#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]

“Clean aprons are hanging behind the door.” Marinette gestured with her free hand, but otherwise stayed on task. Once peeled she was able to get through each vegetable in less than a minute, falling into a trance of sorts as she began clearing her pile. At the sound of a splash she exhaled through her nose. “Dirty aprons go in the hamper by the back door. Et tu ferais mieux de ne pas utiliser de savon!” And you better not be using soap! A warning she didn’t have the heart to check.

When youse was a kid, you ever help your ma in the kitchen?

Nah. My ma though, I tell you what that woman could do with a branzino...

Never helped his mother once? No wonder he thought to wash a vegetable with soap…Merde. If this goes wrong Johnny better be as quiet as a lamb. Still, while revelations of their banter kept her alert, the ease with which they chatted provided a sense of comfort. Mirroring the chaotic nature of conversation that often dominated her kitchen throughout the day. Topics were rarely off limits and perhaps it was why their crass nature didn’t bother her in the slightest. When her usual employees accidentally burned themselves were they going to just say ‘ow’? Of course not. They cursed and sometimes even blamed the ghosts of their enemies.

Eh, Mari, is this right?

“Em,” Peeking over she gave a quick nod. “Oui.” Yes. Not wanting to dirty his clothes she gave him a slight nudge with her elbow. “I knew you could do it.” Well, she’d hoped at least one of them would.

Then he spoke French.

A flicker of recognition reflected in her gaze, nimble fingers slowing their precise movements as she turned to face him. “…Oui.” Her voice fell to a whisper then, a glance cast towards the quarreling lovebirds before her attention settled once more on this Garner character. Garner…not very Italian, is it? With newfound interest she gave him a once over, noting everything from his plain attire to the distinct features of his face. “Pourquoi?” Why were they suddenly whispering? Why did he care to know? Why was he speaking French so well?

Implicit assumptions led her down a rabbit hole of sorts. Perhaps he was only half Italian and hiding it from the others? It seemed plausible. If Johnny’s comments were anything to go by, it seemed Italian organized crime had a preference for keeping their ranks particularly Italian. But if he was sent by Johnny then she had to figure Johnny was aware…unless Garner had managed to fool him- not the most difficult task she supposed. Within days of becoming acquainted with Johnny it was clear he wasn’t revered for his insight, but rather brute strength and temperament.

Brow furrowed, he looked with almost intensity at the way she cut the carrot, knowing he likely wouldn't be shown the grace of further examples.

"Voilà."

"Voilà." He found himself parroting, his voice dangerously close to catching the accent though when he considered it now, he wasn't sure what the point was of refusing to speak. It could've been more out of habit, the habit of intentionally not speaking freely except during his visits home. All things considered, it didn't matter what he said, he surely couldn't make much worse of an impression as his companions presently bickering over the sink.

"It's really just a Julienne cut that you dice."

"Mhm." He took one of the too small carrot ends and popped it into his mouth. Mari was a better instructor than he would've assumed.

"Hell no! Then people'll be blaming me for soap in their carrots. Ain't my fault you don't know how'ta wash a vegetable."

"Fuck off."

Rolling his eyes, Mack called to Falcone, "He's right, you're outvoted. You're supposed to be on the vegetables anyway."

There was muttered swearing then the other man spoke clearly, "Fine. Got any more of those aprons?"

Brasi, "Scared of a bit of water?"

"I'd prefer not looking like a drowned rat when I'm done."

"What do you think I look like then?"

"A drowned rat."

"You hearing this shit, Garner?"

The sound of water being splashed but Mack didn't dare turn to look. He glowered at the carrot on the cutting board, his cuts slow, methodical, trying to make at least his first attempt look like the example before he got comfortable with the knife.

Falcone, "When youse was a kid, you ever help your ma in the kitchen?"

"Nah. My ma though," a faint whistle in appreciation, "I tell you what that woman could do with a branzino..."

