Pierre Laroche

Pierre Gerault Laroche - 57 years old - Businessman & Investor - Leader of the Syndicate

[rippedstitch-s]

“White would be fantastic.” He’s always going for red. Maybe something a bit sweeter tonight.

As Pierre leans back, Asa sits at the kitchen island and leans into tattooed arms, forward. He can’t help a tiny smile at that question. “No. Didn’t know him.” He feels like he does now though. “He was a man on the bus. Stole his ID. Benjamin Andropolis.”

The name is one of the millions of faces in the crowd. Some random stranger you bump into on the bus. The grump who gets irritable at some kind older woman. Harasses and beleaguers those around him.

He takes out a pocket sized notebook. Inside is meticulously written details. He doesn’t read off it- instead he pushes it to Pierre to peruse. “Benjamin worked at a marketing firm in Brooklyn. Recently moved from New Jersey after a nasty divorce. Hadn’t even fully moved in. Worked 9-5 with a commute time of about 20 minutes.” He tilts his head in thought for a moment.

“Lived alone. By around 10 every night, he would be in bed. After watching a late night talk show.” All from watching him, for days. Being in the right places… and his mania somehow helped obsess over knowing when was the right time to strike. “A solitary life, I think.” He takes the glass as he’s handed it. “Bad knee, too. Took forever walking up stairs.” His eyes catch Pierre’s above the rim of the glass and he finally sips.

What do you think? Are you proud? Did I do well?

[pierre-laroche]

"No?" perching himself up on a stool, Pierre looked at Asa, conjuring him to keep going. And he does, even providing paperwork. While the other speaks, Pierre flicks through the pages. It's neat, organized, specific about the details. Thorough. So why did he start talking to his friend about them?

He'll get there, eventually. He has to. But for now he listens, and he can't deny feeling rather impressed by what he sees and hears.

The french man takes a sip of wine and sighs. Nothing quite like a piece of home to feel nice.

"Why him?" He presses. Why not someone else, anyone else? What made Asa pick him?

Pierre could imagine a few reasons. Nasty divorce, isolated from family, lived alone. It would take a bit before people noticed he was gone. The employer might even think the man was just unreliable and never report him missing. Still, he waits for the other's answer.

[rippedstitch-s]

It’s still a wonder that he’s here. Part of him is still wondering if the other shoe will drop. Maybe there’s some elegant kitchen knife with his name on it, sitting just beyond the foyer.

He’s still confused why he’d deserve that - but he’s stopped asking why. it doesn’t matter what he thinks. He’s been made aware of that again and again.

But here he feels invigorated. Pierre’s encouraged him, and that gives some shred of twisted hope. He follows inside and nods quickly. “Wine sounds lovely, honestly.” No stuttering or shyness as he feels a calm settle over him.

He’s done exactly what Pierre had suggested after all. So what is there to fear? “Thank you. For the talk, the other day.” He takes a deep breath and feels the tightness of the newer scar on his chest as he does so. “I can tell you anything you’d like to know about the man I killed. His schedule, his habits. Hell, what kind of shoes he wears.”

That same look stays in his eyes. Wild pride and freedom from the cage. Doing as he’s asked, doing it well. He has Pierre to thank for that.

[pierre-laroche]

"White or red?" He waited for the other to answer before he opened a bottle pouring out two glasses that he had set down on the kitchen isle.

The other thanked him. Pierre paused his train of thoughts to think about it. His visit had not been a very pleasant one but the Frenchman's idea of discipline was quite simple : there are rules, you follow them. If you don't, then you'll be sanctioned in a fitting way. The other talked a bit too much? Pierre would like to see him try to do the same with his hands permanently stained with blood or dirty money. Corrupt beyond saving, but faithful to the Syndicate.

"Was he someone you knew?" Pierre unbuttoned his cuffs, folding and rolling his sleeve up as if to prevent wrinkles. Leaning against the cool granite countertop, he looked at Asa with expecting eyes. "Well go on, what was he like, that man?"

