clcmency-blog

[clcmency-blog]

@lukasabbat

[clcmency-blog]

iscldes‌:

LOCATION: tudor rose antique shop. STATUS: closed for @clcmency !

the bell jingles overhead as isolde walks through the door, purposeful strides taking her to the counter where clement sits. ‘ i hate my parents, ’ she announces the moment she’s certain that she has his attention, grabbing a stool along the way, dragging it over and collapsing onto it once she arrives at her destination. isolde’s relationship with her parents is distant at best, ever since what happened three years before, but she indulges them in the occasional brunch when she feels generous. big mistake.

her second mistake is probably venting about them to clement—she’s well aware of how he feels about them; she wouldn’t put it past him to try and get back at them somehow, and normally she’d make some attempt at damage control, but at the moment she’s angry enough at them that she doesn’t really care.

‘ so i got to the restaurant, and there’s this guy sitting with them. ’ she pauses, letting the implication hang in the air for dramatic effect before continuing, ‘ can you believe it ? they’re trying to set me up again. ’ because the last time went so well, she thinks to herself, unable to resist rolling her eyes at the thought. ‘ at least he was around my age this time—but he also put his hand on my thigh the moment i sat down, which is a serious social faux pas if you ask me, and proof that once again, my parents have terrible taste in men. anyway, halfway through lunch he tried to stick his hand between my legs and i decided fuck that so i poured my english breakfast tea right onto his crotch and dipped. ’

story concluded, isolde takes a much needed breath of air, watching clement carefully to gauge his reaction. even after so many years, she still sometimes feels like the little girl who had trailed after him constantly, wanting his approval and validation. isolde knows him well enough to expect the incoming disdain towards her parents, but there’s a part of her that hopes he’ll throw in a little nice job getting out of there as well.

This wouldn’t have been the first time Clement insisted Isolde drop her parents from her life. Nor would it have been the second, nor the seventieth, nor the thousandth. And by the looks of her face, by the tone of her voice, by the sway of her walk, it wouldn’t have been the last, would it?

Of course not.

Isolde had always harbored that very deepset feeling that people could change for her, that they would be better for their mistakes, that she could stomp the understanding into them and watch them rise from the pulp into the beings she wanted them to be. Was their friendship any different in that sense? Considering how brightly he seemed to shine in her eyes, whereas a passing glance from someone beside her would only be met with the dullest, darkest energy.

Whatever. He wasn’t complaining. When it came to him, anyway.

“Alert the papers,” comes the easy response to her first declaration, gloved hands already busy with pouring her the decaf she looked so very desperate for. Or, at least, that she would have to begrudgingly drink at his insistance. What was it, ten in the morning? His hum of sympathy was the loosest disguise he could manage for the boiling hatred in his chest, spilling over and searing through his skin with every word she spoke. Was Clement an emotional person? Not in the sense of anger, sadness, happiness. Was Clement a hateful person?

Nothing more.

“I told you not to go see them. They aren’t people worth the effort to spit towards,” he murmurs softly, his hand reaching out to tuck the loose strand of hair that framed her face, curling it back behind her ear with a soft sigh of resignation. “I’m glad you left, though. Don’t ever waste your strength on the likes of them. Or whatever sewage rat they pulled out to try and bed you.” His hand slides up to gently run through the soft strands, rubbing soothing circles against her scalp as he slowly, carefully catches her eye, allowing the slightest glint of comfort to pass through his gaze.  Despite how badly his stomach lurched at the action. “Out of curiosity,” he continues with a drop of his hand, turning his hand back towards the frozen clock on which he’d been tinkering for the past hour. “Which restaurant was it?”

[clcmency-blog]

pcllx‌:

– HER JAW DROPS SLIGHTLY, SHAKING HER HEAD. that can’t be right, because she and jacintha told each other everything, didn’t they? well, almost everything. esme had her secrets, but she’d never imagined the possibility that jay might have some too. but why? 

“no, that can’t be right,” esme shakes her head. “i would know if that was true! this is the first time we’ve ever met – if you were that serious, she would have introduced us years ago. long before you moved in together.” her voice rises in slight panic, worried that maybe he’s not lying. “she wouldn’t have any reason to hide something like that. she only recently started even talking about you…”

esme trails off, teeth dragging over her bottom lip in concern. “i’ve been to jay’s apartment. not…what are you saying?”

