#b: retrograderesemblance

[noiranamnesis]

A Weekly Tryst

closed starter: @retrograderesemblance for Lynn

...

Dim light cast muted shadows across his features, calloused fingers toying with an unlit cigarette. A vice he remained beholden to despite countless attempts at his sister’s insistence. In the end, however, he found it provided something seldom found- reprieve. With a flick of his thumb he lit a match, unwilling to waver in an aversion to lighters.

A single inhale filled his lungs, Rem easing his weight against the wall to observe random critters scurrying about in the final moments of daylight. Faint melodies carried on the breeze though he paid it no mind, unsure whether it was coming from inside or perhaps a neighboring house. His lips quirked in a fleeting smirk, amused by his ability to relax here of all places. Words came to mind yet he remained silent, another drag dampening thoughts deemed unnecessary.

Business is business. The phrase is little more than a ghost, less a thought than a principle long hammered in place. One which he can’t be bothered to rehearse this late in the day. Or, it’s what he tells himself at least. And such is his routine. Paying premium for an extended slot of time only to spend a quarter of it doing exactly this: standing in the yard finishing a smoke or two before stepping inside.

“Lynn.” His voice is dry, fatigue weighing on his eyes. “I’ll shower first to get rid of the smell.” A concession offered on every weekly appointment. “All’s well?” His fingers twitched, itching for another cigarette, yet he diverted it to loosening his tie.

[noiranamnesis]

Lightly stained lips parted as though to interject, a series of questions dancing on the tip of her tongue. But they faltered. Dark brows furrowing ever so slightly as she absorbed his words- and more importantly, his French. Would she describe him as fluent? ...In a way. However it was clear, from the lengths he went to hide it, that he likely hadn't had much opportunity to practice lately.

Reims.

Ah. A city she knew well, though it was hard not to given its significance in both wars. She went to speak, but there he was- switching languages again! "Em..." To be honest, she hadn't the faintest idea what he meant by 'humoring her', too distracted by the covert mission he was unwittingly dragging her into. Wait- his last name was Garnier! Of course!

Plucking a vegetable off the counter, she cast a glance at the dynamic duo before gently bopping him on the head with it. "Je vais continuer à te parler en français, d'accord, Garnier?" Adding a tap to his cheek for good measure, she smiled. "D'accord."

Sensing the passing time, she returned to slicing and dicing. "Alors, pourquoi tu caches que tu sais parler français? Moi, je parle français tout le temps et les gens de Johnny n'ont jamais dit quelque chose de si grave." A fact which might have had something to do with how she threatened to drown him in batter the first time he tried, but who could say?

Mack didn't like this feeling; they were like two frightened animals uncertain of the others' intent. His shoulders tensed with Mari's hesitant "...Oui" wishing then that he hadn't spoken at all; but how could he remain silent? The longer he was in this kitchen, the more he felt suffocated, humiliated to be associated with Falcone and Brasi. He wasn't like them, he didn't want to be like them.

Voice purposely low - more so because he didn't want to hear any smart quips from Falcone or Brasi about his accent being effeminate; he'd heard enough of that in the joint.

"Je sais pas. Je… pensais dire quelque chose. Je sais pas. Chuis seulement ici pour m'assurer que ces deux-là ne mettent pas le feu à la cuisine," shrugging, "C'est pas comme si quelqu'un ici parlait beaucoup français. Ah bon oui?"

He thumbed the wooden handle of his parring k.nife.

"Mes parents sont de France. Reims." Maybe he was talking too much. Clearing his throat, he slipped back into hushed English, "Johnny thinks I can only read in French and I'm not about to tell him otherwise. I'll humor you if you want though, especially seeing as you're the only one who won't fuck up my name for once. It's Garnier."