"Eh, Mari, is this right?" Mack spoke quieter, trying not to get drawn back into the other conversation while he gestured at his first attempt with the carrot. Once he had Mari's attention, despite his reservations, he asked in an almost hushed tone,

"Tu viens de France?" You from France?

[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.

[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]

"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]

Do you want me to love you?

Rem blinked, a crease forming between his brows with no immediate answer. Love…Even mulling it over in silence felt foreign- a notion remnant of his youth, of an era long buried in far off soils. “There’s no point wanting what I can’t have.” Neither a yes or no, because he had never considered it an option. Content with muted companionship beyond a limited network locked in a haze of grievances and brutality. He had observed colleagues’ attempts in romance and each time he witnessed their partner’s affection fade once they grew familiar with his cohorts’ line of business.

Unmoving, his gaze tracked after her movements, gaining no when she drew closer or sunk into the mattress. Expecting acceptance of his offer to terminate his appointments going forward. Instead, he stood by as she mentioned love again. Specifically him making her love him. A perturbed expression ghosted across his features then, unsure what she meant. Before he could vocalize his concern, however, she was telling him to sit. For a moment he remained in place, seemingly weighing his options, but ultimately settled in the chair. Tension kept his back perfectly straight, his hands settled in his lap as though wary of touching her belongings.

She's not a romantic either. Veronica Lake. Lucky for you, you're paying to see me this time, not Veronica.

I never paid to see Veronica Lake. An instantaneous thought immediately corrected …purposely. A fact he thought obvious considering how she was dressed. Their eyes met the instant she looked in his direction, her smile catching him off guard. In an instant he was on edge, biting back the urge to fish out a cigarette he knew he couldn’t light. When she spoke again he was grateful for their distance. Hopeful she wouldn’t catch the way his hands twitched- the way he swallowed as her words sunk in place. Preferring her only insight be his primarily flat expression. And it appeared his preferences were well founded once she confirmed she found him off putting, to a degree.

What followed was far from what he anticipated. Compliments he was wary to accept. Did he pretend to be someone else? No. There’s no need. Don’t share details. Did he try to bed her immediately? No. Did he know who Veronica Lake was? I do now.

She appeared to be in higher spirits. Smiling and laughing at her own jokes while he calmly observed- attempting to make sense of everything in a prompt fashion. “A colleague recommended Patchett’s service. Didn’t give names.” Rem’s voice was a bit gruff, his foot bouncing once in a brief release of nerves. “I realized the specialty after.” At which point he could have sought services elsewhere, but ultimately didn’t see a need to.

Thinking on what she said before, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, letting it rest between his fingers. A series of questions littered his mind, none of which were appropriate nor his business. In the end his lips quirked in a trace of a wry smile. “…You like me…You want to see me outside of this…You think I should go to someone off the street.” Rem’s selective summation, while a poor reflection of his understanding, provided the points he found most amusing.

“I have never expected anything of you.” She believed him, the very act of trust going against everything she'd built for herself even if all she had to show for it was poor embroidery and false? promise that one day she'd get out of here.

“I’m not a romantic. I know you’re put off by me. I know you would never love me.”

She looked at Rem now, feeling ease at meeting his gaze when he was the one speaking. The voice was his but the words were... she wasn't sure, but then again, she'd been trained not to speak her mind freely; perhaps this was how she sounded to him too?

Her response was at the tip of her tongue, "If we're going to talk about love, don't you think you should buy me dinner first?" and it nagged at her very being as she refused to speak upon it. It was a wit she'd been taught, the words part of a script she read from memory. Those were never her own words though.

Rem's distance didn't go unnoticed and Lynn was tempted to wince at the growing separation, fretting he'd leave, flee, like he did all those times before: calmly, methodically, her tip left on the countertop.

"I won't come again."

Her focus flickered to meet his, the panic certainly evident in her eyes for how could it not be? Her pulse was quickened, a knot of disappointment twisting in her gut at the very notion. She didn't want to be left alone.