The other really looked different from the last time he'd seen him, he stood a bit taller (as tall as he could be). Now, all Pierre could do was harness that.

[rippedstitch-s]

( @pierre-laroche )

The adrenaline rush of kill number 4 still sits comfortably in his stomach, and Asa's been thinking back on it almost fondly. Something he'd done after he'd gotten advice from Pierre.

Get your hands a bit more dirty.

With that blessing, he'd done it. Thrown himself into a new conquest - a murder he spent all his time pursuing and figuring out. Asa's never clumsy when it comes to his kills - well, not since his father. He waits, and watches. He writes down times and habits. One could call it manic, the attention to detail that he burns away after the deed is done. And only when he knows their day-to-day, their workout schedule, their job and car license plate... Benjamin Andropolis is effectively murdered. Poor man's body is turned into an experimental canvas as Asa gets the hang of his knife, and figures out the slices he prefers. The things he likes. What he might want to keep.

And now he's going to learn to cook. With Pierre. He carries a bag with a few things, and wears something nice - dark shirt with short sleeves, some tapered trousers. He's tried to clean up his hair, smell nice. He wants to look more put together than he did last time. But there's that excitable look in his eye. The shine of a feral animal that's been given a taste of freedom. He knocks, and waits. Smiles when the door opens. "Thank you for inviting me."

[pierre-laroche]

He supposes he should have seen that one coming. Pierre knew what happened to Asa's father, just like he knew that fire was a forensic nightmare. No evidence, except for perhaps, the content of one's stomach, revealing an approximate time of death but not much else. He'd seen people get caught on their lies with this, get arrested. But not him.

And so he had done it again. Pierre knew the other would have been very careful this time around, with Lee and Sam breathing down his neck and Pierre watching him like a cat would a mouse.

The Frenchman who couldn't stand wearing shoes indoor was not about to change that when he had guests coming over. It was his place, after all. Not his main residence (Asa wasn't someone he trusted with that), but something that shared the same decor, safe for a few unique art pieces that you could find in one place at a time.

When he opens the door, the look on the other's face comes as a surprise. He knows that look, he's seen it before on many of his people. Pierre doesn't smile, but his lips seem to curl up for a brief moment. Then he turns and leads the way. "Would you like something to drink. It's the right time for either coffee, tea or wine, or even a Pastis, though he's found Americans hated the thing.

[rippedstitch-s]

sam-caine:

hotshotxtheus:

Saint-Valentine’s meme

Send a ‘ღ’ and my character will rate yours on the following:

Sexual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Romantic attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Aesthetic attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Sensual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Emotional attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme Intellectual attraction: none | very low | low | medium | high | very high | extreme

/////// ❤ \ ❤ /////// ❤ \ ❤ /////// ❤ \

Sexual attraction: attraction that makes people desire sexual contact or shows sexual interest in another person(s). Romantic attraction: attraction that makes people desire romantic contact or interaction with another person or persons. Aesthetic attraction: occurs when someone appreciates the appearance or beauty of another person(s), disconnected from sexual or romantic attraction. Sensual attraction: the desire to interact with others in a tactile, non-sexual way, such as through hugging or cuddling. Emotional attraction: the desire to get to know someone, often as a result of their personality instead of their physicality. This type of attraction is present in most relationships from platonic friendships to romantic and sexual relationships. Intellectual attraction: the desire to engage with another in an intellectual manner, such as engaging in conversation with them, “picking their brain,” and it has more to do with what or how a person thinks instead of the person themselves.

@danielle-m

@asaxholland @gus-amado @val–dupont​ @orionboyd​

[rippedstitch-s]

ASA // VAL  // OZ // GUS // ASH

[pierre-laroche]

@javier-huerta @hieronymus-montgomery @ira-langley

[rippedstitch-s]

Ah. And there, the glimmer grows. Eyes shine like struck coal as Pierre tells him to get his hands dirtier. It's an invitation that almost feels like a blessing, from someone in such high standing as Pierre.