[honorhearted]

"Honest? What, you think I'm not being honest? Sir, I'm risking a lot walking across the lines like this." from tom ripley in an au where instead of gamble, it's tom who's sent as the double agent to camp hurrhurr. you can decide how far into the interrogation this is xDD

@retrograderesemblance

Benjamin was starting to lose his patience. "You were caught skulking through our grounds without any recognizable means of identification," he snapped. "Of course you would claim you're taking a risk, because you bloody well are. I don't know, you, sir -- no one here knows you -- so the likelihood of this being a r.edcoat defection or, worse yet, an infiltration is likely."

Circling the prisoner, Benjamin kept his hands clasped behind his back, though the bucket of murky water in the left corner of the room served as a blatant threat. "I'd suggest you start being honest with me, Mr. Ripley. Seeing how I'm your only true acquaintance at present, that means I am also your only means of escaping the noose."

[nomdepen]

[LAUGH] The sender and receiver share a laugh after a slight misstep during their dance. // from benedict

"Benedict, I truly tried to give you the benefit of the doubt when Eloise said you were a horrific dancer," Unable to contain her laughter, she shook her head. For such an artistic person, he seemed shockingly uncoordinated when it came to dancing—or at least when it came to dancing with her. "But now I see exactly what she meant. You are rather dreadful on your feet."

[terrorpenned]

SWEARING LIKE A SAILOR. WILLIE LOOMIS. @retrograderesemblance said: "would you just fucking stop for a second?" from willie to vicki

❛❛ IT HAPPENED ! you of all people have no right to call me –– . ❜❜

CRAZY. the word dies on her tongue but it swells in the air between them, even unsaid. Julia alleges that Mister Loomis is perfectly sane ; and Barnabas, too, seems to find him in fine working condition after his long stay at Windcliff. who is she to doubt them ? in ordinary circumstances, it wouldn't feel right welcoming him back to the grounds, not after Carolyn, after Maggie ( and welcoming, still, is perhaps not the right word for the prevailing mood at the old Collins estate ). but desperate minds ask for UNCERTAIN ALLIES. if she tells the story enough times, the next time she'll be believed. she's certain. she must be, she must be.

her throat begins to throb in her panic, and Victoria reaches up to touch at the centuries-old rope burn, the pain just as vivid as though she were back there on the gallows again, the air in the burlap sack hot and stale with her own breath. not just a memory, but happening to her again, now. is this what madness feels like ? he ought to know.

❛❛ Willie, I'm sorry. you've got to know how it feels. ❜❜

They'll send me there too. They'll send me there if no one believes me. You've got to.

[awynter]

@retrograderesemblance sent 🌿 to accidentally get caught under the mistletoe with my muse. ( benedict & anne )

When she was younger, she had thought about what it would be like to kiss someone under a mistletoe. She had imagined finding her Prince Charming beneath the dangling greenery and all it would take was one kiss to fall madly in love. By the time she reached adulthood, Anne had long since given up the fantastical dream of any such whirlwind romance. The boys she'd once fancied were a far off memory, from a lifetime that no longer existed. She never expected to see anyone from her childhood ever again, and she never could've guessed that she'd be caught under the mistletoe with Benny Bridgerton, of all people.

"You don't have to, you know. I won't hold it against you if you wish to ignore tradition. It would be a shame if you ruined your reputation on account of kissing a poorly governess." Anne clasped her hands in front of her as her cheek grew florid. Thirteen years earlier, she might've wished to be found in such a circumstance, but she knew better by now. She knew that getting attached to anyone in any way would only cause trouble. "I don't know if I even remember how to kiss, so, it's probably for the best anyway."

[widowshill]

B, D, J, K, M, T (doesn't have to be just DS if you don't want it to be!)

A -> Z FANDOM ASKS.

B - A pairing–platonic, romantic or sexual–that you initially didn’t consider, but someone changed your mind.

it feels like cheating to say any ships that came from rp because 90% of the time there's no way you'd consider them otherwise, but the one that stands out to me is willie and esme (ft. @retrograderesemblance) cherish them, would never have put them together on my own lol.

beyond that, and this doesn't really count for not ever considering it, but I was a w.illabeth disliker until this year, I read several persuasive defenses, and writing lizzie swayed me. so elizabeth herself changed my mind kinda.

