#m: rem vilein

[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]

@retrograderesemblance & @tyliocellier

Pierrot le Fou (1965)

[noiranamnesis]

La fratrie Vilein: A Timeline

Below is a timeline of the Vilein siblings—Marinette, Françoise, and Rem—covering the years up until all three have completed high school.

Note: This timeline will be updated as I finish fleshing out the biographies of Françoise and Rem.

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Marinette Élise Sidonie Beauséjour is born 6 September to Amélie Honoré Thérèse Beauséjour & Burton Vilein in Conques, France

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Marinette turns 1 in September

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Marinette turns 2 in September

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Marinette begins Petite section (PS) & turns 3 in September

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Marinette begins Moyenne section (MS) & turns 4 in September

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Marinette begins Grande section (GS) & turns 5 in September

Françoise Isidora Séraphine Beauséjour is born 25 October to Amélie Honoré Thérèse Beauséjour & Burton Vilein in Conques, France

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Rem Vilein is born 8 May to Emma Marije Vilein & Burton Vilein in New York, NY, USA

Marinette begins Cours préparatoire (CP) & turns 6 in September

Françoise turns 1 in October

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Rem turns 1 in May

Marinette begins Cours élémentaire 1 (CE1) & turns 7 in September

Françoise turns 2 in October

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Rem turns 2 in May

Marinette begins Cours élémentaire 2 (CE2) & turns 8 in September

Françoise begins Petite section (PS) in September & turns 3 in October

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Rem turns 3 in May & begins PreK-3 in September

Marinette begins Cours moyen 1 (CM1) & turns 9 in September

Françoise begins Moyenne section (MS) in September & turns 4 in October

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Rem turns 4 in May & begins PreK-4 in September

Marinette begins Cours moyen 2 (CM2) & turns 10 in September

Françoise begins Grande section (GS) in September & turns 5 in October

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Rem turns 5 in May & begins Kindergarten in September

Marinette begins Sixième & turns 11 in September

Françoise begins Cours préparatoire (CP) in September & turns 6 in October

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Rem turns 6 in May & begins 1st grade in September

Marinette begins Cinquième & turns 12 in September

Françoise begins Cours élémentaire 1 (CE1) in September & turns 7 in October

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Rem turns 7 in May & begins 2nd grade in September

Marinette begins Quatrième & turns 13 in September

Françoise begins Cours élémentaire 2 (CE2) in September & turns 8 in October

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Rem turns 8 in May & begins 3rd grade in September

Marinette begins Troisième & turns 14 in September

Françoise begins Cours moyen 1 (CM1) in September & turns 9 in October

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Rem turns 9 in May & begins 4th grade in September

Marinette begins Seconde & turns 15 in September

Françoise begins Cours moyen 2 (CM2) in September & turns 10 in October

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Rem turns 10 in May & begins 5th grade in September

Amélie Honoré Thérèse Beauséjour passes away on 5 July (†)

Marinette & Françoise move to New York, NY to live with Burton, Emma, and Rem

Marinette begins 11th grade & turns 16 in September

Françoise begins 6th grade in September & turns 11 in October

Emma Marije Vilein falls ill

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Rem turns 11 in May & begins 6th grade in September

Marinette begins 12th grade & turns 17 in September

Françoise begins 7th grade in September & turns 12 in October

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Emma Marije Vilein passes away on 29 March (†)

Burton Vilein disappears with the children's inheritances

Rem turns 12 in May & begins 7th grade in September

Marinette becomes the primary caretaker of her siblings & turns 18 in September

Françoise begins 8th grade in September & turns 13 in October

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Rem turns 13 in May & begins 8th grade in September

Marinette turns 19 in September

Françoise begins 9th grade in September & turns 14 in October

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Rem turns 14 in May & begins 9th grade in September

Marinette turns 20 in September

Françoise begins 10th grade in September & turns 15 in October

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Rem turns 15 in May & begins 10th grade in September

Marinette turns 21 in September

Françoise begins 11th grade in September & turns 16 in October

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Rem turns 16 in May & begins 11th grade in September

Marinette turns 22 in September

Françoise begins 12th grade in September & turns 17 in October

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Rem turns 17 in May & begins 12th grade in September

Marinette turns 23 in September

Françoise turns 18 in October

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Rem turns 18 in May

Marinette turns 24 in September

Françoise turns 19 in October

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Rem turns 19 in May

Marinette turns 25 in September

Françoise turns 20 in October

[noiranamnesis]

tagged by: @retrograderesemblance

tagging: @scinglives, @gctawaygirl, @cursedvessels, @ofginjxints, and anyone else I missed!