"Do you want me to love you?" Was this her voice or her counterpart? She wasn't sure. Uncertain whether it was to illustrate a point even she wasn't aware she was making or whether it was simply out of nervousness, Lynn stepped nearer to Rem, lifting the pillow he'd gently placed aside and curling herself to sit cross-legged on her bed, the mattress groaning under her weight - her room consisted of hand-me-downs, not the luxury of newness downstairs where the only hand-me-down was herself as she was passed from client to client. Hugging the pillow to her middle, she shifted, trying to get comfortable, "That's very different from making me love you."

She used her chin to gesture to the open spot on the bed beside her, "You can sit here," a gesture to the chair at her sewing table, "or you can use that chair there."

Picking at one of the loose threads dangling from her past project, "She's not a romantic either. Veronica Lake. Lucky for you, you're paying to see me this time, not Veronica." She glanced in his direction, adding with a soft smile, "Though, I think I'd much prefer it if you just saw me without paying anything at all."

She swallowed, realizing she was answering him in a strange backwards, nonlinear order. Oh well, she'd already begun like this, maybe backtracking was for the best?

"You're not that off-putting." A smile. "I like you. You don't pretend to be something you're not. As dumb as it sounds, I like you because you're the first client I've had who didn't demand my clothes off within the first five minutes of meeting." Her smile widened, "Well that and you also don't know who Veronica Lake is. What are you doing paying three times more than you have to when you could pick up some poor girl off the streets? What, are you paying for the atmosphere?"

She laughed, making herself more comfortable, stretching out so her back was to the other pillows and the headboard, her legs stretched out. "Actually I like that. The atmosphere. Consider it copyrighted." She grinned and for the first time she knew the words were her own, though perhaps more reminiscent of the version of herself she'd been when she left Bisbee; still, it was a start.

"Can I assume I came recommended from a friend? Or maybe it was Lana Turner or Lauren Bacall your friend saw. Unless you request us by name, you're assigned whichever girl has the next opening... Like at a hair salon." Her thoughts wandered briefly to her mother's chair at the salon back home, but she pushed the memories aside.

[noiranamnesis]

It was quick, her transition from answering to asking her own questions. Drawing conclusions which left him at a loss though she seemed certain. Her scoff only dug the blade deeper, anchoring what he viewed as repulsion towards himself.

At mention of Pierce, his jaw twitched, calloused grip flexing against her cushion before returning it to its rightful place. Whether he cared to admit it, in comparing a man who pushed a woman to sell herself and a man who paid- little difference existed. Both were complicit in perpetuating a cycle for their own personal gain. “I have never expected anything of you.” Hollow words in light of the cash sitting on her counter. In memory of the last time he’d dared touch her. It would be dishonest to say he had forgotten the soft slopes of her form; meanwhile for her he figured it was something she only hoped to forget.

Sliding his hands within his pockets he stepped aside, providing distance between both her and her bed. He rarely pondered how others saw him; often able to discern apprehension in his colleagues. When it came to Lynn, however, he found her challenging to read- or at least, that was the excuse he gave himself. Perhaps he was willfully feigning ignorance. “I’m not a romantic.” A phrase borrowed from his sister in lieu of his own. “I know you’re put off by me." Admissions void of any emotion save hints of resignation. "I know you would never love me.”

His gaze fell to the frame then, knowing it wasn’t in his nature to reclaim a gift while simultaneously accepting she may very well bin it in his absence. There were more things he could say, but he didn’t, less concerned with explaining himself than how best to remove himself from her presence. And even if wanted to express his position, it wasn’t as though he had the words anyway. Never one to say much. That, he supposed, was his sole legacy. "I won't come again." A peace offering of sorts. Plans of their shared dinner promptly laid to rest in his mind.

“You’re from Arizona.”

Sickening nervousness caught as tension in the back of her throat, making her unable to speak freely as she normally would - but when she normally spoke, it wasn't her own voice she used, so how would she know the difference? - and instead all she was able to muster was a shy nod, the intimacy of the question making her feel more bare now than if she was wearing nothing at all.