D - A pairing you wish you liked but just can’t.

ok listen. it's s.parrington. i get it intellectually and i see the vision but i just don't like it and i have tried for years it is just not. idk. can't do it.

J - Name a fandom you didn’t think about until you saw it all over Tumblr.

i hope this is dark shadows to all my treasured mutuals whom i single-handedly inundate with ds content all over their dashes. my answer would be e.lisabeth das musical or honestly like ? robespierre of french history kinda has a stan army on here.

K - What character has your favorite development arc/the best development arc?

ohhh who would i say for ds. maybe roger because he gets domesticated, and makes truly wild strides in his relationship with his son. ( go white boy break that patrilineal curse ). weirdly i also kinda wanna say joe is up there ? he has an interesting journey from Carolyn's Rejected Puppy All American Fish Boy to like ... helping vic investigate laura, being ang's chew toy, having a mental breakdown. and also deeply caring about david! maybe i just like it when people start caring about the kid.

elsewhere it's jimothy norrington. easy. character arc of all time.

M - Name a character that you’d like to have for a friend.

not many people on this show because that's a death sentence but lowkey.. natalie dupres (josette's "spinster aunt") bc i think we would really get along. fancy french brunches with the gay aunt and we can talk shit about barnabas. even though she would bully me for my french, and rightfully so.

elsewhereeee hmm. alice k.ingsleigh would make a wonderful friend. sybil c.rawley. max b.lack sails.

T - Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending? 

most of my headcanons about vicki tbh dan curtis can piss off. namely that girl has autism. she dislikes the task of setting her hair / sleeping on rollers and rarely feels like doing it, but her and carolyn will sometimes set hair for each other for some girl time. roger fencing and liz ice skating. i also know i'm right about specifically vic's and carolyn's music taste (monkees/mamas & the papas/paul revere & the raiders/herman's hermits, and jan&dean/the ventures/elvis/beach boys, respectively). vic is also added in the collins family history. david draws her in after she dies/disappears, and elizabeth has her formally added after she discovers his handiwork.

you can also pry my "elizabeth swann's burgundy dress was esme's" from my cold dead hands ! like. that's such an important one to me sdfgfd.

[pagetreader]

@retrograderesemblance

"See the lines here carved between the strings? They're called frets and there are four of them. Your six strings each perform a different note while your fingers rest against the others along the frets. Aqui, aqui..."

Javier stepped around Anamaria, placing the guitar in her hands from behind and placing his hands over hers to align her fingers properly.

"See how each string gets thinner? That's how they play different notes, si? From top to bottom, you have the low E, then A, D, G, B, and the high E."

[smiletimeisrunningout]

domesticity - muse a rests chin on muse b’s shoulder to read/see what they’re holding // from mack. could be when they're still travelling together in that woods thread, or we could try something else ^u^ you pick! @retrograderesemblance for gentleness prompts here - very accepting

After renting the only room left in the inn, if only because it was the last place where her step-grandmother's men would look for her, she had started writing the draft of a letter for her parents, where she excitedly told them about all the very nice things she was seeing, conveniently forgetting to mention that she was being chased by a bunch of assassins fighting to rip her heart out, so they'd get whatever her dear grandma had promised them. No point in making them worry, was there?

She scratched away a line and a half because it was suspiciously focusing on something she wouldn't give that much attention to, grumbling because she couldn't think of anything to replace it.

Then Mack actually leaned against her back and rested his chin on top of her shoulder to see what was getting her worked up, and it inevitably made Emma snort, both at how comfortable he had gotten with her - a goal of hers, making attractive men feel that way - and at the curious gesture. "Writing to my parents to let them know I'm having a great time traveling around and nothing too dangerous happened," she explained, and then quickly added: "I know, I know. But they don't need to hear about it. By the way, if you were looking for an excuse to put your arms around me, you only had to ask, darling."