“Jay’s apartment?” He repeats in a tone of incredulity, his eyes flashing up against the ceiling as though cursing the cruel mockery he’d been subject to. How ridiculous was it to the fiance to hear those words said on a home he’d shared with a woman for years? A person could move into a flat with two other people for only a day and have their name in the mix when mentioned. This? This was ridiculous, wasn’t it? A joke. A stupid, stupid joke. And he was the punchline.

“Jay’s apartment. Just Jay’s. Is it the one up in Flatiron? Or am I about to find out that she had about seventeen other homes scattered across New York alone for every other stupid man who even had the slightest sliver of affection for--”

No, no. The fiance would be angry, yes, but he knew he shouldn’t talk like this. He loved Jacintha, after all, despite the drop on his head, despite the bubbling perfidy, despite, despite, despite it all--

He loved Jacintha.

So, he takes the slow sigh he needed to come down from his spike of anger, instead raising his hands to run over a face that finally let the concern creep back across, his eyes raising to meet against Esme’s and allow the utter pain shine within dark eyes, gleaming with the tears of a man caught in a whirlwind. Taking drama in high school really did help out in a pinch, didn’t it?

“..we’re engaged, Esme. We’ve been engaged for weeks, I--..”

I love her.

[clcmency-blog]

[clcmency-blog]

pcllx‌:

– ESME WATCHES AS CLEMENT’S MOOD SHIFTS, HER HEART LURCHING. something feels entirely odd about this, and it causes her to wonder about clement’s intentions. not…in a devious way, but with jacintha. did he like her? had he enjoyed their dates? had he been interested in pursuing a more serious relationship with her? there are so many questions swimming through her head, but at the heart of it all is the unfailing desire to believe in people. and the knowledge that she doesn’t want to do this alone.

fleetingly, a thought rushes through her mind – how did he know so much? those were intimate details about her life for a second date. 

“you have a really good memory,” she observes with a slight nod of her head, “but um, yeah, i checked there but not – not aspen.” perhaps his good memory could come in handy. “would you want to come with me next weekend? we could check out her apartment in the meantime. i mean, i’ve already looked, but a second set of eyes might not hurt.” esme’s knowledge of the spare key was for emergencies and this certainly felt like one. 

she knows she should take the time to comfort him, after all, he’s probably worried, but she wants to make one thing clear first – “if you don’t mind me asking, what do you think of her? i mean, after two dates, what are your intentions?”

Ah, and this is where the concerned fiance can finally let out his frustrations, directed towards the only person within the foot. Can you imagine having been told that the love of your life was missing, only for her best friend to feign ignorance about your fucking relationship? What about if her best friend continues to undermine you-- Treat you like just another fruitless suitor? Imagine having had the best two years of your life, living with a beautiful, intelligent woman who finally brought life into your deadened heart, before realising that you were never the same in her eyes? That she’d kept you a secret? That you were.. nothing more than another notch in her belt? Imagine the pain. The betrayal. Imagine the anger.

His eyes flash towards hers with an uncharacteristic scowl across his lips, his fingers wrapping against his elbows as he seems to shrink back into his coat. “Esme, what are you even talking about?” He snaps, holding that gaze despite the uncomfortable lurch in his stomach--

He wasn’t really one for eye contact anymore.

“Jacintha and I have been living together for two years. You’ve been to our apartment!”

[clcmency-blog]

nailarose‌:

Facetious. Facetious. Really? Really? What the fuck? Who the fuck did this guy think he was? 

Facetious. She doesn’t even know what the fuck that means. 

Naila’s internal annoyance is carefully completely undetectable, her expression still neutral and her gaze not even leaving the glue she has in hand. 

“It was. What reason do you have to be working here? Considering how we met, I find it hard to believe you need the money.” Naila had yet to meet and untouchable who wasn’t well to do. And she knew for a fact that Arcadia at least came from money. She had no reason to assume Clement didn’t too. Unless he was disowned. That… was a possibility. Naila tries to keep note of it for later. 

“And if this is a passion, there are more…” Naila flicks her tongue over her lips as she tries to think of a suitable word, arching her brow as she puts down the glue and finishes, “… exciting ways to indulge in hobbies like this. Ways that don’t involve standing at a desk, alone, while waiting for customers. I mean, you could give yourself a managerial position for one.” Naila pauses a second before her brows are pulling down into a furrow, her expression quickly becoming bewildered as she asks, “wait, do you even own this store? Are you… an employee?” 