He should contain himself, but he can't. Asa moves forward - eye contact comes back in full force, perhaps even more unnerving from the excitement. Hands clasp Pierre's over his coffee-cup. A show of gratitude, as his slightly colder ones, inked and one ripped apart by glass and sewn back together again, rest atop Pierre's.

"Yes. Thank you. That... is something I'd be happy to do." And maybe the screaming subsides for a moment in favor of a rush of adrenaline. Just as soon as he's thanking him, he's shifting back onto the sofa. Tucking legs leisurely up and under himself, his old shirt only a bit tousled.

A different man than ten minutes prior. The smile on his face seems hopeful. "I have biscuits, if you'd like."

[pierre-laroche]

Could he have struck bullseye just like that ? Pierre only stiffens briefly when the other lunges forward like so. Hands come over his and he places his free hand above, as if to voice silent approval. It rests there, doesn't pull him away, doesn't move.

His eyes are still fixed on the shorter man, studying every single little movement he makes, not out of worry but of interest. It's like watching a feline walk around their enclosure, although Pierre realize he might have just opened the gate for him to crawl out. "You do understand that if you get caught, if you mess up..." You keep your fucking mouth shut, he keeps the end to himself. The syndicate is like a web, his members many spiders, getting into every place, to destroy evidence or to feed on those caught in it. "I'm fine." He finally glances away, at his watch. "You're my little mouse now. I know you can destroy many things on your own, but..." Pierre's a much larger cat, and he could so easily eat him whole. "Don't get cocky. We'll be watching you."

[rippedstitch-s]

He watches him. Much like some nocturnal creature, whose eyes might turn to saucers of light when hit with the right beam in the dark. Asa is unsettlingly still. The tiniest part of him, the part that mania has claimed as its kin, wants to scream. It's a sudden thought. The idea of dropping his coffee cup, of squeezing fists together. Of shrieking out bloody murder.

Because frustration doesn't like to contain itself within his vessel any more. It longs to rip him at the seams, to grab purchase on the nearest being. This is not his fault. If he's to be punished for making up a lie, then look at every bloody criminal in this city! But it all, somehow, remains inside. Deflates into somewhere he can control it.

"...Then I'll do better than capable." Asa knows what he needs to say. The words to unlock the next piece, the next conversation. But he has no clue what a medic can do to go above and beyond. He's on call, after all. He comes when they need to be sewn up. A bone pushed back into place.

"Irreplaceable." He repeats the word back. How does one convince others of that when he can scarcely convince himself? "Of course. It'd be nice... to be irreplaceable." It would be. To be wanted beyond a shadow of a doubt. He only looks down at his coffee when it feels like he's allowed to. The long to scream remains.

[pierre-laroche]

"Get your hands a bit more dirty," he invites. Cause tending to people's wounds without asking questions, that's barely illegal, isn't it? That's what you expect from a tired doctor. Asa can do better. Pierre knows he's done so much worse. He's surprised the other is satisfied with his condition. Maybe he's not. People act up when they don't feel satisfied. They gossip, they cheat, they betray.

The man pressed his lips into a thin line. He doesn't say anything about that, though he'll suggest Lee and Sam to find him a few things for him to do that are properly incriminating. A win win. Asa might feel better about himself then, and the Syndicate can collect evidence on the matter to hold like a Damocles sword over his head, if need be.

If Pierre's right, Asa won't even need to be threatened into loyalty. Hand, cat, life, prison.

[rippedstitch-s]

Asa tries to even out his breathing. His conversations with Pierre have always been friendly. But... then again, he hasn't been in trouble before. Whether or not Asa did anything wrong. It doesn't matter. None of that matters, he has to remind himself. If Sam says he's guilty, then he's guilty. And that's that.

Lee's voice rings in his head.

'Crime syndicates don't normally offer fair trials.'