[noiranamnesis]

Cafe Noir

closed starter: @retrograderesemblance for Ed

...

Off a cross section of Sunset Blvd sat a quaint cafe where few patrons remained inside, most preferring a table beneath the sun amongst an array of blossoms. A less than common sight though an aspect the owner remained adamant on, unwilling to forgo aspects of her vision for sake of needless compromise. Flitting between tables she greeted customers in kind, a shared chaste kiss against the cheek for regulars and a warm smile for fresh faces. While her clientele mainly reflected those with European roots or sought a bit of old world charm, there were a number of faces with a less than savory reputation. Individuals known for seedy behavior and reckless temperaments, yet who enjoyed a coffee and meal every so often. 

Rumors had long spread leaving opinions split;  some swayed by the notion she was simply ignorant of their shady dealings while others believed she either knew and chose to ignore it or was perhaps linked to them in some way. Afterall, how does a young woman with seemingly no former ties to the area manage to open a cafe? 

Marinette stood beside a lively table, listening whilst a trio of women filled her in on their latest gossip when she noticed someone claim an empty table. “Hold that thought. I’ll be just a few moments.” Swiping a pair of menus she approached from the man’s side in an attempt to refrain from startling him. “Hello.” Her voice was calm, tinges of an accent unmistakable with every word. “Shall I leave an extra menu?”

[noiranamnesis]

An Artful Offense

closed starter: @retrograderesemblance for Bud

...

A light clicking of heels carried over polished tile, dark curls fastened in a low bun with a weathered briefcase in hand. On her left she was accompanied by a less than pleased Police Chief though she paid him little mind. Far too consumed by the thinly veiled chaos which seemed palpable within the police department’s walls. A scattering of men, badges, and files. Somehow it both met and defied expectations conveyed by Sheriff Miller days prior.

“Officer White.” The Chief abruptly stopped, Françoise avoiding collision by a narrow margin. “Meet Miss…” He trailed off, dismissive gaze shifting to her expectantly.

Glancing from the Chief to Officer White she gave a polite nod. “Miss Beauséjour-”

“Right.” The Chief’s voice was void of interest. “She’s been sent by the Sheriff’s Office about the string of art thefts. Apparently, she believes the pieces we recovered and returned were forgeries.” He practically ground out behind thinly veiled respectability. “Until we get this ironed out, consider her your shadow.” The look in his eyes made it clear he had every intention of smoking both her and the Sheriff’s influence out of their jurisdiction. “Understood?” He turned to Françoise then, flashing a strained smile. “Good luck, Miss.”

Françoise remained perfectly at ease, not bothering to smile in return. “Thank you, Chief.” Only when his heavy steps faded did she speak again. “I hear you have the case files?” 

[awynter]

🌹 from benedict

send a “🌹” if your muse thinks mine is beautiful

“Oh? What’s this for?” Anne took the flower and raised it to her nose to smell. Roses always reminded her of spring, of new beginnings and fresh starts. It was ironic that someone like him would be giving her something that made her think of starting new. He, who ought to have forgotten all about her when she left home, was gifting her a rose and she couldn't begin to assume why.

“Are you going soft on me, Benny?” She teased, twirling the bloom in her hand. "Good thing it's only one. A bouquet might've given me the wrong idea."

[awynter]

"Oh, it's alright. I guess I just have one of those... faces." She offers over her shoulder before turning around to shoot him a smile. But when her eyes fall on him, she nearly freezes in place. Benedict. She couldn't be entirely sure, but Anne had always been good with faces--and destroying them. Benedict hadn't exactly been a friend of hers, but she'd recognize that smile anywhere. And when he introduces himself, it takes all the strength in her body to no let her smile falter.