It was curious, more than anything, how hard she looked for answers on something that wasn’t even altogether important. Coincidence not even a note on her mind, as shockingly veracious as it was, the eyes that met his own were filled with a misfocused suspicion, bringing a brow to cock in response. So many red flags, so many fresh dirt mounds to turn up, and she goes for--

Well, why would he complain, anyway? Boring as this form of nosiness can be, dull as her train of thought shone, it saved him the raging headache that too much poking through could cause. After all, could she have delivered him a better way to cook a red herring?

“I’ve worked here ever since I was sixteen,” Clement answers easily, his eyes never once lifting from the busy-work at his fingers. “When the owner passed, he decided to hand the store off to me. I make my own hours, my own holidays, I set the prices however high or low as I see fit, and I’m surrounded by beautiful things day in and day out. And my clientele doesn’t leave me out about four thousand dollars whenever they see me on the streets.”

With that, he pulls a paperweight from beneath the counter, extending it towards the lithe woman before him without so much as a glance up, free hand trailing gloved fingers down his list of chores with a soft hum to his lips. “Keep this atop the heel for about five minutes, the pressure will allow the glue to adhere.” Finally, he lets dark eyes flick up to meet against light, the coolness in his expression enough to chill the air between them. “You should also invest in a couple of tubes if this is a common thing, Ms. Aldridson.”

[clcmency-blog]

                                 it's always  t r o u b l e  when they go  t o o  f a r                                             

                                         NOBODY MESS WITH MY FAMILIA

@ursamajcrs

[clcmency-blog]

                                                                     in the  cathedral  of  L I G H T S                                                                 heart as  c o l d  as  I C E  

[clcmency-blog]

warrxns‌:

Family. As much as he resents his father’s side of the family as a concept, he has to concede to himself that it feels nice being acknowledged. “It sure has been a while. I honestly didn’t even realise you had your own business now; so, no, a discount wasn’t what I had in mind. I can pay for it, anyway. I’m not here to be a cheapskate, don’t worry.” 

Verdant eyes noticeably follow Clement’s gloved hands. “I’d especially appreciate some etymology texts.” Much less perceptibly, Warren is also observing the other man’s finer movements, trying to catch clues as to why so many pairs of gloves cloak his hands. 

He doesn’t rush to conclusions. This could very well be just a harmless quirk. Warren is, however, always observing other people by principle; even when he’s in relaxed mode, as he is presently.

Of course, Clement was used to the curious looks. A peek over the shoulder, a flick of the gaze, all settling upon the intricate gloves pulled snugly over delicate fingers, intrigue alighting in the eyes that raise to meet his own in question, only to meet against twin stones that merely flick away with his own disinterest. Odd, to be thankful for the lack of someone staring when one’s appearance calls for it, from someone as blatant in his regard as Warren.

A lack of question has no need for answer, after all.

His clothed touch moves gently along the dusted-bright spines of books every height and thickness, tugging one from each shelf with a soft hum. As though handling the wing of a butterfly, he handles the pages with the lightest of touches, for an antique novel could serve to crumble at the slightest of a wrong moves. Hm. Perhaps not this one. But perhaps this one. Or this one. Ah, but not this one.

Finally, when the moments of silence finally rang through to his own ears, Clement turns to face the taller man once more, pushing the books from his hand to those opposite. “Curious Antiquities,” he murmurs, a gentle tap to the cover. “Not an original, despite what I might snake around with anyone else asking. Have you read it?”

[clcmency-blog]

pcllx‌:

– ESME’S WORRY ABOUT JACINTHA ONLY HEIGHTENS AT HIS TONE. it’s not like her to disappear without a trace, maybe for some people, but she certainly wouldn’t vanish without telling esme. it seemed that really no one had heard from her at all, and that was terrifying. what jay’s family had enemies they didn’t know about? or something worse? esme’s mind was turning at all of the possibilities, most of them included a ransom and a villain with a sordid backstory.

god, she had to stop letting her imagination run away from her.

