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[amescastaignede]

Amélie: You're right, sorry. I'm not good at this. Amélie: Sorry. Amélie: The Arts Theatre Club, in Centrl London. Yeah, that'll do. They know me there, I get discounts so it's cheaper. Amélie: If you're sick, I can wait.

Ayaz: You're the one who wants to talk. Clearly something is bothering you. I think it's probably up to you. Ayaz: You pick a place. Central London if possible. I don't want to be too far from Westminster. I'm feeling a little under the weather.

[amescastaignede]

@amescastaignede

[amescastaignede]

VICTORIA PEDRETTI Makeup by Shayna Gold via Instagram, June 4th 2024

[amescastaignede]

Amélie: Not really, no. Amélie: We can talk here, or we can meet up in person. It's up to you. Amélie: I'd just prefer somewhere that's not one of our apartments, if so.

Ayaz: Sure. Ayaz: Everything all right?

[amescastaignede]

Amélie 📱 Maria

Amélie: I was so damn niave. I feel good for like half a day, and then the second I'm home with nothing to do... Amélie: It all hits me like a fucking freight train. Amélie: I feel so stupid, Maria.

[amescastaignede]

Amélie📱Ayaz

Amélie: Are you avaliable for a chat? Amélie: I've got some things I want to ask you.

[amescastaignede]

"You tell someone by opening your mouth and moving it." It wasn't sharp or pointed. Instead, her voice paralleled a quiet defeat. "You...didn't trust me enough." Followed by quiet resignation.

Finally, her world spun out of control.

That small grasp on reality frayed at the seams. What little control she'd blindly fooled herself into believing was hers — had been a pipe dream. Swallowing, mouth now like cotton, sitting motionless, the weight of Gideon's truth pressing down on Amélie's chest like a boulder. Suffocating her slowly. Amélie had never been good under stress, surprisingly so when she worked at the London Advocate.

But this?

It was cutting deep, slicing away at the armour that'd been in place before Gideon had walked into her life. Now, that silence that had been there before he'd appeared stretched — endlessly, oppressive, but deafeningly slow. Amélie tried to process it all—the mob, his family, the lies—but her mind kept stuttering over the same question: How didn’t I see it? How could she have been walking around these people so fucking blindly?

She had always prided herself on being observant, and even more so when it came to her brother's departure, relentless in pursuit of the truth regarding the low-life French mobsters that crawled through the streets. It was what made her an excellent journalist, after all. Yet, here she was, blindsided by the one person she thought she knew better than anyone. The bitter irony twisted like a knife in her gut. After her brother had left, she realised grief was just as bad as physical pain — and once again; she felt it when Grigoriy left. But nothing, none of those, compared to the feeling that was ripping through her chest now. And Gideon was still here.

But he felt so far away.

Was she a hypocrite? The thought slithered in only moments later. Vincenzo springing to mind: how she'd befriended him, once upon a time. How she'd unknowingly seen good and bad in the people that she'd met. Yvonne...her heart stops, blinking back tears that threaten to come. Amélie knew that with her boyfriend's confession, she might very well lose her friends, too. This was all too much, crowding her chest, stopping the breath as she tried to claw back her control.

Do not break down.

"I could've told you sooner,"

The cutting look she gives him was enough to shock herself.

Digging fingers into the fabric of her jeans, as if the physical pressure would keep her from unraveling completely. His words, quiet, real — and so fucking raw it was, taring her apart once again, pierced through the haze clouding her mind. He was a surgeon. His dream had been his own. His love for her was real. But did that matter? Did it change...anything? How could she believe that now? What else could you hide behind those beautiful brown eyes? She thought, gaze falling to her lap.

Her throat tightened as she tried to find words that weren't a stumble of letters together. She stayed quiet for some time, unable to look at him. Every time she tried to find one track, her thoughts split off to a thousand different memories. Moments where he'd seemed off, wondering if she should've been more alert. More aware of her surroundings, and the people she called...friends and family.

First, it'd been her brother...followed by Gideon, and just like the first time: it crushed her. "You say you never wanted to hurt me." It was most likely a lie, her mind goaded. "But you knew you would, didn’t you? You knew this would destroy me when I found out." and as much as she tried to keep a grasp on those emotions, they eventually spilled over.