"The pleasure is all mine, Mister Bridgerton." She offered through gritted teeth and a feigned smile. She knew perfectly well who he was and it was exactly why she was growing increasingly anxious to leave. To busy herself, she shot a look around to keep a headcount of the girls. Three wasn't an incredibly high number, but it often felt as such when they all seemed to go off in different directions. Frances hung around by her skirts, fidgeting with a ribbon she'd picked up minutes ago, while the other two were off rummaging through things.

"Frances, can you go get your sisters for me?" Her voice held a subtle urgency that the girl didn't seem to pick up on and it took a bit more prompting and a weighted please before she toddled off to find Harriet and Elizabeth. The quicker she could leave the quicker she could avoid any trouble--something of which Benedict had always been good at making, or at least that's how she remembered him.

"Well, it was wonderful to meet you, Mister Bridgerton. And you, Miss Hyacinth," She shot a far more sincere smile towards the young lady. "But my girls and I should be heading out soon. I hope you have a splendid rest of your day." Turning on her heels, she hurried towards the door, tossing a look backwards as Elizabeth followed suit... lacking either of her sisters.

"Lizzie, where are your sisters?"

Elizabeth shrugged, looking rather surprised by the question tossed her way. Nervously, Anne tries her hardest not to look at Benedict, though her eyes don't seem to cooperate. Dark blue eyes land on him and instantly a flush creeps onto her cheeks as a small wave of panic washes over her. "Frances! Harriet! Please make haste. We ought to be returning home soon."

“Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly nosy?” for benedict uwu

@awynter

With his shoulders stiffened, hands on the verge of curling into fists and being firmly placed on either side of his hips, Benedict felt very much like a child again in that moment. He didn't believe her, but he wasn't about to declare as much in the middle of a haberdashery floor.

"My apologies, Miss Wynter," he parroted the name the youngest girl accompanying not-Annelise had corrected him with, "you bear a striking resemblance to a family friend."

Clearing his throat, "It's a pleasure. My name's Benedict Bridgerton. This is my sister Hyacinth," he turned toward his sister only to see Hyacinth engaged in conversation with one of the girls.

Lowering his voice so just Miss Wynter could hear, he muttered, "Though I have an inkling you already know that."

How it could be Annelise Shawcross in the flesh, he wasn't sure. It was a name, a very presence, Benedict hadn't thought of since he was a boy away at Eton. That was when he'd first heard news that his and his brothers' childhood friend had disappeared overnight. It was as if Annelise had never existed at all. To this day, Colin was certain she'd been kidnapped by pirates...

[awynter]

"Yes." She replied, crossing her arms over her chest. It didn't matter how many years had passed, it seemed some things never changed. "And I have no plans on telling you."

She wanted to. Selfishly, she wanted to lessen the burden she bore and shoulder it with someone else, but Benedict was kind, when he wasn't being a pest. Despite his boyish charms and annoying tendencies that he seemed to cling to well into adulthood, she had missed him. It was as refreshing as it was terrifying to see someone from her past, someone with whom she held such pleasant memories. Anne hadn't wanted to disappear. She hadn't wanted anything that had happened, but she never had a choice.

"Maybe I never did exist. Maybe things are better that way." Her words left a sour taste in her mouth as she pushed away any memories that tried to rise to the surface. Annelise was dead. And Anne Wynter had no ties to Benedict Bridgerton. "You would be wise to pretend Annelise never existed, too. It's safer for us all that way."

“Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly nosy?” to benedict uwu

@awynter

"Exceedingly nosy?!" His voice cracked with his outburst -- it was infuriating, the affect she had over him; just one uttered sentence and he was no longer a gentile bachelor, instead it was as if he was transported back in time, suddenly behaving no better than his eight year old self hellbent on wreaking havoc on Anneliese and his brothers for plotting to push him into a puddle.

Benedict remembered himself, though not entirely, more he remembered where they were, remembered who Anne was pretending to be.

Lowering his voice, "I don't see what's so outlandish about my question. You still haven't told me where you disappeared to. It's as if you never existed at all."