“i mean exactly what i said,” esme says, “she’s not there. she didn’t show up. they figured she got too busy with work or something, but they haven’t heard from her either…it’s all really weird, she wouldn’t miss it, it’s tradition.” she runs her fingers through her hair. at his question, tears fill the corners of her eyes. she doesn’t know how to answer that properly and she’s gone mad with worry just thinking about it. she and jay grew up together, playing pretend in their vast backyard, transitioning to shopping trips and eating lunch on the met steps. jacintha had been there for her during some of her hardest times – didn’t esme owe it to her to be there for her friend now? to make sure everything was alright?

“i don’t know,” she says quietly, “i’m worried something really bad has happened. maybe something happened and she’s just holed herself up, not wanting to talk to anyone about it. or…” she trails off, not wanting to think of other possibilities. the idea that jacintha has hidden herself of her own free will is the most comforting of thoughts. “well, i’m not going to stop looking for her.”

And there it was. Fear had set in, her mind likely running amuck with horrifying thoughts that only serve to grow darker and darker with each octave reached. His fingers clench at the top of his desk, his forehead dropping against the balls of his fists as he allows the silence to carry on between them for a moment, two moments, maybe three, broken through only by the constant tick-tick-ticking of every clock strewn up across the wall.

An appropriate amount of time for what a mini-panic-attack would look like, wasn’t it? Hold the pose for a second more, let out the longest, shakiest breath, and raise a face of a man whose entire world had been shifted up onto its head.

His hands flash behind his back to undo the knot of his apron, pulling himself free of the fabric as he makes his way from the counter. A gloved hand reaches beneath his stand to pluck out the little metal ‘C L O S E D’ sign, grasping it tight against his chest as he gestures a free hand out towards the door. “Where have you looked already?” He asks, making his way towards the front of his store with the break of worry coloring his voice, darkening his gaze. “Could she have gone to Larchmont-- Maybe she fell out with her mother, again? Larchmont was-- God, that was probably the first place you’d been. She couldn’t have gone to Aspen, not with the fumigation going on.. But it can’t hurt, right? To check? There-- There’s no room for ‘couldn’t haves’ or ‘wouldn’t haves.’ Just.. Just ‘isn’ts’.”

What a sniveling, stuttering moron. Jacintha would’ve loved crushing his spirit in between perfectly-manicured fingers, wouldn’t she?

Personally, he didn’t see the appeal.

[clcmency-blog]

nailarose‌:

Naila’s gaze flicks critically over him at the distinct lack of response, her gaze falling to the tool box he pulls out, the pliers and mallet he pulls from it and Naila ends up protectively clutching her louboutins to her chest before he’s even pulled out the glue. She flicks her gaze flicks suspiciously over him as he extends his hand for them, despite the fact that this is exactly what she asked for. 

“… thank you, but I’m fine.”  Naila says slowly, her brows furrowing slightly. Honestly, Naila wasn’t sure how to approach this. She knew the guy of course, had seen him around her friends, and spotted him at a few sanctum meetings, but she didn’t know him. Her first assumption would be that there was nothing she could possibly want from him now or in the future, at least judging by the fact that he was working front desk here. But appearances could be deceiving. So Naila arches a carefully neutral brow as she continues, voice smooth as she says, “And I notice you didn’t answer my question.”

Naila pauses a moment before she’s making her way towards the desk, bare feet silent on the carpet as she approaches before she’s bypassing his extended gloved hand (weird, Naila can’t help but think to herself) and reaching over to pick up the glue he has set aside to presumably fix her shoe, studying it with a dubious furrow of her brow. 

“Was it a serious question?” He asks aloud, allowing her to claim the tool before him without protest. His own hands move to continue their work at the jewelry rack, carefully prying the rusted chains loose with just the right amount of strength, never wrenching for fear of a shattering. Funny, how meticulous one’s usual gestures could be, how calm a demeanor, only for the world to shift on its head under pressure.

Funny, funny. But he never laughed.

His hum is soft as he lets his eyes flick up to watch her movements once more, a curious glint in his eye as it drops to the broken shoe in her grasp. Of course, Naila Arvidson must be mobbed by insane fans a handful of times in a day, an off day with only a couple beneath her belt. A photo is incomplete without a striking outfit to flaunt, of course, but one wonders if the constant repairs on expensive pieces were worth the pose in the first place. At the very least, would it hurt a reputation to have a pair of sensible shoes in an oversized purse? Those were back in, he’d read.