"Because... clearly I've screwed something up." He murmurs, softly. Sniffs and fumbles with his hands in his lap - the fingers of his left trace the scar on his right, almost subconsciously. "And I'm not... I've been..." Eyes blacker than night turn away briefly, and blink rapidly. Then back to Pierre. Trying to even himself out into something understandable. "...I know... I'm not in good standing right now." His voice is a harsh whisper, almost broken.

Wouldn't that be the worst punishment? Killed in his flat, surrounded by the only things that bring him comfort, and Lee wasn't even the one to do it? Lee's beautiful mania not even the culprit, or those gorgeous hands that work their way around his flesh like some artist or sculptor. He can't die here. "Pierre." Asa's brows set in concentration. He says: "If there's... anything I can do... I only want to... to prove that I'm capable and..." Devoted.

[pierre-laroche]

"You did." He won't deny anything the other tells him, not when he's clearly gotten him right where he wants him to be.

He doesn't even need to tell him he's gonna need to make up for it. Good boy. "You would not be working for us if you weren't capable Asa," his gaze settles on the Irish man, locks with his brown eyes as if to dare him to look away again. Pierre is patient, but he's tired of watching Asa look at anything but his interlocutor. "You're gonna need to do better than that. You're capable, but are you someone we really want to work with anymore?" He doesn't throw threats around, he doesn't tell him what the consequences can be. A hand cut off, a cat drowned before his eyes, death. It's better if the other imagines the worse. Pierre smiles, for the first time since he arrived. It's not inviting. It's not kind.

"Like I said, you're good at what you do. Convince me you're irreplaceable."

[pierre-laroche]

[anaismurad]

Both intellectuals with an artful mind, it isn't hard to place and find meaning in the smallest of actions. Even there where his hand found a place on top of hers, and Anaïs's laid flat over his heart.

Pierre's gaze is felt in the way it streamlines right by her shoulder and out into the opposite end of the party. A brief lapse in attention, which only becomes an excuse for her to place a single finger under Pierre's chin and quip, "When I want a man, I want all of him," through a quote from one of the many movies they had watched or re-watched together. This one, Hitchcock.

(The way she wraps, is with a bright-eyed wink.)

Anaïs does still look to where his blindspot couldn't, past Pierre and to the opposite side of the room. Looking for threats. There, a crowd starts to gather — and at first, it isn't obvious why. The countdown screen soon comes into view.

Nothing menacing, it turns out. Just citizens ringing in the New Year. "Do you want to go out there?" She asks. Into the masses, and into the mess. "Or is it more comfortable here?"

They do have champagne.

[pierre-laroche]

"Oh, I'm not exactly on the other side of the room," he quips back. How many times have they watched this movie together.

Her visit had given them an excuse to skip off to Dinard, if only for the remarkable sea food, this near English ambiance, or that statue of Hitchcock he knew she'd appreciate.

He notices the movement toward the large windows, and takes a look over his shoulder, before he checks on his watch. It's not that he doesn't trust the countdown, but rather that he's lost track of time, once again, chatting with her.

And she proves yet again what a dangerous woman she can be. His hand doesn't return to his side, this time. Instead he covers the hand she keeps on his chest with his own, pushing his fingers through hers. "There's nothing I would desire less," to meddle with the crowd meant necessarily a certain amount of distance that was becoming harder to bear each day that went.

Of course, he's familiar with that midnight superstition even if no one's really aware of it, back home. New Year's eve is just an excuse for french people to meet friends, or family and party the night away. That reminds him of another evening they had spent together, his parents dragging them to their neighborhood party. He couldn't recall doing something so mundane in so long. Anaïs had no problem fitting in. You'd have thought she had lived around here for a while. The thought made him smile, and his gaze crossed hers again. People began chanting aloud those damned numbers, but Pierre didn't have the patience to wait til they arrived to midnight to lean in and put his hand onto her waist, closing the distance between her lips and his. It wasn't the most conventional things, but people were too busy staring at a timer, of all things, to pay them much a thought, surely.