"Y-Yeah," was that a stammer? what was the matter with her? "from Bisbee."

Her hands were held idly at her middle and she realized for the first time that she was trembling; she didn't acknowledge the tremor, instead trying to will her flesh to cease any movements at all, but that was unsuccessful and she was left clasping her hands awkwardly behind her back. Her entire form was rigid, tense, and even the notion of meeting Rem's gaze made her squirm uncomfortably, so she did nothing of the sort, instead her eyes nervously shifting to focus on anything beside his own.

"You could probably tell that already." A soft smile, knowing it was redundant when there were only two towns labelled on the map.

When he lifted the pillow from its place, he might as well have been touching her, the way he traced the clumsy lettering of her stitch work; in a way he was, she supposed, touching her, touching a piece of her.

"There's not much there unless you like mining." Stop talking, her mind screamed at herself.

When he answered her, the last thing she expected was the admittance of “I’m not pretending” she stared at him, holding her breath, expectant for his countenance to shift in an instant, for him to laugh, to speak cruelly, to admit that this had all been some game to toy with her, to embarrass her.

He did none of those things though, instead offering a question in his familiar steadfast tone, “...How long did this take?”

"A few weeks." Lynn's answer was instantaneous, her memories sharp even in her bewilderedness. She wanted to hate him; it was easier to hate. "I had to keep ripping the seams on the roadrunner and starting over. I never did get him right."

If she was younger, she might've cried frustrated tears, but Lynn had decided long ago that she wouldn't allow herself to cry in front of anyone, let alone a client.

"Is this what you do then? You try to make whores fall in love with you just for the kick of it? It's not going to work." Scoffing softly, she smiled as the self-deprecating words escaped her, "The only man I ever thought I was in love with was Pierce and look how that turned out."

[noiranamnesis]

Expectations of the positive sort were not something Rem indulged in; instead finding bleak comfort in the what-ifs of worst case scenarios. Even while trailing the steps behind her, a series of potential ‘somethings’ shuttered through his mind- most notably an ambush.

Rationality recognized this was a section of her home he had yet to survey, knowledge of his gun’s location weighing heavily. He could visualize it without much effort, stowed in his flat away from prying eyes- away from her eyes. A decision made with the intent of remaining indiscriminate as much as to mitigate her concerns.

His attention shifted to her then, silently weighing the odds. Logic dictated the answer was never zero, however he understood the tension in his body had less to do with her actions than his own history. Even so, his internal response to the possibility remained consistent: if this was a setup then so be it- the rules were quite straightforward.

The way she stepped aside was not lost on him, noting how she clutched the frame before dutifully crossing the threshold. On the other side…nothing. Or at least, no threats. Her room. Muted curiosity led him further inside, hands firmly hidden in his pockets to refrain from breaking anything, listening to her all the same. Unconsciously shifting his weight towards her when she emphasized the word ‘client’. Client. Yet he, just like her clients, also paid for her time. Remnants of their conversation after a failed attempt at intimacy were the only thing that left the answer unclear. Perhaps not.

I didn't think you'd remember. No one else ever has.

Lynn’s interior preferences were…different with a noticeably different atmosphere from what existed below. If he hadn’t known she was ‘channeling’ a starlet beforehand, his confusion would have been palpable. Instead he took his time moving through the small space, dark gaze appraising every piece adorning her walls. When she stepped past, his attention naturally shifted towards her, watching as she placed the frame on her nightstand. A beat passed without him realizing it- her voice snapping him to attention. 

I made that not long after Pierce moved me in here, I was feeling homesick.

Picking up the pillow traced the letter, hints of a smile forming when he read ‘Arizona’. “You’re from Arizona.” Less a question than a statement. Those cities should not exist. They are monuments to man’s arrogance! Memory of his colleagues' summation after visiting nearly made him chuckle. He had never been but he couldn’t say the notion of dry heat wasn’t appealing. Anything was better than humidity. 

