honeysnared

[honeysnared]

her mouth curves into a humorless smile at his declaration that this will cost her. of course it will. she expected nothing less. people like him don't do favors — they do business. some part of her can respect that, even if respect isn't exactly at the forefront of her mind at the current moment. "send the invoice," she says dryly, "i'll make sure accounting flags it under professional regret." tatiana doesn't move as he approaches the body, just watches, watches the way he crouches, clinical and unbothered, like it's just another tuesday night and not the kind of mess that could crater a career if handled incorrectly. when he glances back at her, makes that quip — you don't strike me as the short-fused type — she exhales through her nose, something between a scoff and a breath she doesn't trust herself to release fully. "i'm not." she unfolds her arms, steps a little closer, just enough to lower her voice without needing to soften it. "he wasn't a target. but he was a liability. talked too much, clearly to the wrong people. maybe he got brave. or stupid. or both." a beat as she gives the body the grace of observing it for a last time. "he didn't realize the room he was in had teeth." her gaze flicks briefly toward the door, then back to him. "i take it you don't require more details to complete the job?" she quirks a brow, almost as if she means to challenge his capabilities, though the look fades within a split second. she's in no position to risk him walking out on her. especially not now that he's already seen entirely too much. "just make sure no one finds his name on anything that traces back to us." a pause. then, tone dry and cool as ever, she adds, "who knows, maybe i'll even join the likes of people who warmly recommend your services. not that i'd hold my breath for it if i were you."

"I can do it — But it'll cost you." It's said with a touch of regret, as if he really, really doesn't want to charge her. He does.

He could snort in response to the mental image the director paints, however. A family dinner, an open-table discussion... As if the Del Bosques are just so close — not only him, the obvious misfit, but the nuclear members amongst themselves, too. Not even they can be described as chummy... Something out of Monarosa's fantasies, no doubt.

But it scares Tatiana that he might tell, so Teodósio lets the possibility dangle in the air between them. She doesn't have the luxury of choice in her present predicament... Like it or not, she'll have to trust him. "I'll be sure to pass on the warm regards." It's the only response he makes before strolling over to the body to look down at it.

"Well?..." There's a short, sharp silence that follows his prompt. He can feel the irritation coming off Tatiana in droves. It hardly stops him from continuing. "... What did he do to piss you off?" He drops into a crouch, inspecting it as if it's merely a tagged specimen from some lab. Judging by the fixed, abnormal tension to the skin, the man has been dead a couple hours already. Rigor mortis is starting to set in.

Teodósio spares her a backwards glance. "You don't strike me as the short-fused type."

[honeysnared]

tatiana exhales slowly, a breath that isn't quite a sigh. she studies her cousin's face for a moment longer, like she's cataloguing something unspoken — not pressing, just taking note. she's always been good at reading between the lines. maybe too good. but she lets the promise slide without testing its strength. she knows better than to tug on threads people aren't ready to unravel. "if i have to make a toast, i'm making it dramatic," she says, voice dry and eyes sharp, as though she might be joking... or not. "embarrassingly so. i'm talking grand metaphors, a touch of existential dread, maybe a tragic backstory thrown in for flair. i haven't had the right opportunity to craft a speech of that sort in far too long." she lets that land with the faintest twitch of a smirk, joining in on the bit to make the air between them feel just a little lighter.

"i won't, i promise." it was a genuine promise, but not one that she would be able to keep. there would always be a meek, little girl inside of her that was terrified of showing too much of herself. she couldn't hide it, but she could hide pieces of it. she could hide her disappointment when she felt it wasn't justified (always). she could hide her anger when it felt out of place (always). she could hide her despair when she knew everyone else would prefer not to see it (always). she couldn't hide how that eventually worked its way out, but most often she didn't need to. she channeled much into her work. if not art, then into all her other hobbies. "and i'll keep that in mind. for when you have to buy me my drink that is. you have to make a toast, too." a joke, a diffusion of tension. she didn't want to be mad at tatiana and she didn't want to be mad at herself. she knew that of everyone in the world, she had more than a fair shot at happiness—it just seemed so difficult to reach. so, so difficult.