Silent tears, one by one, until it was an endless stream.

Hearing about his birth parents had her blinking through the blur, finally looking at him, and the composure was long gone, pushing hair from her face as she hastily wiped at her red raw cheeks. Amélie wanted to take the look on his face away. The part that loved him, the one that felt like her entire world was falling apart...would always want to do that.

The confusion wreaking havoc.

"I think the worst part...is you actually kept a lot of yourself hidden from me by shutting me out?" His life, his history: were they at all real? Had he spun stories, so she'd look in a different direction? Because she was a...journalist. Something that had her huffing a quiet, breathy laugh. Every world felt like a hit from the best boxer in the championships. And this already felt like round five. "How am I supposed to reconcile the man I love with..." She gestured towards Gideon, and then the room. "With this?"

She couldn’t shake the feeling that this—they—whatever was going on...now...might be beyond repair.

"I love you, Gideon, I do." the words had no punch. If anything, they sounded tired, defeated. "But..." she sucked in a breath, keeping the crack in her voice at bay. "But this...this is a lot. And — I can't, not with...them...and my beliefs...religious....i mean, not that you aren't worthy....fuck, I just mean..." back was a stammer that had disappeared in his presence so long ago. "This is too much. Us."

The hand that cups his cheek is like an anchor, keeping him moored to her, desperate to hold the connection in turn. When her hand falls away, so does his hope.

He wants, so badly, to reach for it; to move closer for every inch of space she's newly pushed between them. The uncharacteristic distance scares him, almost as much as the betrayal glistening in her doe eyes. Guilt pools in the pit of his stomach. "I wanted to tell you," Gideon half defends, half pleads. "But how could I?... It's not something you just-..." No. He stops, discarding the rest of that sentence.

For a moment, neither one speaks.

"I could've told you sooner." the Rutherford acknowledges, the truth tasting harsh and metallic on his lips. "But I had to take my family into account, too. You're a journalist, Lia... Their lives and reputations are at stake here, whether you intend it for them or not." She's sitting so deathly silent right now, he has no idea what she intends.

The fear of that, coupled with the fear that she may never speak to him again, pushes more words out of his mouth unchecked. "I-I know what you're thinking... Maybe they deserve that. They've made their choices, just like your brother, and I'm certainly not about to defend the decisions made by compos mentis adults to actively engage in certain lifestyles." As if profiting off a goddamn mob could be relegated to merely a 'lifestyle' choice. "Justice may fall like a gavel one day, but I don't want to be the hand that brings it. I can't." Can't she see it? He's hardly in a position to point fingers, given what some of those people mean to him, for better and for worse.

"I love them. So I'm not your white knight, and I can't be your truth-seeking crusader."

'Are you even a surgeon, hm?'

"Of course I'm a-..." But the words die on his lips, as does the disbelieving scoff. It isn't so unfair a question given the conversation they're having, given everything he's kept from her — even though it pains him that she should have to ask.

"My birth parents were doctors... It was always my dream, I-..." Gideon shakes his head slowly, words falling so quietly now that she'll have to strain to hear them. "... It was the first thing I managed to earn on my own." The only thing that made him feel remotely useful in the world. Or at least, less guilty for existing in it as a Rutherford.

"Amélie..." He pleads again, leaned forward on the couch. It takes everything in him not to reach for her hand, not to beg her for the forgiveness she is under no obligation to grant him. "I'm sorry... I never wanted to hurt you. There's nothing else I've kept from you. And everything – about me, about my feelings for you – everything else is real."

[amescastaignede]

FOR: @samar-sehgal WHERE: London Advocate. Post Shooting. LOCKDOWN.

Felicity would be furious that we weren't the first to get the story out.

In all honesty, nobody really cared.

"Have you heard from -- "

"Is there someone who knows anything?"

Eventually, the questions had stopped.

Every time the doors opened, her heart stopped. Was it someone coming in to deliver the bad news she was actively avoiding reading. Amélie was aware it was weird, considering her job. The need to know was ingrained into their very beings. But there seemed to be a general concesnus. The newsroom, for once, wasn't unbearingly loud, there was no sound of clacking keyboards, or printers warring. Instead, they stood. Sharing the odd word of comfort, or nod. Some scrolled endlessly on news outlets, while others, like Amélie nervously nibbled at her cuticles.