[noiranamnesis]

Dark hues observed each shift, though he remained rooted in place, noting the additional layers now draped over her frame. Her luggage must be small. A deliberate choice, no doubt. Meant to prevent exactly what she was doing: leaving. His gaze flicked to the spoon in her hand, but he didn't speak, maintaining space between them as she busied herself among the flowers. Dim light obscured the details of what she held, but he had his suspicions. Her willingness to leave with him, to reveal her most cherished possessions, suggested either a profound trust—or desperate need. In the end, however, only one thing mattered: the result.

This is everything.

He flicked his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out beneath his heel. “Let’s go.”

The walk back through the house was slow, deliberate. Rem’s hands remained at his sides, pointedly refraining from carrying any of her things. Every choice- what to take, what to leave- needed to be hers. She had to own this decision in its entirety, down to the weight of her belongings in her arms.

He slipped into his coat, his usual payment still placed on the counter. As he opened the door and stepped into the cool night air, he barely spared a glance at the familiar details of her living room. None of this was hers anyway.

The car was waiting- a black 1953 Chevrolet 210 parks by the curb. He opened the passenger door with a practiced gesture, nodding for her to get in before closing it behind her. Sliding into the driver's seat, he turned the ignition, and the car eased forward. The drive was silent, the only sound the hum of tires against pavement.

It wasn't until they reached the second traffic light that he spoke.

“You need to decide a few things." His voice was even, controlled. "Where do you want me to take you?” The airport, bus station, a hotel… someone else’s place. He glanced at her briefly, eyes sharp. “I can drive somewhere while you decide.”

Lynn was vaguely aware of nodding in understanding but the full weight of Rem's words didn't hit her until he was gone and she was alone in her room.

“Pack your things.” "Ten minutes." "I'll be downstairs."

She was going to be sick. She was going to cry. She was going to... but she did none of those things. Instead she exhaled a breathy laugh, lifting a trembling hand to her mouth as she struggled to contain her excitement. Yes, she could've been sick, she could've cried, but anything she did would've been out of disbelief, joy, relief.

There was no time for overthinking. Frantically, she looked at the clock that sat on her nightstand. 8:05... ten minutes.

Her mental list was gone, slipping through her fingers like smoke. She'd felt so sure of herself when all of this was possibilities, something unattainable. Presented with the reality of being free, of leaving the house, of leaving Pierce, she found herself blanking, everything feeling so unimportant. She would've left behind everything in that moment.

Lynn moved quickly though she felt a stranger in her own body, going back and force almost aimlessly, accompanied by the deafening tick of the clock.

Ten minutes. Think, think...

=

When Lynn appeared downstairs, the clock read 8:14 in her bedroom. She was wearing extra layers of clothing - a sweater and a coat and a beret despite the warm temperature outside. At a later time, she might better be able to sift through the jumbled assortment of items she'd grabbed and stuffed into her purse:

1 wallet

1 coin purse

1 toothbrush

1 pair of nylons

1 pair of socks

1 sewing kit

1 book (a worn copy of Rebecca by du M.aurier)

In her arms, she held her embroidered Arizona pillow and the framed gift from Rem.

She was certain she was forgetting something everything.

Nearing the kitchen, she saw the French doors propped open and she laid her few belongings on the kitchen countertop, collecting a spoon from the drawer of silverware before stepping onto the patio, feeling somehow out of place despite it being her home for the past years. She stood before Rem, feeling like he could see through her - wondering if he would change his mind.

Silently, able to feel his eyes tracking her movements, she stooped down in the flowerbed and unearthed her hidden savings.

"This is everything."

[noiranamnesis]

In the face of her silence he remained unmoved, waiting, offering nothing, forcing her to express her position, to articulate what she wanted. A tactic employed often to make others reveal themselves. Most can’t tolerate the silence- something observed more in domestic settings than the frontlines. It was a sentiment he could not relate to, though he had witnessed it in others more times than he cared to count.