“I just assumed you were being facetious,” He explains, taking up the ignored mallet to gently tap a cracked gemstone from mangled ring prongs, fluidly flipping it to showcase its smoother side to polish and reapply. After all, people usually bought rings to be pretty, not intact. “Because, really, what does it look like I’m doing here?”

[clcmency-blog]

pcllx‌:

– ESME BREAKS INTO A SMILE AT HIS ENTHUSIASTIC GREETING. honestly, she’s used to being recognized much more quickly, and for different things, but his enthusiasm is still encouraging. j had a habit dating the most intolerable men, so she’d sort of expected a dead end and a deadpan stare, so this? this is much better than nothing. “well, we are pretty inseparable,” she laughs, “separating you from what?” she misses a lot, but not everything. 

esme furrows her brow, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. he’s wrong – of course he’s wrong – but shouldn’t he know that? “of course i remember, i was going to go this year,” she shakes her head, “either way, i already called and she’s not there. no offense, but i kind of prioritized asking her family above asking the guy she went on two dates with.” 

“is that really why you thought she hadn’t been calling? or,” esme leans in over the counter, eager to privy to the latest gossip, “did your last date not go so well?” she means this in the most innocent way possible, of course, not able to even fathom the worst of it. 

Delivery was key, as was in any performance. An actor’s ability to emote as though feeling the emotions for the first time, to say the practised words in a way to indicate their freshness on their lips, key elements to tie together a production worthy of a standing ovation. 

Now, say you were playing a specific part in this show-- For instance, the long-time boyfriend and fresh fiance of a woman who’d allegedly gone to see her family, only for the news be borne upon you that, evidently, such a trip hadn’t occurred. The news was delivered by the best friend of your new fiancee, a woman who couldn’t be doubted to separate romance from her personal life for fear of the eruption should the relationship end, and said best friend was fully in the delusion that you and your fiancee hadn’t done more than a couple of dates.

Which was more important a matter to tackle? The defending of a relationship that you’re supposedly so secure in? Or the fact that, according to this girl’s words, your fiancee might not have gone on that trip she’d told you about?

An actor must know the character’s priorities, after all.

“What do you mean she’s not there?” His tone is colored with his incredulity, the suspicion that was absent from his words before now bubbling to burn behind a mask of concern, of trepidation. His head lifts once more, eyes flicking to meet against Esme’s with the air between them thickening in his rage of emotions, evident with the thin press of his lips. His hands had long since stilled at their work, abrupt as in shock, with the rattling of abandoned jewelry filling the silence between them for a moment, maybe two. The way she’d leaned forward, earnestness surrounding her demeanor, it was clear the suspicion hadn’t passed into her beyond the mild worry.

Subject to change.

“Esme, where is she?”

[clcmency-blog]

warrxns‌:

“Good evening,” greeted back Warren. It was one of those rare, truly quiet nights for him. He was able, then, to humour one of his intellectual interests. Old books were among them. “Do you sell old books here?” he asked politely. His eyes were already on the roam for old books.

Upon seeing the antique shop’s owner, however, he paused. He squinted, trying to place why the other man seemed so familiar. “…Clement?” Another of Warren’s very distant cousins from the old-money Hurst side of his lineage. If he recalled correctly, “Clement” was only a surname — but the knowledge of Clem’s first name was not one Warren had been imparted. Far from his worst very-distant-cousin, but quite spoiled. He smiled at Clement. “It’s me, Warren. Remember?”

No, Clement didn’t. At least, not at first. 

It’d been over a decade since he’d even glimpsed at Warren Northrop, since their eyes’d met for more than the fleeting glance over a trove of relatives they would never be able to name. He was the family member that had many a whisper over martinis, the one that everyone either wanted to be near or far from. And Clement had toed that line from their first meeting until their last, for only an idiot would make an enemy of a person they didn’t know deserved it.

Funny, how morals can rear its head as though it was present in him the entire time.

“Been a while, hasn’t it?” Clement muses aloud, his head craning slightly to meet the other’s impossibly high eyes-- Had Warren always been that much taller than him? He pushes back in his seat and rises up to walk around the counter, gesturing for the taller to follow behind him as he traverses the carefully arranged displays. The bookshelves made up much of the furthest shop wall, ornate and cleaned carefully every other day by Clement’s hand, himself. Of course, Clement’s hand beneath about seventeen pair of gloves.

“I suppose you’ve popped in for the family discount?”