Felicity would be out here in a moment, to ream them for not trawling for news, reaching out, and finding the story...but shell shock had infected them all. Amélie had just been on her way out when she'd been ushered back into the building -- a hand on her back as they told her to "get back inside."

When the door opened this time, and she snook a glance at who was entering from her cubicle, she jumped up as her brows furrowed. "Samar."

[amescastaignede]

Amélie: I've never travelled...not like that. Would it be safe? I mean, I know nothing about Porto. Amélie: I need to check if my passport is in date too. Fuck, where did I put it? Do you remember where I put those folders. I'll have to look. Amélie: hmmm, do I even have the right clothes for this. Amélie: Actually, I've never really cared about clothes, ignore that. Amélie: God, I'm nervous? Like nervynervs. Is this normal? Can one have a panic attack at the sheer thought of getting on a plane. Amélie: How much money would I need? Because my bank account is looking about as dry as my tears in the season finale of How I Met Your Mother. Amélie: Such a dissapointment.

Text | @amescastaignede

Maria: I have been invited to Porto to perform at the Vixen's there for the weekend. Maria: Think you might be able to come with me? If not, I could ask Guillaume.

[amescastaignede]

FOR: @mobscene-starters WHEN: September 24'. WHERE: Amélie's apartment.

Amélie needed to put the fire on, she thought as the front door swung closed behind her, sodden shoes squelching against the off-color, threadbare carpet. The chill that had set into her bones sent teeth chattering, instantly pulling off the wet clothes that had molded to her body like paper mache. London's weather was one of the most unpredictable things on this tiny island, the whistling winds outside twisting, turning, and attacking the water splattered window panes. For the amount that this place cost, she'd assume that she wouldn't worry every time a storm passed over that those pieces of glass might not sustain. She made a mental note to talk to Maria about speaking to the Landlord, walking over to the kitchen, peering closer at the rain trickling in underneath the off-white, rotting wood. Nose crinkling in response.

In reality, Amélie was keeping her mind as occupied as possible. She didn't want to have to think about her personal life, which she felt was holding on by a thread or her work, which had felt more wrong than it ever had before. Turning the kettle on, her backside found the edge of the counter as a shiver rippled through her body. When had everything become so...she didn't even have words? Eyes finding her classic books that were stacked in various parts of the room — she wanted to disappear into one of them. Forget the outside world for a day, but even reading seemed too big a task. Most nights, when the weather wasn't trying to blow her away like Dorothy from Kansas, she'd sit on the roof and just...exist.

That wasn't an option right now, and that set her nerves on edge when she heard the rasp on her front door. Head snapping in the direction of the offending noise. She wasn't expecting anyone. Had Maria forgotten her key...again?

Trudging over, wet socks sliding on wood, Amélie was already talking — "I should put your key on a necklace permentantly attached around your..." she swung the door open as her lips parted. "Oh, sorry, I thought...never, uh, mind. What...what are you doing here?"

[amescastaignede]

[amescastaignede]

The kiss, she wished, would've lasted a moment longer. Staying where they'd been before her word span out of control. The world she'd call home twisting it's axis until she didn't know which way was up, or down. Heavy and suffocating, it was the only way to explain the cracking that resounded in her chest with every passing second. Something felt...wrong. Hands shaking almost unnoticably, as a sweat formed on her palms. All signs of that never ending anxiety she carried around with her. But...still. This felt wholly different.

Even if he tells her that she's 'annoingly perfect', she wonders if she's been too perfect. Was he growing bored? Was this what was happening here...because she could be more fun. Her mind was in overdrive, as she watched his lips moves, the shift of his features, the need to know driving her forward in an internal frenzy. But she knew Gideon now, enough to slow her mind, to calm that manic inside of her, as she blew out a silent breath. Calm down, it's not that. He loves you. Amélie has to remind herself, to bring herself to calmer waters.

Seconds felt like minutes.