Whether her truth stemmed from fear of consequences or the desire to escape was irrelevant. If she wanted him to take her elsewhere, he required parameters. Clear and precise.

The simple shake of her head was not a valid response. It lacked resolve. He understood the weight of his question and its implications.. Hesitation. Fear. Something else. Yet these were things Rem had no connection to, and he felt no sympathy for them. To allow himself to empathize would render his profession untenable. To face another in those final moments, to allow any emotion to surface, would be fatal.

Would you make me come back?

Lynn, however, was not an assignment handed to him over quiet conversation, complete with her details, address, and place of work. No, he had found her by chance. Perhaps that was why he didn't remain silent. Why he didn't wait until his own question was answered, to respond.

“No.” HIs voice was flat, without inflection. Pierce wasn't his employer. He owed the man nothing. Even if he did, he wouldn't bend. He was not in the business of "catching" and "returning" people. A grim thought, considering the nature of his work. Disposal.

“Pack your things.” For the first time, his voice gained an edge, firm and measured. He took a step back, providing her space to move. "Ten minutes." His payment would remain downstairs- money already spent in his mind. The routine was set, predictable. No need to change it.

"I'll be downstairs." The logistics were already taking shape in his mind. Routes to his flat, out of Los Angeles, or to other boroughs. The practicalities were clear: she would need to dye her hair, change her appearance, adopt a new wardrobe- or more accurately, her own. She would have to decide where she wanted to go.

As he stepped into the backyard, the match flicked with little more than a thought. His hands moved on instinct, lighting the cigarette with quiet precision. He inhaled deeply, tilting his head back to fix his gaze on the moon. Exhaling he closed his eyes for a moment, then straightened.

Her words lingered in the air; with each passing second in silence, it was as if the words were coiling into invisible tendrils, like the smoke from a cigarette, taking new shape, taking new meaning.

Rem visibly froze; that was when Lynn stopped breathing.

What response was she expecting? She'd spoken in such haste that she'd never even considered it.

He was standing then and for the briefest of times, she wondered if he was leaving, if she'd finally said something worthy of scaring him away. He began approaching he.

Lynn found her chin slowly curving towards her chest, her eyes doe-like with anxiety as she watched him come nearer; she felt like her eighteen-year-old self in that moment, the same one who had been entrapped like an insect in amber by Pierce; naive, uncertain, utterly out of her element.

He stopped, maintaining distance between them.

“Do you want to come back?”

Lips parted to speak but no sound was emitted. Out of practiced habit, her eyes desperately searched his - his eyes were dark, and they perhaps would've been warm if not for the way he expressionlessly stared at her; she wondered what he looked like when he fully smiled; did his eyes crinkle at the edges? - trying to read what response he wanted. But this wasn't some game, some poor attempt at acting.

"Come on, sweetheart. You're smarter than that." A spectral version of Pierce lived in her head and she knew him well enough to know exactly how he would chastise her if he were stood here in the room. "How many men have offered to take you away before? What makes this one different than the others?"

And for once, she knew the exact answer she would give. This was was different because he was Rem.

Gaze unwavering from his, she shook her head, her bottom lip dangerously close to quivering.

After her first year done up in bleached blonde and white silk, she'd stopped trying to run and despite all that time passed, her thoughts were immediately engulfed with the same miniscule hope she'd possessed then. She'd take her purse; she'd take the framed gift on the nightstand; she'd grab a spoon from the kitchen and unbury the shallow hiding place beneath the flowerbed in the backyard - that's where she hid the tin can with her secret savings.

But then Pierce's voice was deafening in her head, "You said so yourself. He's laughing at you," and even though she could hear Pierce's deep chuckle, feel the heat of his stale breath, feel the sensation of his neatly trimmed mustache as he leaned in to kiss her, she managed to wade through her little world and find her voice.

Quietly, "Would you make me come back?"