I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi hums low in his throat, the sound neither agreement nor disagreement, but something quieter that smooths over the space between them. He doesn't mention that there were going to be some gaps in the available footage, of course. Instead, he huffs a reluctant laugh, rolling his eyes with a glance toward Ronin that’s half-exasperated and all fond. "Everything you do is dramatic, absence or not," he says, teasing but warm.
He pretends not to notice the way Ronin sags like he’s been given permission to exhale, but of course he does. Just as he notices the flicker of pain that keeps Ronin’s hand from reaching his own neck, the hesitation before his smile, the slight tremble of uncertainty beneath it all. Remi doesn't reach back—doesn't touch—but the pull is there, tugging at his ribs like a tide.
At the mention of the bike, he glances toward the cubby and raises his eyebrows, something dry and skeptical colouring the curve of his mouth. "I very much doubt Isla would approve of you riding your motorbike on your own so soon," he says mildly. But he shrugs a second later, palms lifting; it wasn't his place to tell Ronin what to do, and now with the warning given, he felt his duty had been done.
//
The car had barely settled before Remi’s halfway out of the car, circling around to help Ronin out of the passenger side. He doesn’t make a production of it, just offers a steady hand and grabs a cart on the way in, nudging it gently toward the other man. "Something to lean on," he says lightly.
They pass the seasonal display of garden gnomes and discounted tiki torches before the store opens up in earnest, aisles stretching ahead in utilitarian grey. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a slightly too-sharp glow.
Ronin might’ve thought supplies meant groceries. But Remi? Remi is already turning down the plumbing aisle with purpose. "Salt," he murmurs, stopping in front of the big bags of coarse water softener salt stacked beside replacement filters. "And now we need..." he mumbles under his breath, already scanning ahead. Glancing around for iron, Remi heads toward the rebar, wrought-iron garden stakes, and anything else solid enough to draw blood. "Ghosts don’t like it. Can’t touch it, can’t cross it. Some won’t even come near it." It's conversationally said, and he's sure Ronin knows as much given all the different tactics that Dire Engagements has used to fight off spirits in the past.
He pretends not to notice the way Ronin sags like he’s been given permission to exhale, but of course he does. Just as he notices the flicker of pain that keeps Ronin’s hand from reaching his own neck, the hesitation before his smile, the slight tremble of uncertainty beneath it all. Remi doesn't reach back—doesn't touch—but the pull is there, tugging at his ribs like a tide.
At the mention of the bike, he glances toward the cubby and raises his eyebrows, something dry and skeptical colouring the curve of his mouth. "I very much doubt Isla would approve of you riding your motorbike on your own so soon," he says mildly. But he shrugs a second later, palms lifting; it wasn't his place to tell Ronin what to do, and now with the warning given, he felt his duty had been done.
//
The car had barely settled before Remi’s halfway out of the car, circling around to help Ronin out of the passenger side. He doesn’t make a production of it, just offers a steady hand and grabs a cart on the way in, nudging it gently toward the other man. "Something to lean on," he says lightly.
They pass the seasonal display of garden gnomes and discounted tiki torches before the store opens up in earnest, aisles stretching ahead in utilitarian grey. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in a slightly too-sharp glow.
Ronin might’ve thought supplies meant groceries. But Remi? Remi is already turning down the plumbing aisle with purpose. "Salt," he murmurs, stopping in front of the big bags of coarse water softener salt stacked beside replacement filters. "And now we need..." he mumbles under his breath, already scanning ahead. Glancing around for iron, Remi heads toward the rebar, wrought-iron garden stakes, and anything else solid enough to draw blood. "Ghosts don’t like it. Can’t touch it, can’t cross it. Some won’t even come near it." It's conversationally said, and he's sure Ronin knows as much given all the different tactics that Dire Engagements has used to fight off spirits in the past.
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