[honeysnared]

tatiana's expression shifts — not dramatically but enough. a tilt of the head, a slow blink that says she heard that. really heard it. and she stews on it for a moment. "then don't start now. not on my account anyway," she says after a beat. not sharp, not even directive — more like an offering. like permission, maybe. she'd like to think she's not softening as much as she's allowing the topic to settle. she'd had a long day. perhaps angelica did too. what was the point in arguing with family about matters this trivial, really? "faking it might get you through the door but it won't keep anyone in the room if you can't sell it. i suppose if the work is honest, that's a point in itself, isn't it?" there's a pause and then a small, rare upward tug at the corner of her mouth. "besides, i don't need you to be a yes-woman either. just someone who doesn't spiral if i say the lighting was bad in act two." another pause and then, a little wryer, scratching the surface of an attempt at teasing or as close to it as tatiana can land, "if this next one has an identifiable beginning, middle and end, i might even take you out for a drink after"

angelica's shoulders relaxed in the wake of her cousin's softening demeanor. she didn't want to fight with anyone in her family, but much like rome, all roads seemed to lead there—right toward an argument. she'd gotten used to the idea that she was something of a black sheep, a curve among bold straight lines. that didn't mean she found it any easier to deal with. it was in moments like this, where tatiana ( or her brother, or father, or anyone ) were less disdainful of her pastimes, where she found them most bearable. although she felt guilty for thinking of it that way. what kind of loved one was she, to rank how tolerable her family could be? she was lucky. she didn't have any intention of losing sight of that. someone else in her position would have long since given up on their dreams, their passion, all the pieces of them that didn't conform to the conventional narrative—she was allowed to keep going purely because of that luck. she just wished she wasn't constantly, constantly, reminded of that... but if van gogh could survive it, she could too. "i don't want you to think i don't like hearing your feedback, either. i'm not looking for yes-woman, i promise. i really do think you'll like this next one better. it follows more conventional storytelling. i'm doing a little less of... well, doing away with the rules." she smiled, but it was still a little shaky. "i guess that's part of my problem. i've never been able to fake much of anything."

[honeysnared]

"you know you're not actually supposed to enjoy being a liability, right?" she murmurs, only half under her breath. she doesn't look at him, eyes trained forward as the trailers roll, but there's a distinct pinch at the corner of her mouth that betrays the beginnings of what could possibly be a faint sign of amusement. just the smallest tic — easily missed if you weren't paying attention. unfortunately, lucky just might be and thus she quickly schools her expression back into neutrality as not to enoucrage him. then comes the groan. she glances at him this time, side-eye sharp. "you're seriously critiquing the plot of a film you haven't even seen yet?" before he can double down, she leans in just a touch, voice lower now. "sometimes, the couple not ending up together is the point." her gaze lingers on the screen, the flicker of light dancing across her features. "not everything has to work out to mean something. there's a certain appeal and beauty to that kind of realism." a beat passes. her fingers steal a few kernels of popcorn like it means nothing, like she hasn't just silently accepted the offering and — by extension — his presence. it's as good of a gesture to signal that she's not planning on leaving as he's going to get. "besides, the soundtrack's good." she plops the popcorn into her mouth, resisting the urge to wipe her fingers on the fabric of her pants. "now, try to use your indoor voice for the duration of the movie, will you? that'll be the real test of your character."

He likes that the first thing she says is: He's with me. One word separates Lucky and Tatiana Du Bois, a simple joining word that connects two worlds. Not for, not under. With. She might say it like it cost her something and would bill him later, but it makes him feel mighty important all the same. His chest puffs; he throws a look at the couple like he's suddenly inherited the deed to the building. "That's right," he says. "I'm with her."

As she continues, his smile only widens, shining as bright as the screen behind them. Tatiana acts like he's an inconvenience, but he figures a woman like her doesn't put up with anything she doesn't want. So, at her gesture, he all but lunges into the seat like it's a space personally carved out for him on her front porch.

"Shhh!!!" Absurdly loud, outrageously theatrical. "We're at a cinema, Tatiana, jeez." Then, he cracks a boyish grin, hoping it will soften her look that's all cheekbones and exhaustion. He plonks the half-empty box of popcorn onto the armrest between them -- a peace offering. Kind of. "But, y'know, that doesn't sound too bad. You, me, our first scandal."

The title screen flares across their faces, washed-out blue and dying gold. Lucky scrunches his face and groans. "Ugh, really?" A quick glance at her. "This one is so dumb. Like, why do they make movies when the couple don't end up together? It's stupid, it sucks, and it's a fucking bummer."