[clcmency-blog]

pcllx‌:

– “I HOPE IT’S OKAY THAT I’M DOING THIS,” she starts, never a good introduction. “but hi. i’m esme tipton,” she says, holding her hand out to shake his. something feels a little off, but she ignores her intuition, chalking it up to the energy of all the antiques in the room, things that probably belonged to people who were long dead. she didn’t like to think about that too much. “i’m good friends with jacintha,” she says. “i know you only went on a couple of dates, but i’m sure you’ve heard what’s happened by now? unless you figured she just ghosted you, which isn’t unlike her.” she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear – nervous habit – and steps closer to the counter. “anyway, it’s not that i don’t trust the police, i think they’re great,” though through her dealings with the sanctum she knows better than to trust police – she doesn’t trust them at all. “i’ve just been looking into things on my own a bit, i’m hoping i can find her before something happens. it’s not really like her to leave without saying anything to me.”

she feels like she’s rambling a bit, or she knows she is, but she hopes that she’s not running into yet another dead end. but she shouldn’t be surprised by another one, she’s been looking into old text messages and recent calls for days and nothing. she’s no veronica mars, that’s for sure. “but i was wondering, did jay say anything to you? or did you see anything? i think you were one of the last people to see her before she just…vanished.” 

And just as quickly as the anxiety of his situation gripped him, it was swapped with a flicker of interest. He would’ve expected many things out of their interaction: an air of distrust, something compromising that could’ve been missed by the Sanctum’s sweep, even a blind-sided accusation on any level of suspicion. He would’ve expected so much more than for the flicker of hope that was caught around the woman’s edges, than for the earnestness in her voice, in her words. She’d approached him unwarily, her cards in full view, and God..

They were cards in his favor.

Like a pebble against the water’s surface, his expression quickly ripples from his reservation to one of pleasant surprise. A hand extends forward in a warm gesture to shake the woman’s hand, the softest of squeezes to her fingers, as his eyes alight against hers. “Esme!” He exclaims, voice unused to the dulcet tone he immediately adopts. He’d have to make a mental note to better practise that when he got home. “Esme Tipton! God, it’s so nice to finally get the chance to meet you.” His hand gently drops hers as he readjusts the wrist of his gloves, returning to the detail work before him as he casually continues. “Cinty’s been talking my ear off about you for so long. Honestly, I’m starting to think she's just hellbent on separating me from anything in her life that--”

Now, wait a beat. Wait two beats. Wait three, as though her words are slowly starting to sink in. Lift your head, turn it back towards the woman before you--  Let your expression shift, let the confusion flash from deep within your eyes to reflect out for her to see. Now..

"An odd time to be facetious, no?” He asks, an air of amusement surrounding his words as he shakes his head at her. A hand raises to rub at his growing smile, a knowing smile, a smile that was obviously so used to ‘Cinty’s’ humor that so clearly had rubbed off on her friends. 

Oh, Cinty.

“Cinty is just visiting family abroad, like she does every year. Y’know, for her grandmother’s birthday? The both of you went together last year, remember?”

[clcmency-blog]

nailarose‌:

In all honesty, Naila enjoyed fame. After all, fame meant constant attention, and adoration, and praise, all things that Naila enjoyed and needed, truly, to properly function. Fame offered all that and more, so really Naila tended to see very few drawbacks to it, but even she had to admit, getting mobbed, while flattering, was not her favorite thing. 

And getting separated from her security in the midst of said mob really was very, very low on her list of the advantages of fame. 

And breaking a heel while escaping said mob? Dead fucking last. 

Naila rushes into the antique shop in a breathless barefoot rush, slamming the door firmly behind her and going as far as to lock it before she’s backing away from it, glancing through the glass with a razor sharp gaze in an attempt to make sure no stray fan followed her. Honestly, Naila knew she was in no danger from a crowd of over enthusiastic mob but, god, her outfit was. 

If she hadn’t had left when she did her poor red bottoms might have only been the first causality. 

Speaking of, Naila pulls the heels out from where she has the clutched under her arm, examining the broken heel with a tight sigh as she viciously whispers a curse. Naila purses her lips for a moment in an attempt to calm down, knowing that she was in public and not quite wanting to expose her irritation in front of some random stranger. So instead, at the sound of the store owner’s greeting Naila turns around with a, “you wouldn’t happen to have any shoe glue would–” Her words die on her tongue the moment she recognizes him, her eyes narrowing for a moment as a pregnant silence accompanies her pause, “… you. what are you doing here?” 