And just like that, her world was shattering. Like a tidal wave crashing towards a flimsy wooden house, kept together by duct tape. That was her, and Gideon had been the tape. Amélie’s mind spins, walls closing in as she tries to make sense of what...the fuck Gideon just said. The mob. His family. The English mob? Is that what they are? Has she been directly associating with...

Amélie isn't sure if she's frozen, or her brain's malfunctioning. She's staring at him. Words, usually rushing out of her mouth, or the panic she knows will explode some time soon...for the time being are at bay. Instead, she stares. She hears the words, but they don't seem to register, as if they’re too foreign, too impossible to reconcile with the man in front of her—the man she loves.

The man apart of a mob family.

Her hand, still resting on his cheek, feels suddenly cold, like the warmth has been leached out of her, leaving only a numbness in its place. Pulling it back instinctively, she feels a distance she never thought was possible. An unknowing of what to do. Not like when she was considering telling him how she felt...no, this was different.

Just the dawning realisation of what this means—what this could mean.

“How could, oh my god, I'm so stupid...but, Gideon, how could you… not tell me?” her voice sounds unlike her own, she isn't sure if it's the hurt, the betrayl or the embarrasment. Journalist known for tracking down the criminal activity in London linked to Crime family. A laugh, that sounds somewhere between hysterical and terrified breaks free from her lips. "Are you even a surgeon, hm?" Its out of line, the harshness of her voice, eyes fluttering closed as she raised her hand in apology. "Sorry, that was unncessary."

Even when she frowns, Amélie looks sweet, and he leans over to press a kiss to her temple and tries not to think about how this may be the last time she allows it of him.

"It's nothing you've done wrong, you're... Annoyingly perfect, actually." He breathes out a laugh, wishing the lighthearted reassurance could cull the dread in his stomach.

Initially, he'd planned to tell her around their first anniversary as a couple, a month ago. But when April had crept closer, it'd seemed too cruel. After the Awards, he'd needed the comfort of postponement as much as she did. Adri's grief over Aviv had occupied much of his attention, and the last thing he'd wanted was to stomach more of it.

Then, he'd told himself he needed the right space to do it. It couldn't be in public, for obvious reasons, and it couldn't be at his place, either. Had to be somewhere Amélie would feel safe; somewhere where she was no mere guest but the owner, with all the power to evict him if she felt like it. So he'd stalled and stalled another few days, until Maria – her roommate – had unexpectedly announced she'd be away for the weekend, at which point the dreadful prospect had stared him unflinchingly in the face.

Now or never...

"It's about my family." Gideon swallows, gaze averted. Amélie insists it isn't possible to hate him and the guilt gnaws and gnaws. "Before you ask why I'm only telling you this now... I couldn't, Lia. The fact I'm telling you, even now, is a lot. I needed to get to know you better, needed to be sure. And, well..." This time, he meets her gaze; smiles sadly.

"Now I am."

It doesn't matter how many times he's rehearsed the words in advance, when it's finally the moment to come clean, the Rutherford struggles to find his tongue.

"They're in the mob, Amélie." He lets out another laugh, only this time there's no lightheartedness to it at all. "That's a lie, actually... They practically are the mob."

[amescastaignede]

VICTORIA PEDRETTI as DANI CLAYTON THE HAUNTING OF BLY MANOR (2020) 1.01 — THE GREAT GOOD PLACE

[amescastaignede]

May, 2024.

It starts like this; his father offers him a cigar. And Gideon declines.

"Now you're too good for my old cigars?"

It's a poisoned dart. His nerves begin to thrum. "That's not-... It has nothing to do with that." He defends, following Andrew into his office. "I'm just thinking if I win this case it'll mean that I'll have Felix around a lot more so I'm trying to- I probably shouldn't..."

There's a puff of smoke from the lit Cohiba Siglo, the bitter coffee scent singes his nostrils even at a distance. Andrew exhales sardonically. "Ah, yes. A model father."

Gideon looks at him. Really looks, and sees, perhaps for the first time, what he's failed to see these last few years. The flash of insecurity-resentment in his father's chestnut eyes, the wiry hair – more salt than pepper these days – frown lines about his mouth, the papery creases around the corners of his eyes... He's getting old. Older, perhaps frailer, too. Maybe it shouldn't come as a shock. But for someone who's always been more myth than man, as immortal and impervious to ageing as some demigod in the Greek Pantheon — it's a realization that occurs to him with a start. Gideon lashes his own retort back behind his teeth, letting the patriarch's bitterness pass as if unnoticed.