[noiranamnesis]

♟ :A close call to being killed yourself // for any of your muses to answer!

“I was inexperienced. I didn’t take the proper measures.” A beat. “Blindsided and took three shots from my periphery. Left to bleed out and considered neutralized.” The corner of his lips twitched, memories playing out before his eyes. “In order to live I had to act.” His gaze never once wavers. “So I did.”

[noiranamnesis]

Marinette’s fingers, resting lightly on her brother's shoulder, tensed ever so slightly. Their eyes met in a brief sideways glance, an unspoken exchange passing between them. “It’s certainly an interesting skill.” Her smile was soft as she tapped him once on the head, though her gaze grew thoughtful.

“I broke up a fight.” Rem clarified dryly. Between the Marinette and Adra, he wasn’t sure which was the lesser evil. Marinette, partially informed, was less likely to push for less savory answers. Adra, unfamiliar and temporary, wasn’t a fixture he would need to entertain for long- despite her uncanny abilities tonight.

“Hm.” Marinette hummed, offering no further comment. Instead, she raised her brows encouragingly at Adra, then turned to leave. “Congratulations on winning the bet.” With a wave, she disappeared behind the partition, leaving the former classmates to enjoy their meal.

Rem’s attention shifted to his plate, estimating another fifteen minutes to finish. Across from him, Adra’s plate seemed almost insignificant in comparison. Despite the distance, he could feel Marinette's curiosity drilling into the side of his skull. He knew he'd be hearing about this incident for weeks- possibly months.

Taking a slow sip of coffee, he let the bitterness settle before breaking the silence. "They said you’re a teacher now.”

The sound wouldn't be an issue. For someone who spent years reading people's body language as part of her job, Adra couldn't read Rem. It was absolutely frustrating and at the same time a different kind of challenge. And the brunette knew it was just her hedonistic need to break that barrier. Her gaze flicked again to the abrasions on his knuckles. Those were the same ones she saw earlier just now - definitely wasn't caused by the fight he broke up at the reunion.

At the sight and smell of the croissant and coffee, Adra rubbed her palms together, suddenly hungry. "Merci beaucoup, Marinette." Shooting a grateful smile at the other woman, Adra didn't pay attention to Rem's deflective tone. Whether he liked it or not, she was going to enjoy her treats in front of him. Unless he actually tells her to get lost out loud. She took a bite of the croissant and an inevitable moan left her. "Délicieux. Tu m'impressionnes toujours avec tes gâteaux, Marinette. I don't think I need anything else, merci."

"Oui, I was," Adra replied to Marinette, smiling when she tapped her brother's arm. "I kinda won the bet some idiots had placed earlier, when he left earlier." She didn't mean to put him down in front of his sister but more of a mindless small talk since Rem's sister looked as if she was interested to know how did the reunion go. Her gaze flicked back to Rem and Adra pumped her brows at him as if to say, 'What?' Not that he'd show any semblance of concern. "He was showing off his fighting skills to everyone in the gymnasium. Très impressionnant. Ne savait pas qu'il pouvait se battre comme ça."

[noiranamnesis]

Return From Hiatus

Hello! After going on an unplanned hiatus (apologies), I can finally say I'm back!

I've managed to get through a few replies today, but since it's been so long I wanted to make sure those who I owe starters/replies to are still interested or whether they prefer to retire the thread (no harm either way).

If you would like me to move ahead with the below threads, let me know and I will start on those. If not, let me know and I will retire the thread. Thank you!

@byronlc: 1

Zach MacLaren (closed starter)

@protectmypeople: 1

Bellamy Blake & Rem Vilein (reply)

[noiranamnesis]

At mention of property, his jaw twitched, a crease forming between his brows with no immediate answer. Merely listening to piece fragments of their woes into a concise summation: trafficking. "Is this the first time you've gotten away?" He spoke flatly, a usual bout of silence dragging before he abruptly added, "You need to change your appearance. Cut your hair. New clothes. A fake name." His attention shifted to them then. “Prepare to defend yourself." Dull ticking of his watch served as a reminder of how long remained until check out. A series of questions littering his mind, none of which were appropriate nor his business.