[rippedstitch-s]

Back and forth- Asa isn't sure if he should stand or sit or get biscuits out or... but Pierre's responses get shorter, and he swallows thickly as the man asks him another question. Well. Repeats the one from before.

His brows furrow, his eyes water. He blinks that away as quickly as he can. Because the way he asks is pointed. Asa knows what he wants to hear. Carefully, the man sinks himself into the sofa across from his boss. The hot coffee in his own hands is good for warming his poor hands, but. He's almost shaking and he's afraid the drink will burn. So it's set down in front of him.

"My year... has been full of ups and downs." Asa finally says, trying to weigh what to say and what not to. It does no good to mention his closeness with Lee. "I've- it's been." Words seem to die on his tongue as he shifts through to find the right ones. "Isolating. Confusing. Scary." His fingers play with his sleeve- old ink on both hands, though his right's tattoos are stuttered and stunted from long paling scars.

He's silent and finally, black eyes settle on Pierre. He's been trying to avoid eye contact but he can't any more. "...Are you going to have Lee kill me? Or... are you going to have... someone kill me?" He finally asks. His voice breaks before he can help it but he's somehow able to swallow it back down.

[pierre-laroche]

"Scary?" Pierre takes a sip, eyebrows raised. He doesn't say more than that, and just watches Asa, waiting for an answer. He's not the most talkative man in a professional setting, unfortunately, but he is patience. It makes up for it. His eyes are trained on the medic, observing him closely.

It's not that Pierre is concerned the other will try something. He knows his time will come, one day.

Pierre runs his thumb along the edge of his index, pressing the nail against soft flesh until it's uncomfortable, his other hand holds the cup, lifts it to his lips. "I'm here." His brows furrow as if to add I don't need Lee or someone. Sure enough, he hasn't gotten his hands dirty in a bit, not like that, but... "Why do you think this is why I'm here, my dear ?"

[pierre-laroche]

He feels the tremor. He doesn't comment on it, leaving it to her to guess whether he's aware of it or not.

The Frenchman isn't known for smiling often, and it's not bound to change now. For what? The illusion of comfort? She's sturdier than ever, he will not insult her like that.

His grey gaze travels across her face. He doesn't know her well enough to notice visible changes and her skills as a forger seem to serve while doing her makeup. "Not kind," he rarely is. Kindness is a swift way to conquer weak hearts. He doesn't care for it. It can do easily be faked. "It's an observation," there wouldn't be a person tonight who could deny it. "I agree. We have an expression in French for it." Se mettre sur son 31. "To put on your 31, it means looking your best," in reference to new year's ever which was apparently the best of times to do that.

[audrasmythe]

Instead of protesting, she nods as he speaks. There had been no particular expectation for this conversation beforehand, no real idea that this conversation was even going to occur, but it's going well. She thinks it is. She only ever really feels this nervous around Pierre or Sam, but it's gradually settling. It's not what she expected. That in itself is unsettling.

He may not be a smiler, but her close-mouthed, bowed head smile is her default setting, and when she speaks it comes out in full glory. "Se mettre sur son 31." After English, it's the language she's most confident in, her mother being born and raised in France. Most of the other tongues she's picked up are at least a little stilted, but this she speaks fluently. "Thank you, nonetheless. It seems we're both dressed to enter the new year correctly."

[pierre-laroche]

"Tiens donc," the french man smiles. Well, well, well. He shouldn't have been so surprised. She was a bright woman. Her forgeries were remarkable and she was a strong asset. It would have been a shame to see her work for someone else.

"How have you been doing?" He's aware that she hasn't had the most pleasant of times since his departure, but he didn't believe it would have changed her like that. He remembered once reading that the more violent the initiation ritual to enter a cult is, the more likely its members were going to remain forever loyal to their cause. Now, he doesn't consider his criminal enterprise to be a cult, but the logic would apply in any other context.

"Shall I offer you a glass of wine?" He tilts his head. "That might make catching up more bearable, don't you agree?"