"You know I've been seeing Amélie."

"The schoolteacher, you mean? The one we had over for the holidays?"

"Journalist." The surgeon corrects a little tersely. He can't help the suspicion that it's an intentional slight, innocently dressed as a slip. Andrew has information at his fingertips and all the paranoia in the world to use it; knows everything Gideon wants to do almost before he does it. He would have found every piece of dirt on Amélie that he could find, traced her genealogy back to Eve and the Serpent before letting her so much as draw breath under the crystal chandeliers of his front foyer. He knows she's a journalist.

"Pleasant young lady," Andrew acknowledges charitably, "awfully well-mannered." But Gideon knows that it's about as much a compliment as he might throw to the runt of a litter. The mob boss has little use for well-mannered in his world and esteems it about the same amount. "What is it you wish to tell me about her, son?"

For all his years'-long stubbornness as his father's black sheep, Gideon feels a tendril of trepidation run through him at the question. The familial phrasing, the luring invitation. He wets his lips. "We've been together for almost a year now and known each other far before that. I know I didn't-... I haven't advertised that part, exactly," – he hadn't denied it, either, but had kept external opinions at bay as long as possible by avoiding the label of 'girlfriend' to shelter her – "but we've gotten to know each other in all that time."

"How wonderful."

Gideon struggles to continue. "And-... Well, the point is, I can't keep lying to her."

"Then don't."

"I mean about us. The family."

Andrew Rutherford's hawk-like gaze meets him over the thick frame of his reading glasses. "I fail to see how that's relevant to your girlfriend. Otherwise known as a girl who may be here today and gone tomorrow. With all due respect, of course."

"She won't be. That's my point." The stubborn streak is back as son and father stare at each other over the latter's desk, though Gideon feels his pulse beginning to hammer in his throat. "She's important to me... Special. I want to pursue something serious with her, but I can't do that in good conscience if I'm lying to her all the while. She deserves to know what she's signing up for, by being with me."

"Signing up for what, exactly?" A droll tone enters his father's voice. "You've made it ever so clear you have no part in this family's business endeavours, I hardly see how—"

"It's not good enough. I'm still lying by omission. It still affects her, my association to the family alone is enough to affect her. Reflect on her, it wouldn't be fai—"

"And how is it fair to this family that you would spoon-feed a journalist her next big break by telling her whatever drivel it is you believe about the work that we do?"

"Drivel?" He echoes. It's followed by a disbelieving scoff. There are so many things he could say to that in reply, write an entire bloody essay on exactly the sort of drivel his father has been responsible for in countless neighbourhoods across two continents an ocean apart. The fires he's ignited, the lives he has torn apart, the brainwashing of their mutual loved ones to bear the brunt of that blame alongside him. It makes him sick to the gills to think of all the drivel his father's allowed or actively incited, but it isn't why he's here today. He's fought that battle a million times already... He's always lost.

"She isn't like that. You don't know her at all." Gideon struggles to keep his voice even, rather than accusatory. Remembering that it has been just as much his choice to keep Amélie away from his father as it is Andrew's to be dismissive of everyone's potential to be more than lying, thieving opportunists.

"Whose fault is that?"

A muscle tenses in his jaw. His gaze stays fixed to the cabinet behind his father's desk, patience beginning to fray. "All I'm trying to say is that she wouldn't. She wouldn't want to bring harm to the people that I care about. Hell, she worked herself into a tizzy just thinking she might insult Lara by her choice of dress last time we met, or worried she hadn't complimented Yvonne enough on raising Maddie so well. She loves Damon as much as everyone loves Damon, and Adri she—"

"— And you're willing to change all that. By running your mouth off so that you can sleep better at night. What good will it do her, Gideon? Answer me that."

It's a wonder that Andrew doesn't see it. But is it so surprising? A man whose personal relationships are decomposing at various rates all around him. "If she is going to be a part of my life, a part of this family, she has a right to know what she's signing up for."