Do I sound ridiculous? I don't know why I brought you up here, but I think you're the first person in eight years to pretend to give a damn. Does that make any sense?

Only then did Rem look at her fully. She’s nervous. “I’m not pretending.” His words were blunt, briefly distracted by the fact she had been here for eight years. Eight years playing a character he’d never even heard of. No wonder she reacted that way when I told her. “...How long did this take?” The question could have been for any of her pieces really, but the pillow was still firmly in his grasp. 

It was when they reached the top of the stairs when Lynn had her first reservations, but now with the door in front of her, with her hand on the knob, were any of those reservations warranted? Likely yes, but she pushed the door inward all the same, stepping to the side, gesturing for Rem to step ahead of her; the framed gift still in hand, now hugged to her middle.

"I don't bring people up here... well, clients, I don't bring clients up here, but clients don't call me Lynn either." A breathy sigh, more exhale than laugh, but she smiled all the same, uncertain of her hesitations, uncertain now more than ever if this was some test arranged by Patchett to test her loyalty; if it was, it was a test she'd failed long ago.

"I didn't think you'd remember. No one else ever has." Stepping further into her bedroom, she placed the frame on her nightstand, displayed in front of the assortment of mismatched succulents and other potted plants she kept there. "About the embroidery, I mean. "

Her personal taste was gaudy, as Pierce had once described it, and the word made her self-conscious now; her furniture was painted white, the walls speckled with makeshift gallery walls of various embroidery projects from over the years, mostly floral patterns, a few birds sprinkled in here and there, a stitched lizard on one wall. Her comforter was no less plain, the customized pillows accompanied by one of her earliest crafts.

"I made that not long after Pierce moved me in here," she gestured to the more clumsily designed pillow now, "I was feeling homesick."

She'd said too much, she knew she had, and the hints of embarrassment were peaking through now, her cheeks burning with a blush.

"Do I sound ridiculous? I don't know why I brought you up here, but I think you're the first person in eight years to pretend to give a damn. Does that make any sense?" A beat. "I like your tattoo. I forgot to mention that."

[noiranamnesis]

Feels awful heavy for a postcard.

Rem’s movements stilled, forgotten recollections of her mentioning a postcard reemerging. In time spent with others in his profession he had witnessed the consequence of wrongfully selected gifts- often blatant disappointment, maybe a slap or a yell, and a question of why they hadn’t gotten what they initially asked for. Had Lynn specifically asked for a postcard? His inability to remember weighed heavily, but he made no move to express it. Merely observing as she placed it down and vanished from his periphery.  

Even with his back turned he could sense her gaze, preferring not to witness her reaction to the tapestry that had once been unmarred skin. It was rare for him to allow others to see; always making sure he was properly covered in public, only daring to undress when curtains were tightly drawn. In the early days he struggled to grasp whether it was shame for his choices or calculated self preservation. From a rational perspective the former seemed acceptable while the latter was rooted in emotion. The man who seemed no different from any other was less likely to raise suspicion regardless of profession. Still, shame and regret were natural emotions, even if he dismissed them as redundant when weathering the consequences of long buried decisions. There was never any use mourning it. 

A gentle touch roused him from his thoughts, muscles tensing as her fingers traced tender skin. Inhaling evenly his gaze remained directed straight ahead, fixated on nothing in particular. Too distracted. “Only a few phrases.” To his own ear he sounded strained- gruff even. It made his jaw tense, yet he didn’t move. Talk of more space earned a short nod, but it was cut short, his body going rigid when she ghosted over his spine. She’ll step away. A thought immediately proved false when she touched his waist. He swallowed thickly, fingers twitching in restraint as her lips pressed against his skin. Against better judgment he closed his eyes, able to feel the warmth of her kiss even when she pulled away. 

All right, all right. I'm sorry.