[rippedstitch-s]

There's a warm, welcoming smell of coffee and Asa isn't sure if the adrenaline pumping in his ears is coming straight from the very scent of liquid caffeine, or his heart palpitations. Probably the latter. Maybe both.

He gets mugs out - beautiful clay, handmade from some artisan he's purveyed in the past. Asa's blinking away fatigue, trying to fix messy dark hair. He looks terrible no matter how you swing it. Scars and paler skin and just a tiny bit more gaunt.

By yourself. "Yes." Thalia's talked about moving in to take care of him, but he's not sure if that's even on the table any more after how often they seem to argue and go back and forth. "Thank you, I think?" He chuckles sheepishly. Nervous, but. Trying to be friendly, to be normal. He brings over a cup, and sets a small plate with some sugar and creamer and spoons on the coffee table, pushing some crumpled papers away.

A few streaky charcoal drawings are propped up on boards near his messy drafting table. Faces with no eyes, long-limbed figures. Red paint leftover from his painting for Lee, sitting on a dappled palette. "New Years was... yes, um. It was good." Was it? He's still unsure. "Good to get out a bit. Did you enjoy it?"

[pierre-laroche]

Pierre's gaze is still trained on the charcoal sketches, eyeless faces and elongated bodies. No one lived with him, it was just Asa, his five cats, and those disturbing drawings, tortured, devoid of eyesight, of vision. He wasn't a psychiatrist. He left this much to Anaïs. He wondered however, if Asa was seeing someone. Americans really were fond of therapies but not as much as French folks were of chugging down antidepressants.

Good? It seemed like the other could use the break. Pierre picked up his mug from the table, and awarded Asa a look. Once again, Asa asked him questions. Pierre was too polite to ignore it, but gave nothing more than a curt "Yes," as a response.

"Now, allow me to ask again," a pause. "How was your year?" Because he had been told a few things about Asa, he had heard Sam's worries, and Pierre, who didn't know the medic all that well, wanted to make sure that a proper response had been given to his wrong doings. He didn't seem entirely serene, which wasn't proof of anything, but still rather telling.

[pierre-laroche]

"Asa, how are you doing?" That's something he likes and detests about Americans. They're awfully polite. Asa, however, like him, and a few other syndicates members, is from the old continent. Geography has nothing to do with keeping him on edge, but one must be aware of cultural habits.

You wouldn't catch a French person dead pretending to be polite when they don't mean to be. No wonder people think them pretentious and unfriendly.

"Oh that's alright." He takes quiet note of that. No need to sit down then.

The first thing he does is draw the curtains, unprompted. He's not a fan of being perceived or seen. It's safer this way.

"This is quite cozy," he expected abundance, colors. The decor isn't precisely a surprise. Pierre makes no comment regarding Asa's appearance, for now. "Coffee would be excellent, please." He glances at the cats, bathing in the sun and doesn't draw that curtain instead choosing to stand in unexposed parts of the flat.

[rippedstitch-s]

He's skirting his own home, not sure what exactly he should be doing. Is this... a test? No doubt Pierre's been told about him, if he's here. Out of the blue. The sinking feeling in his gut continues. The ringing in his ears like the sound of an old fluorescent light. The one you'd find in a hospital hallway. In an examination room. In a morgue.

He'd have told me. He would've told me if I was in danger.

"I'm... just fine, um. Had a bit to drink at New Years, so. Relaxing, a bit." And the curtains are drawn before Asa can say anything about it. That gets a few of the cats glancing up. Lockwood shifts and stretches, walks off from the noise of curtain rings sliding on the rod. Starla stretches on her spot curled up on the sofa.

Coffee. Right. He can make coffee. Asa rolls up his sleeves. "Yes. Of course." The kitchen is another deep and warm color. Some art on the walls, little bits and bobs tucked into corners and spots. Asa gets a pot started. "What...brings you to my neck of the woods, exactly?" He finally asks, wringing his hands as he walks into the living room again. "Oh- feel free to sit, please..." There's an armchair untouched by any cats, plus one side of the sofa still warm from where Asa had been curled up with his pad of paper.