"If you're thinking about jumping into another marriage—"

"I'm not," He cuts in hastily, an embarrassed flush spreading along the back of his neck. "Or well, I don't know. It's too early to thi-... But it isn't about that, it's about clearing the air and giving her full disclosure before things get that point. Not just blindsiding her. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?"

Andrew strolls over to the long, arched window and grabs the tieback holding the silk curtains off to one side. He releases it with a snap, nursing his tobacco all the while. The room falls into shadows. "And what about Lara?"

"What about her?"

The father turns back on his son, moving towards his desk again, keeping it between them. "You love her — some say to a fault." A smile cuts cruelly on his mouth. "Because you think she's so different than me. What's to spare her my fate if your journalist runs prattling to the first newsstand that she can find?"

If he were a better man, he would tell his father that Lara's fate is her own. That she's neither a prisoner nor a child anymore; blindly following in her father's footsteps. That if she cleaves to the mob, one day her fate will be sealed either way; by a court or by a criminal, and that in either case there will be violence.

He would tell his taunting father that even in such a case the responsibility would be neither his, nor Amélie's, nor even some stranger's — but her own.

... But he isn't a better man.

The house of cards shudders with that warning and the surgeons croaks out; "She won't! I know she won't." Resting his argument on a plea. He hates begging, hasn't begged anything from his father since he was a child; but Amélie, he knows, is worth his pride. "You gave Rodriguez a chance. I just wish you'd do the same for Amélie."

In mentioning Lara, Andrew seems to know he's hit a nerve. His posture relaxes, he takes another puff from the Cohiba Siglo. It's almost gleeful. "They aren't quite the same though, are they?... Félix Rodriguez brings us prestige, a foothold into politics. What does your French girl bring us, exactly? What makes her worth the risk?"

Gideon doesn't offer any response. Once again, it's clear how much his father has grossly underestimated a person if he believes that Yvonne's fiancé is the sort of lapdog to roll over for a treat. But he says nothing. It isn't his job anymore to warn Andrew Rutherford of the consequences that come with devaluing human beings.

"You're going to do it anyway." The older man observes, after a beat of silence passes between them. He pulls out the office chair and eases himself into it. He rests his cigar on its wooden holder and looks up at his son expectantly.

"Yes."

He can't tell if it's respect or contempt in his father's eyes. These days, they tend to look the same. He steps away from the desk, as if testing the bounds of his freedom. He rounds the chair, turns his back on Andrew Rutherford and makes it almost to the door when the older man calls out to him. "— Gideon."

He turns, guarded grey eyes finding inscrutable brown.

"Not everyone will understand us. Not everyone should try." The mob boss reaches for his decanter, removing the top and pouring some of the liquid into a glass with careful, precise movements. "If you lose her, remember that it was not my doing."

— End.

Mentioned: @amescastaignede, @lararutherford, @yvonne-rutherford, @amaroadriana, @damonrutherford

[amescastaignede]

There was a comfort to his warmth that she’d never felt before him, the solidness of his arms around her. There were few places she felt as safe as this, and all of that sat with Gideon. For twenty-six years of her life, Amélie had kept herself wrapped in cotton wool, unwilling to branch out or venture out into the world. Albeit they’d met prior to their trip to Birmingham, naturally, but it was a moment she reflected on often. How a small push from a man, whom at the time she’d barely known, and that naïve woman she’d been – well, she had no idea he would become…everything. Neither were without fault, each carrying things on their backs that most would never know the burden of. And she hoped they would never have too. 

It was here she felt safe, it was here that she was with a man who saw her exactly for what she was and never asked her to change, or be more. He was happy with what she was, and her in return. Every day Gideon surprised her, whether it was the tenderness to his touch when he was around his son, or the way his eyes lit up when he was able to discuss a topic that he loved. There were endless things to love about this man. And she did love him, there was no doubting that. 

She never would.

But those words—those four heavy, foreboding words: “We need to talk.” caused the warm blood rushing through her veins to cool, eyes shifting up to his, shuffling to get a better look at his face. Those features she’d spent many nights when she couldn’t sleep, eyes tracing the contours and committing them to memory. There wasn’t panic, as there once would’ve been, instead concern etched into fine brows, doe eyes becoming hooded. Whatever it was, wasn’t good. She could tell in the inflection of his tone, or the pause between his words…even the way his chest moved beneath her.