Rem exhaled sharply through his nose, standing to full height, providing distance between them and the bed. He rarely pondered how others saw him; often able to discern apprehension in his colleagues, yet when faced with their reality he could only view his presence as off putting- triggering. In an instant he was on edge, that familiar itch for a cigarette already rearing its head, a desire to quell damning thoughts. I'm not cut for this...I will only upset them further...It's time to move on to the next motel...

In the end he propped open the door, cool air easing a bit of the tension weighing on his shoulders. Not one to waste time, he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, letting it rest between his fingers. With a quick flick of his thumb he lit a match, cupping a hand to shield against the breeze. The first inhale was enough to make him sigh, a glance cast in their direction before she sat on the floor, exhaling the smoke outside. "How long have you been gone?"

He sounds so plain, almost like he couldn't care any less about what secrets they might be carrying. They weren't sure if that was something by which they could be comforted or of which they should be fearful. Still, they look on him without judgement despite the cold, unfeeling response he'd given them. At least he didn't seem totally put off by their sudden outburst. He wasn't warm, by any means, but he also wasn't brushing them off, which they appreciated to some extent.

A huff of a sigh leaves them as they look up at him again, trembling hands fiddling in their lap nervously, picking at the skin around their nails. Their deep blue eyes narrow at him a little in thought. "You might think me mad," they say plainly. Another sniffle as they swipe away the salty tears from their damp cheeks.

"Maybe I am mad..." they mumble, staring down at their hands for a moment more of contemplation. "There's a man looking for me," they say finally, trying to keep some of the more sensitive the details to themselves for their own protection.

"He believes I am his property. But he stole me away...Took me from my..." A small whimper, tears welling in their eyes again. A shaky inhale. "My home. Keeps me in a cage. I shouldn't be here...He'll find me...When he finds me, he--" Their breath hitches. "Well, I suppose there's little worse he could do to me...but I d- don't want to go back to that- that- that...place." Another sob chokes at the back of their throat and they lift a delicate, shaking hand to cover their mouth--embarrassed again.

"I'm sorry."

[noiranamnesis]

Rem stayed silent, indifferent to idle platitudes. Success or failure didn't weigh on his mind. For now, they moved as if success was determined. If it wasn't, he would adjust- or accept the consequences. He pushed open the emergency exit door, descending the stairs, taking note of the few figures they passed. At this hour, the streets were mostly empty, but the ones still out were all the more distinct for it.

"When were you in this region last" His voice was low, measured, as they cut through backstreets. "Who was the employer? What was the assignment?" Though the route seemed aimless, every turn was deliberate, leading a set destination.

he gives a small nod of his head. he feels the weight of failure around his neck. dragging him down. he swallows harshly, looking at him for a moment before he looks away. he hopes that this whole mess could just blow over. he was good at making messes, everyone was always telling him that much.

"we'll make up for it." he says, determined now. would anyone believe he even knew what determination felt like? there's a part of him that simply wants to prove to him that he could do it. just to say that someone somewhere was wrong about him.

[noiranamnesis]

Controlled, even breaths tapered residual adrenaline, dark gaze unwavering from his target. Bellamy. An unfamiliar name in spite of a recognizable face- vague memories of past encounters briefly coming to mind. It wasn't in his nature to fraternize unnecessarily, opting to instead observe until he served his purpose. The two instances where he recalled Bellamy were no different: the first when he accepted a hit from a higher up and the second when he confirmed the hit was complete. Two months ago.

Further violence huh? You did just break my nose.

In lieu of a response, calloused fingers procured a cigarette from inside his jacket, a matchbox not far behind. With every shift of his hand a dull ache pulsed up his wrists, a sensation ignored in favor of lighting a match. The crunch of reset bone went unacknowledged, Rem merely taking a long drag to further lull the pain of fresh bruises marring his skin.

If this is about the drop off, that wasn't my fault- plus I don't even know where they are.

"My client is not interested." Rem dismissed lackluster excuses. "He gives three options. Take me to your boss-" Bring his death, "retrieve the shipment-" Delay his end, "or take your boss' place." Explanations were clipped, shortened versions of what he was told forty hours prior. The notion of offering a mark a choice was foreign, but he had no intention to argue. In the future, however, he would require more details before taking an assignment. "You have two minutes to decide."