[pierre-laroche]

Pierre smiles to himself, his finger running along bookshelves, tracing the spines of colorful books. The other is already asking him questions, and Pierre isn't willing to give him a satisfying response to those just yet.

He squats down by one of the cats. His coat drapes the floor beside him, but he doesn't mind it. The little thing purrs the moment he scratches under its neck. He likes cats, but he doesn't want to keep an animal trapped in his home. Go figure. Something about being stuck in a cell for years.

Standing up again, the gang leader scans around the room. It's busy, like a headache. His gaze finds an armchair that doesn't seem very loved. He runs his hand over the seat before he decides to sit on it, hand reaching over for that paper pad. You could hardly call Pierre an artist. His only carvings had been made in people's flesh, either to send a message or as an effort to learn more about one of their dirtiest activities.

"You live here by yourself," it's a statement. See, even he can hold the questions in. "It's quite bohemian," a comment. Pierre leans back. "Would you say you had a good time on New Year's Eve? You must have been rather eager to kiss 2023 goodbye." A question, and an affirmation. Pierre's eyes are trained on the kitchen. He waits.

[anaismurad]

Anaïs smiles, considering an answer which he already knows is coming. "Encourage."

Kissing discretion goodbye, as Pierre himself had suggested they do. A new year slows its way in, though they remain the very same... more or less. Pierre sinks back into his seat, and Anaïs's hand runs free against the white fabric of his suit.

(There's nothing to fix, only to smooth over.)

She remembers France, and meeting his parents there. Anaïs had put her best French forward, speaking in local dialect and following along every joke.

It'd been strange, at first, to present herself in front of people who had no idea who she was. Just Anaïs, not a Murad.

She'd like to think her success is what justifies her closeness to their son now, despite all differences in upbringing. Come goodbyes, his father had hugged her in a way Anaïs would never forget.

"It would be," she agrees, fingers running under his lapel. "There's a lot of choices that would have changed tonight. Your past—" All those alluded changes. "My present." Anaïs not turning away, once the truth of his empire came into play. The Syndicate and all else. "...Yet the future is still up in the air."

[pierre-laroche]

"Encourage," the answer, though expected, brings out a smile from him. It's hardly anything like a politician's or an anchorman's, only meant for her bright, beautiful eyes.

He leans against the arm rest, his hand barely moving as hers approaches, lifting up to lay atop slender fingers, keeping it in place where he found it belonged quite well.

They never really did anything that seemed too determining, but the domesticity between the pair had them relentlessly put a hand on one's shoulder to keep one's balance, graze the other's back to signify they were passing right by, drawing circles on the other's calf when sharing a drink by the sea, back in France.

Small touches, most of them imperceptible, each of them with a meaning.

Like all things between these two.

"There is no future without now," the Frenchman turns toward her. From over her shoulder, he can spot a few familiar faces, there must be a few other right behind him too, and he knows too well that feeling safe is never great news, but that's how she makes him feel. Safe.

[rippedstitch-s]

Asa is yet again squirreled away in his home. The usual circumstances for a man who's been afraid of his own shadow. Every move feels like a step towards a perilous cliff and all he can do is stay inside. He's on call, of course - though he hasn't been much help with his hand healing. Thankfully most of the injuries have been his own. And now, Lee.

There's a knock and it startles him from where he's sitting listlessly with some Netflix reality show on and a sketchbook in his lap - though nothing's been drawn, and his eyes have been focusing and unfocusing on the screen for the past hour. Cats startle a bit, and he pads to the door. The face he sees behind the door is enough to cause a jolt of terror through his entire body. He's never had a negative experience with Pierre - but that was before he was thrown under the bus. More like a train, at this point. "Pierre!" He tries to swallow the nerves. It's fine. Lee would've told him... Lee would've said something. He trusts him. He trusts him.