Fate was an asinine concept.  Coincidence was bullshit. But even Clement, the most cynical of all things even suggesting something to do with destiny, had to admit his surprise when kismet swept into the room, barefoot and cursing.

Cool eyes are slow to flicker over the disheveled appearance of Naila Arvidson, the image reminiscent to a bird with rumpled feathers as it turned to squawk at him in indignation. Her words rang out to break the silent air, to break the quiet trance that had held him tight by the throat, as his eyes rise back up to meet against a pair disapproving of what they saw.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns..

Gloved hands carefully lower towards the steel toolbox at his feet, a staple in his line of work when dealing with so many bits of so many pieces falling, smashing, breaking with their age. A click of the top to swing it open, and he’s extracting the pliers, the mallet, the thin tube of glue, all without once breaking his own silence. For, really, it would be rude to answer the second of her questions when he was still working on answering the first, wasn’t it? Another gaze lifts to meet against her own as he extends his fingers towards her, a slow gesture towards the pump in her own.

“Was your ankle injured?” He asks, the low timbre of his voice too soft to be heard in any place outside of this room. “You can sit down anywhere you’d like.”

[clcmency-blog]

pcllx‌:

– IT’S IMMEDIATELY CLEAR SHE DOESN’T FIT IN. it’s a curious place, filled with old, expensive things, fashioned before she was even born. it smells old too, and her shiny black kitten heels tap on the floor in sharp juxtaposition. she’s not here to shop, that much is instantly clear. the sound of someone’s voice only makes her jump slightly before she breaks into a wide smile. “hi!” she greets, hitching her purse over her shoulder. “are you, um…you’re clement, right?” esme inquires, walking towards the counter. “i was hoping i could ask you about something. or maybe you could help me.”

Shit.

Anticipating Esme Tipton at some point or another did little to ready him of the very moment she’d walk into his life. Despite his certainty of her ignorance, despite his assurance in his own safety, that face stood too close to the wound, too close to the blood, to close to the heart of when the world grew greyscale with only the crimson at his fingers the only color left. Anticipating her arrival was nothing compared to the realisation of her presence, the smack back to the moment when everything went wrong.

“You’re joking, right? Ambrose, come on, get off the ground, you’re embarrassing us! Come on-- You’re joking! Right? Right?” Right.

The rigidness in his eyes held for only a moment before he was able to school his features into an expression of coolness, of curiosity-- Certainly, he was only surprised to be addressed by name. For he had no idea who this woman was. Not a clue.

Right? Right.

“Guilty,” he murmurs, soft and careful as he lifts his eyes to meet against hers, as he allows his head to tilt in a practiced, questioning gesture. “What can I help you with, Miss?”

[clcmency-blog]

venicepng‌:

a lunch break — that’s all it took for venice to find this antique shop she had never seen before. that same afternoon, she promised herself she would go there after work. maybe this was the perfect place where she could find what she had been looking for, for ages. a heavy sigh escaped her strawberry colored lips as she finally left her office — the sky was dark. while it usually persuaded women in skirts and heels from wandering around, venice was still set on going to that shop. her black stilettos clicked against the ground as she finally entered the empty space. “hi,” she smile as she approached the employee. “can you help me? i would like to know if you sell old jewelry.”

She was looking for something.

The antique shop saw many come and go within its carefully arranged displays, all befitting the same two images: one of an aesthetic-seeking, honey-drawling, crunchy visage, and the other of powdery perfumes, wistful gazes and a desire to be within the eyes of someone after so many years alone. Two very specific images, not once had he met someone who’d strayed--

Those who looked like her had purpose for entering a place like his own, the intrigue of which flickered within his otherwise cool gaze.

Gloved hands are careful as they move to lift the jewelry display from beneath the glass case he’d use as a counter, placing it between them without jostling a single piece from its place. The pieces before him weren’t anything special; a few wedding rings here, limp lockets there, the standard mix of what could fool an old widow into thinking was her own decades and decades ago.

Couldn’t be that easy, could it?

“..you strike me more of a pearl type,” he murmurs, his fingers lifting a string of the stones up to glitter against the light of the lamp. “But, if you don’t mind my saying, that isn’t what you’re searching for. Is it?”