"I would prefer to avoid any further violence, and encourage a moment of consideration." via Rem

Blood slipped down his nose, palm pressed against the flow as his gaze refocused on the dark haired man before him. Dizzy. Broken nose most likely, given the way pain was beginning to radiate across his skull. At least he had landed a few punches himself. Out of breath, knuckles bruised, perhaps consideration may be an avenue worth taking. "Further violence huh? You did just break my nose." He mumbled out, both hands coming forward to the bridge of his nose, feeling lightly along the skin until he found the point of breakage. 3.2. Snap. Back in place, hot white pain erupted across his face, and he groaned as his fingers gripped the table to ground himself in reality. Eyes refocusing, he glared over at the other, willing himself to remain composed in the face of whoever this was. Familiar. "If this is about the drop off, that wasn't my fault- plus I don't even know where they are." The guns are in a personal storage unit.

[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?"

[noiranamnesis]

His gaze tracked her movements- the careful wiping of her hands, the practiced curve of her smile. Anxious. Two scenarios presented themselves: she had parsed something in his words or recalled a detail relevant to her employer’s interest. Inhaling steadily, he began a systematic mental inventory: wallet- downstairs, keys- jacket pocket, payment- on the counter. Every interaction followed a pattern, and there was always a time limit. Years of observation had formed the sequence- familiarity led to comfort, and comfort inevitably gave way to failure. Or paranoia.

What did you have to eat?

“Crepes.” He replied, rising to his feet. The familiar ache for a cigarette had tightened into a dull pressure, his jaw clenching reflexively. It was time to step outside, to put distance between himself and the sanctity of her room. Downstairs he could redirect his focus. Observe the night’s subtle movements. Let repetitive sounds of scurrying creatures ground his thoughts into order.

You pay to stay the night.

You don’t want me to spend the night. There was no need to say it aloud; politeness demanded restraint. He never referenced her profession directly- an intentional tactic designed to keep the discomfort of his own involvement at arm’s length. Whether he slept with her or not was irrelevant- once he touched her, he was as culpable as the rest.

With measured precision, he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt. His gaze briefly settling on the gift he’d brought her, cataloging its details—a mental snapshot.

Do you want to go out?

Yes. To the patio.

I want to go out. Not outside on the back patio. Out.

Rem’s hands halted their movements. I don’t have permission to take you out until the next visit. But he knew she was aware. Straightening, he closed the distance between, each step measured, deliberate. Dark eyes never faltering from hers, searching for any hint of subtext. With a foot between them he stopped.

“Do you want to come back?”

"A liquidator. When a company is insolvent, I end its affairs."

She inadvertently focused on the liquid part of the word, each additional thought appearing soupy, with watery edges in her mind; at the same time, her romanticized thought of Rem in a van overstuffed with used and new vacuum cleaners melted away, and she was forced to look at him for the first time with graspable definitions.

Paling, she felt as if she'd asked too much -- she was afraid to know more. Lynn had decided she wouldn't share their topics of conversations, yet she could almost picture how the debriefing would go if their past appointments had differed, if she was still nosing for information for Patchett.

What was Pierce doing trying to blackmail a liquidator? It had to be Cohen related but it felt t.reasonous to think as much.

I don't want to know, she told herself, repeating the statement over again in her head.

She was struggling to acclimate to how much of herself she'd bared before him tonight; she wasn't sure if she could stomach him baring more of himself... wiping her freshly sweaty palms on the fabric of her thighs, she offered a close-lipped smile, more to reassure herself.

"I had dinner before I arrived."

She blinked, the abruptness of the statement unexpected. Memories reminded her that he typically ate after their meetings and unsure what answer he expected for his change in schedule, she blurted dumbly,

"What did you have to eat?"

And then he said it: "I will leave at my usual time," and Lynn's world felt no different than liquid, melting away.

She didn't want him to go.

Perhaps it was foolish, senseless, but since their last meeting, since their odd string of admissions, of lent trust to one another... she'd felt like a child with a new toy on Christmas morning; it was the same level of unadulterated giddiness, the kind that made it difficult to keep a smile at bay.

She found herself parroting past statements, "You pay to spend the night," but what sort of enticement was that? He hadn't wanted to sleep with Veronica Lake, so why did that make her any different? Did she even want to sleep with him? -- whatever they'd done on the couch was long forgotten, an outlier, at least in her mind -- It was a question she hadn't the privilege of asking for so long... she would do it, but did she want to? She wasn't even sure she was capable of differentiating anymore.

