@uruvarn
When he walks into the building, key out to check is mail, he notices that there’s someone sitting with Evelyn in her office -- the office as a window next to the mail boxes, and he can see the back of the visitor’s head through it. Black hair. No one he recognizes immediately, but he’s glad someone is sitting and talking to Evelyn. She gets lonely, he’s pretty sure.
(Remy... does not think about how he’s lonely. About how, maybe, he’s imagining Evelyn to be lonely as a good excuse for him to talk to her so much. He very, very carefully doesn’t think about any of that.)
When he catches sight of Evelyn, halfway to the mailboxes, she looks like she’s not actually enjoying the company very much at all. She lights up when he makes eye contact with her, though, and waves for Remy to come around through the office door and join her and her guest. “Oh, Remy!” she says. “Your friend Laura came by. I wasn’t sure if you’d want me to let her into your place, so we’ve just been having a good cup of tea and some of those cookies Nina made. Come around!”
Remy doesn’t know one damn person named Laura. There was a flight attendant named Lara once who he’d had a good deal of fun with, but she wouldn’t even know his real name, let alone how to find him here. Whoever this lady is, she’s definitely not a friend of his, in other words -- but he abandons his plan to check his mail and heads for the door to the little office anyway, which is around the corner. He definitely doesn’t want Evelyn alone in a room with someone who’s claiming to know him and doesn’t, after all.
“Y’know...” he says as he steps through the propped-open door to the office and gets his first look at ‘Laura,’ who’s Japanese and young. Younger than he expected. Not one of the students from Xavier’s, though, or at least not one who was there when he last darkened that doorstep. “... I definitely ain’t got any friends named Laura. Who the hell are you?”
Remy himself, in this moment, is 26 and missing his signature trench coat because of the summer heat. His hair is gathered in a stubby ponytail to keep it off his neck, although the front half of his hair wasn’t quite long enough to gather. He’s got a bag dangling from one hand from a hardware store; through the translucent bag you might see (or smell) graphite-based lube, a container of WD-40, and sandpaper. He’s wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and boots that probably cost less put together than any other single item of clothing Laura has ever seen her version of Remy Lebeau wearing. In his pockets he’s got his wallet, his keys, and the ever-present deck of cards. And he’s thin -- not as noticeable as it once was, especially since he never lost much muscle, but there none the less, like a lingering sickness. A sign that something isn’t right.