In just a moment of seconds, the mood had shifted from content to…nervous. The crease between his brows, the tightness around his mouth—it's as if he's steeling himself for a battle.

“And I have to warn you… You may not like me very much after this.”

“I doubt that very much,” Amélie said carefully, steadily. “Gideon…” voice trailing off.

It was enough to set off old insecurities. Rushing to the surface in such an ugly fashion, Amélie tried to swallow it down. Push them back into the box from which they’d sprung from. But there was a difference to the woman who had not been there a year prior, not even six months. Fingers reached up slowly, a small delicate hand pressing to his cheek as she tried to calm the hammering of her heart. She wouldn’t freak out, he couldn’t – because this was…she didn’t know what it was, but if he needed to talk about it, then so be it. 

Last time she’d thought he cheated, she’d been off the mark – she knew it couldn’t be that. She trusted him enough to know that, even if her palms were beginning to sweat with momentary anticipation. “Whatever it is…I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. When I get in my head…all kinds of things, uh, happen. Y’know? You can talk to me, hey, I couldn’t hate you, Gideon. What makes you think that’s even a possibility…”

Amélie is pushing so sit up, turning to face him, crossed-legged. She doesn’t wait for him to say anything as she takes in those features: it only unsettles her further.

LOCATION — Amélie's apartment. DATE — Late May, 2024. STARTER — closed for @amescastaignede

This time, when those four fateful words slip past his lips, he makes sure it's in person; makes sure he isn't repeating old mistakes, and that he's holding her gently in his arms.

"We need to talk."

He anticipated that it would come with a rush of dread, those four words finally spoken aloud between them, but he feels a little lighter for it. Like the weight's been lifted by a fraction — even if it's now threatening to crash back down at any given second. Gideon inhales deeply, both to steady his nerves and catch the comfortingly familiar scent of her shampoo as he presses a kiss to the top of her head before leaning far enough to look at her. "And I have to warn you... You may not like me very much after this."

Already he can see that slight dip between her brows, but Amélie doesn't rouse herself out of his embrace or startle as she otherwise might've, many months ago. It's a small gain, a little victory, and it makes the prospect of this conversation the more agonizing for him. Fleetingly, futilely, Gideon wishes they belonged to a different world, and that he was someone other than himself. "But you have to know, Lia. You deserve to know."

[amescastaignede]

And here I was thinking she had finally made peace with me.   She had.

[amescastaignede]

FOR: @mobscene-starters WHEN: 08th of May, 2024. WHERE: Outside the London Advocate.

Amélie walked down the corridor of The London Advocate, her steps echoing off the polished floors. The hum of activity filled the air as journalists hurried about their tasks, phones ringing incessantly in the background, and loud clamors as new stories flew in faster than they could write them. Sources here, and there. It was manic, and for a woman such as herself, it was odd that she found such comfort here: amongst the noise and the chaos. Glancing at her old, antic watch which had once been Mathis, she sighed, a deadline looming, and her latest piece on the French Organization needed final touches before submission.

But not tonight, no, that was tomorrow's task.

Approaching her over-crowded desk, usually tidy at this time on a Wednesday, was a simple 'fuck you' to the clock that rang 7:00pm, telling everyone it was time to go home. Chucking things into her bag with careful handling, catching sight of Felicity Woodward, her editor, engrossed in conversation with another staff member. Animated, over the top, and wholly different from anything Amélie could've ever attempted. Even If she'd tried...that'd be a failure she wasn't sure she'd be able to live down. Felicity was a formidable woman, sharp eyes never missing a beat. And from the looks of it -- she wouldn't be leaving the office any time soon.

Lifting her hand in a simple goodbye was enough to have her leave...quickly. Before she was pulled in to meet with a source or stay longer than she needed. And just like that, she was up and out, exiting the doors until she came to an almost screeching halt...

What?

"I wasn't expecting to see you...here?" Amélie said, a look of confused bemusement taking over her porcelain features. "You, uh, wait, are you waiting for me?" -- gone was the smile only seconds later, head cocking to the side.