"What a... surprise, I... I didn't know you were... come in! Sorry, the cats-" Thankfully they're not circling. A few have looked up, but most are in a sunny spot in the eclectic little flat. Not eager for movement.

He's dressed in some old work-shirt with paint and charcoal on it, old jeans that he's rolled the cuffs up on. Messy hair, a scar on his chest, on his wrist down to his fingers. And he looks a bit wired. "Can I make you... tea? Coffee?"

[pierre-laroche]

"Asa, how are you doing?" That's something he likes and detests about Americans. They're awfully polite. Asa, however, like him, and a few other syndicates members, is from the old continent. Geography has nothing to do with keeping him on edge, but one must be aware of cultural habits.

You wouldn't catch a French person dead pretending to be polite when they don't mean to be. No wonder people think them pretentious and unfriendly.

"Oh that's alright." He takes quiet note of that. No need to sit down then.

The first thing he does is draw the curtains, unprompted. He's not a fan of being perceived or seen. It's safer this way.

"This is quite cozy," he expected abundance, colors. The decor isn't precisely a surprise. Pierre makes no comment regarding Asa's appearance, for now. "Coffee would be excellent, please." He glances at the cats, bathing in the sun and doesn't draw that curtain instead choosing to stand in unexposed parts of the flat.

[pierre-laroche]

@rippedstitch-s

He takes the stairs. Not that he has an issue with elevators, but Pierre never loses an opportunity to stretch his legs. He crosses path with a neighbor in the hallway, they comment on his accent as he says good morning to them.

He hates when people show up unannounced.

Maybe that's why he takes a moment before knocking on Asa Holland's door. They haven't had time to chat since he returned and yet he had heard about him. It's only fair of him to check on his medic.

[anaismurad]

Anaïs hadn't look at it that way, not yet. It'd always seemed like she was the one learning from him, perhaps an assumption made on age and experience, a position of power that was different and darker than her own.

Yet looking back at their every conversation, she supposes he's right. It was always a back and forth, a push and pull of the most complex reveries. Never a lecture, or echo chamber.

I've been obsessed with psychosis lately, she remembers poking him with on a late night — turquoise eyes find the blue as though she's reciting an old age poem. Neither of us are psychotic, but we do often find ourselves around it, don't we?

Perhaps that is the very environment they find themselves in now. Still, they thrive.

I won't advise you against doing anything you set your mind to. Wise answer, from a wise man. She follows the path of his gaze, then mirrors it on his own features. "I can set my mind to some pretty conspicuous things."

"Well, once I claimed that I would stop drinking. Of course, I then realized that I'd said it when I was drunk — so it didn't count." She laughs and picks up the champagne flute again, thus naturally illustrating how that idea never came to be.

Anaïs shakes her head then, ready to circle back to the root of the question — weaving room for a sort of honesty that exists only here, in that space between them. "I don't think I ever tried to better myself. It's what those promises are for, aren't they?" Anaïs sets the flute down again. Finds his gaze again. "What about you?"

[pierre-laroche]

"Would you like me to stop or encourage your most conspicuous decisions?" It seems their eyes are trained to act like a reflection in the mirror, symmetrically, always looking at the same thing.

A small smile tugs at his lips and he raises his flute to them, amusement apparent as she confesses to being completely unable to give up on the most socially correct poison. He's thankful for that, if only because he enjoys having someone like herself to share his thoughts on the many vins de garde of his wine cellar. His thoughts, and a glass or two.

This is where they differ however. Pierre's early life had been all about ascending, leaving the working class to better his condition. He doesn't resent her for having a different upbringing. Their differences are as important as their similarities, complementary. He has never resented anyone for the things they had no power over, after all, would he have found her as irresistible had she been any different?

"While I've never waited for the new year to make changes, I think I would not be sitting here if I had gone with the flow," he sets the glass down on the table and leans against the back of their seat. "That would be rather regrettable."