hide the concern, apparently. But she looked at him askance, blue eyes narrowed over juice and liquor. She arched an eyebrow, as if to indicate And you wouldn't dare make me turn that plane around, would you? Cygna knew Rick did things no typical NYC professor should; she'd certainly gotten the impression, from Velvet and Professor Anser and from Rick himself. She still didn't know what, but as long as it didn't leave him bullet-ridden and dying in her arms, well. It was his business--
RICK: Rick set his beer down slowly. She'd gotten right to the point, hadn't she? He was hoping the subject matter would lead to, as their conversations sometimes did, the idle flirtation, the odd discussion of how they might try to throw his back out. And with Cygna actually there for said idleness, was it so fruitless to hope it might not be so idle by the end of the conversation? But she'd beaten him to it: the idleness went another direction entirely. Rick had not been planning on telling her about his outside activities until she was securely on the plane. Or perhaps when he had a job to do. Or maybe when he came back bleeding out of his eyeballs; you know, whichever was most convenient and not in the near future. He hadn't planned. He hadn't thought it out.
Then again, Rick was always good at off-the-cuff.
He picked up his lager again and took a long draught, every part of him at ease. All he had to worry about at this point was her running off and telling someone whatever story he happened to spin--and if that happened, well. Who would believe a costumer over an established professor and historian? "If I told you I was the fairy tale answer to Indiana Jones," he said casually, topping off his beer with the remainder from the can, "what would you say?"
CYGNA: "I'd say that our -- your last name and the professor jokes had finally gotten to you," she answered, slowly, a smile hovering. Uncertain of how to respond, Cygna was going for light amusement -- this must be a joke leading somewhere, yes?
RICK: He surveyed her a moment over the top of his beer, then took a small sip, shrugging with all the casual ease of acquiescence. "Well, I'd have to concede that," he said, innocent as morning dew, whiskers on kittens, etc. "I suppose I let the metaphor run away with me. But I must confess I do some--anthrophological work on the side," he said, drumming a heavy finger against his empty beer can. "It's part of why I run off so much, and I'm afraid a fair bit of the reason I'm leaving my professorial duties here." Another short pause. "You had ought to know, if you're going."
He left that just ever so slightly open. There was nothing in his phrasing to imply carefully breaking into the dig sites of rival archaeologists, dusting and tapping where they'd missed and taking what they sought; nothing to hint at mad dashes from the unsavoury sorts who seemed affiliated with the darker parts of history, the broken bones, the crucifixes pressed into his palms by superstitious Romanians, the ankh he still wore around his neck from a particularly unpleasant brush with Ancient Egypt a few years back. But still--she wasn't a stupid girl. Trusting, but not stupid. It was the first he was depending on, at the moment. Trust that he wouldn't get you into trouble, Cygna, and the two of you would be fine.
CYGNA: It took her another moment to absorb that. "Oh," she said, her glass clinking on the countertop as she carefully set it down. "Oh, alright," she said again, voice oddly detached. It wasn't every day you heard a friend (or -- whatever he was) announcing a secret, under-the-table occupation, after all. But as all things go, it could have been worse -- at least it was anthropology, not drugs, and at least it sounded glamorous. And he was asking her to come with him.
"Will I--" a pause and a small, wry smile, as much of a reassurance to him as it was to her, "--have to be accomplice in any high-speed car chases? My French is a bit rusty, but I think I still remember the sheer essentials from class: Non, je ne suis pas un espion! je suis seulement un touriste!"
Good of you to give her that vodka beforehand, Rick, because it sounded like she was coming to terms. Yes, she was trusting: she trusted that everything would be alright, and that he knew what he was doing, and that she'd, essentially, made the right choice in choosing to go. But she'd always chosen him, hadn't she? It was always Rick.
RICK: " 'Don't push the red button,' eh?" he added to her string of French, tapping the side of his nose. He chuckled, that deep chested rumble you only got from men of his size, and took her glass to top it off. "I imagine there will be at least one opportunity to, ah, aim for their tires, as it were."
CYGNA: "Oh well. Alternative anthropological work and jet-setting to Europe; I guess that's life now?" Calm acceptance and a feigned shrug, palms splayed innocently. "I won't give you a hard time about it. As long as I can be Marion Ravenwood." And somewhere along the way, that shy little smile had morphed into a cheeky grin. Oh, yes, she'd watched the latest Indiana Jones.
RICK: "You're intending to smack me around and open up a bar in Nepal?" Wry grin. Oh, Rick. You dog.
CYGNA: "A bit untraditional, but I am well-versed in smacking around my brothers--" oh, Benny, "--so I ought to be able to pull it off, and even do the Florence Nightingaling afterwards. The big tough manly man act doesn't scare me, you know; I've seen you with a cane and falling on your butt in mud, after all." Yeah, there you go, Cygna. Just keep poking playful holes in his facade, smiling all the while over your newly-refilled glass.
"When can we go?"
Her tone was quieter now.
RICK: Rick grimaced, sucking air in through his teeth in offense. "That never happened, love," he said, giving her his best professorial stare. Meant to make young undergraduates quake in their ratty trainers, etc. "And the tickets are for the 15th, if that's quite all right by you."
CYGNA: "Fifteenth? Okay. I think I can make that work. Geez, the sort of things I'm willing to do just to keep you company--"
They had settled back into old habits. She was comfortable with this, really -- familiar jokes, that well-known tug in the corner of his smile, and a calming reassurance that all was as it should be, because Rick and Cygna were still teasing and joking as usual. It was nice. It was what she knew, and what the sister had known for centuries.
But then she was quiet. There were a few moments more of silence, as her eyes flitted anxiously back and forth to his, absorbing and thinking. So. The new question remained: what would they be going as? Friends? Tales? Friends with the possibility of something more? Cygna had always known what she'd wanted, and yet her brothers... but her brothers weren't here, Benny was doing well, and with a jolt, Cygna realised she was free to make a decision.
Enough tiptoeing around. It had been three years, and she was hardly determined on making herself wait three more. She put down the glass again, feeling a little light-headed, her stance a little shaky -- and without talking, without explaining, not one single word past mute lips, she stepped forward and went up on tiptoes to kiss Rick. It was a little rushed, a little rough; impulsive and too quick, driven from years of wondering.
It was, in short, the very opposite of their old habits.
RICK: And just what Rick had been hoping for. You couldn't fault the man for occasionally thinking with his smaller (though not that much smaller, thanks very much) head when there was a pretty woman around. Cygna was uncertain, unsure in her movements, but Rick was an old hat at sweeping women off their feet. He'd been doing it for centuries, after all, not even to mention all the times he'd done it in this particular lifetime. Not that Cygna needed to know where the skill came from -- just that her awkward little kiss was all the permission he needed to lift her bodily from the kitchen floor. Up off her feet first -- he kissed her in a way that only those roguish adventurer types know how: heavy, skilled, left her breathless.
And then she was up over his broad shoulder before she could even protest. No amount of English heritage -- or her squealing -- could knock the uncivilised hunter out of Rick, unfortunately. He trotted easily into the hall, where Rosa looked blandly up from dusting a vase. She didn't seem surprised, whether from numerous women gracing his shoulder (unlikely, since that only happened in other people's homes) or because she had lived so long with the professor his quirks and oddities just didn't phase her anymore. "Rosa," he said, giving the back of Cygna's legs an affectionate pat, "you're off for the afternoon."
"Si, thank you, sir. I'll come in at 11 tomorrow instead of 8."
Oh, Rosa. You goddess among women. Leave Rick to toss his prize on the bed, slam the door, and not come out until after the maid had already prepared their late breakfast.