Rem said nothing in return, making slow work of donning his clothes, save his jacket which hung on a nearby chair. His attention never strayed from her the entire time, studying everything from the way she held the frame to the shifting emotions written on her face. Not a postcard. Her smile seemed to be a good sign from what he could tell. “In New York.” When their eyes met his usual stoic expression softened ever so slightly, just around the eyes. Then she averted her gaze. She doesn’t like it. 

I love it.

Puzzled was the only word to describe his current state. Rubbing his chin he raised a brow when she looked at him again. Her question was unexpected. “Yes.” Considering it was her home he was of the mind she could show him whatever she desired.

“It went as expected. Went longer than expected.”

Lynn didn't press for details, not now that she had made it up in her mind that she was to be his confidant just as much as he was to be hers. Still, when Rem began to shrug out of his jacket, unbutton his shirt, she wondered for the first time what sort of office he worked in, what sort of office building he'd been in on the east coast - it was fun, imagining him with his beret and pencil-mustache, hugging a vacuum cleaner close to his suited form while he stood on the main floor of the New York Stock Exchange - before casting the curiosity aside. If it mattered, he'd have told her by now; she didn't need to know.

She accepted the wrapped parcel almost carelessly before remembering she'd asked him for a gift, her thoughts had been elsewhere in the hours before now, she felt clumsy, unsure of herself, all contradictions when this was the only appointment she'd been looking forward to. She had missed him, but she wasn't sure she'd ever admit that.

Her eyes followed the geometric pattern of the wrapping paper (art deco? no, maybe art nouveau. she never was good at differentiating the two), somehow it felt only right to grant Rem a sliver of privacy as he disrobed, wondering what in God's name her confidant had chosen for her gift, the corners of her mouth twitching upward into a smile, "Feels awful heavy for a postcard."

His shirt was removed now and she placed the gift on the edge of the kitchen counter near them; she'd open it in a moment. Stepping around so she faced his back, it was the first time she'd ever been allowed to see his tattoos in full; she knew he'd have a fair share, but somehow there were more than she expected. In the maze of intricate swirls and patterns and shapes, the newest one was obvious, the skin surrounding it still a light shade of pink, still healing from the intrusion of needle upon flesh, though, it was only one part of the sentence that was new: Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat. A strange tattoo, but fitting even if she didn't know what it meant.

Without permission, she reached out, applying light pressure to Rem's skin while she traced her index finger over each letter, each word in the sentence. "Didn't know you spoke Latin." She muttered quietly; remembering what he'd said before about needing room, about where the tattoos would be placed once his back was covered, she crossed the final t and shifted her touch, "You've still got room here," her fingers teasingly brushed over a patch of skin at the base of his spine, "here", a patch nearer to his waist, "here" it was a kiss she pressed this time, to a patch where his neck met his shoulder.

Suddenly, Lynn felt as if she'd intruded and offering a soft laugh, she attempted to regain control of their conversation if it could even be defined as that, "All right, all right. I'm sorry." She stepped back to the counter, reclaiming her gift and tearing at a corner of the wrapping paper.

He's framed the postcard, she assumed, but when she turned the uncovered gold frame over in her hands, she realized it wasn't a postcard at all. The surprise was evident in her expression, and the longer she observed the embroidered art, she smiled, genuinely; the foreground of the picture looked completed but when she looked at the background, the mills, the sky, the tree line, it looked like some long forgotten project. She'd mentioned embroidery, she remembered now, but she never expected him to remember.

"Where did you find it?" A rhetorical question as she cast her eyes upward to look at Rem, but when she did so, when she met his gaze, it was too much and she cast her eyes downward again, bashfully, her grin never fading.

"I love it."

And whether on giddiness or impulse or fondness, she wasn't sure yet she knew she was overwhelmed by the kindness of the gesture, by even his pretending to care; for the first time in she could hardly know how many years, she wasn't one of Pierce's girls, she wasn't Veronica Lake.

Able to look at him again, she asked, "Can I show you something?" Not offering other details, not sure how to explain without showing him first.