A breathy laugh, "I feel like a bad hostess. All I can think to ask is, do you like board games?" She smiled before even that sentiment faded from her expression.

What she offered next was against all her better judgement,

"Do you want to go out?" I don't think Pierce would find out... but she didn't say that last part. She'd make him not find out, and even if he did... well she didn't want to think of that; all these worries, these what ifs were making her head ache. "I want to go out. Not outside on the back patio. Out."

[noiranamnesis]

You’re laughing at me.

No. His expression flattened, remnants of fleeting amusement leveled behind a mask of indifference. No more than myself.

You make me do all the talking during these things. You make me lose my train of thought.

Such sentiments had marked different stages of his life, dating to adolescence- how his silence unsettled, how his presence unnerved, devoid of social cues others relied on. Yet overseas, amidst gunfire and devastation, these traits became an asset- one exploited until there was no panic, no hesitation- only calculated precision. But this detachment came at a cost: years spent in Europe long after the war ended. Traits previously condemned had become cemented, and with it, a strange kind of acceptance. Able to recognize those who were truly bothered by him- frightened even- and those at ease. In most cases.

Lynn's tone was different from the men he was used to. It wasn't burdened by striking discomfort; it was light, accompanied by a smile- one aimed directly at him.

One day you’ll find someone who either doesn’t mind your quirks or makes you want to tweak them. A sentiment long dismissed despite its intended positivity. But now, as he observed her sink into the mattress, tension slipping away, the thought lingered. Unrealistic.

Okay then, since you're paying to see me tonight, should we consider this our first date?

His brows rose imperceptibly, dark gaze snapping to her at the word date. Initial conclusions deemed it humor, whether due to the confines of their arrangement or because he was…well, himself. He put the cigarette back in its holder, his expression remaining neutral as she pressed on.

Are you a lawyer?

No. Too much travel. Too little explanation.

A doctor?

No bedside manner. Feasible if the tattoos were military.

A businessman?

Safe. Simple.

He paused. "A liquidator. When a company is insolvent, I end its affairs." An explanation adopted years ago- overheard on a subway platform in New York, tucked away for future use. It was an answer that left little room for further questions, unlike his usual response, Analyst, which most people followed up with, What kind? The answer was always: finance. And the conversation ended there. The notion of a liquidator felt more honest, a step closer to the truth without revealing the violence beneath, leaving details vague. But why change the answer at all? Why offer even a grain of truth to someone whose employer was already digging into his private life?

"I had dinner before I arrived." He spoke abruptly, an attempt to fill silence. It was an admission, though not one he planned. Earlier in the week, he'd learned his usual café was shortening its hours, so he'd eaten earlier than usual. The change was minor, but eliminated the need for his typical departure time. "I will leave at my usual time."

"Why don't you think I'll love you?" She wanted to badly to ask him, to acknowledge every strange string of muttered comments he made, but she held her tongue; even after all that had been said, that had been done between them, there was a part of her frightening of scaring him off.

Lynn bit hard on the inside of her cheek to keep her smile at bay, fighting the urge to laugh when Rem sat at her sewing table, his demeanor stiff, wary, almost acting as if he was actively trying to avoid a minefield. She wondered if this was how the pitch started each time; his appearing almost regrettably at someone's door, apologizing for intruding before rattling off the array of vacuums in the catalogue...

The cigarette appeared in his hand and she swallowed, knowing it wasn't such a bad idea; it was funny, she hadn't craved a cigarette in years, when whenever Rem produced one from his coat, he did it so fluidly, she was always left with a feeling of disappointment she couldn't silently request that he share one with her.

“…You like me…You want to see me outside of this…You think I should go to someone off the street.”

She grinned, completing the smile that he wouldn't. "You're laughing at me," but her tone was airy, "Can you blame me? You make me do all the talking during these things. I lose my train of thought."

Settling more comfortably on the edge of her mattress, each additional word that formed into being made her feel a giddiness; everything about tonight was in complete contradiction to her work, to her contract, to her years of unwavering loyalty to Patchett, and she was glad for it.

"Okay then, since you're paying to see me tonight, should we consider this our first date? It's funny, I hardly know a thing about you... You don't have to go into specifics, but can you at least tell me what you do for work? I don't mean where, I mean what. Are you a lawyer? A doctor? A businessman?" A vacuum cleaner salesman?

[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."