[honeysnared]

a muscle feathers in her jaw — the only visible reaction she gives him, though her posture sharpens with every step he takes. cornered might be the word others would land on but really she looks more like a knife held against a whetstone. still. poised. deadly when pushed. "i solve problems," she replies coolly, gaze steady, "i don't usually invite them into the room." it's not just the body behind her that reeks. it's the entire situation. the name she'd been given had been nondescript. a contact-of-a-contact. discreet, capable, neutral. useful. what she hadn't been told was that it would be him. a del bosque by blood and now the one person who'd seen the scene she was hoping to bury. her eyes flick once — not to the body but past him. clocking exits, options, only to realize she didn't like the lack of them. finally, she exhales slowly through her nose. "tell me you can handle this quickly. cleanly. without it becoming a conversation piece at your next family dinner." a pause. then, dry as dust, "and before you ask — the only company i'd be enjoying less than yours right now, would be more of your family members."

As far as the woman knows, he's late.

What Tatiana Du Bois doesn't know, is that he had tracked her approach, and spent the last ten minutes out of sight outside the warehouse, weighing the risks and benefits of taking her on as a client. The mutual contact had hinted the nature of the job, but not the identity of the one hiring him, and Teodósio was not a man who enjoyed surprises.

Of all the Du Bois members, however, he hadn't expected it to be this one who might have need of his services. Tatiana Du Bois, PR director extraordinaire... Another puff and he crushes the cigarette under his heel, curiosity finally getting the better of him.

It may not be a low-level, poor-postured grunt that walks in to meet her, but neither is it some hulking, intimidating thug. It's the pin straight silhouette of a man, somber and lean, outfitted unremarkably, yet in fabrics cut exactly to his measurements.

'You've got to be fucking kidding me.'

A smile whips over his mouth, there and gone, but Teodósio's stride remains even and unhurried as he approaches her, making almost no sound. He doesn't spare a glance at the corpse, as if he hasn't noticed it, but in reality, he has next to no interest in it when Miss Du Bois is in front of him like a beautiful, cornered animal; fur standing on edge.

"Is that so?... And here I thought problems were your area of expertise."

[honeysnared]

⋆ ⁺ ₊ 𓄼 for @tjdelbosque. TIME & DATE: flashback to a while ago...

the warehouse is quiet with the kind of silence that feels thick with tension. the kind that hangs like smoke after a fire. like something bad just happened and the walls haven't finished absorbing it yet. tatiana stands a few feet from the body, arms folded tightly across her chest, coat unbuttoned despite the chill. her heels are scuffed from walking through the mess and tracking up to the abandoned location but she's careful now — poised. every inch of her still screams control, except for the quick tick of her jaw when she checks the time again. where the hell is this guy? she doesn't look at the body anymore. it's already been ten minutes. long enough for her to catalogue every part of the scene that could go wrong if someone else walked in. long enough for the metallic smell to start to stick. when the warehouse door finally creaks open, she turns, fully expecting some low-level grunt with poor posture and worse discretion. what she gets instead— "you've got to be fucking kidding me." the words come out flat and quieter than the situation likely calls for. she doesn't yell but her voice is sharp enough to slice through the silence as teodósio del bosque steps into view like a ghost out of her least favorite memory. of course. of course this is who the soldier's contact turned out to be. of course he's the one they called. there's a beat where she doesn't say anything else, doesn't move, just stares at him like the universe itself played a joke and she's the only one not laughing. "the last thing i needed was another problem."

[honeysnared]

tatiana's gaze lingers on her cousin for a beat longer than it normally would, like she's re-evaluating or maybe just softening, though whether that be due to them being family or a different set of emotions remained to be determined. "i know you don't." the reply is quieter this time, more measured and missing its usual edge. "i wasn't trying to pile on. i know what it's like to be told something over and over until it's all you hear. i didn't mean to add to that." she straightens a little, arms folding across her chest — not in defensiveness but in the way someone does when they're bracing to say something a little more honest than they usually allow. "i've never doubted that you care about your work. i just want people to see it for what it is — not miss it because of how it's packaged." she tries again, exhales, then adds, a little dry but not unkind, "and anyway, no one in this family really got handed mettle. most of us have just learned how to fake it on cue."

you don't have to apologize. that only makes angelica want to apologize more, but she had gotten much better in that regard. now, she only felt a sharp pain when she resisted... instead of being completely incapable of stopping herself. it was unbecoming, of course, for someone in her position to be meek. she had been missed along the way with whatever talent the du bois were given for mettle. "i know you mean well," she managed instead, still truthful; "and i appreciate your feedback. really, i do. sometimes it's just hard for me to separate out all the criticism, that's all." there was still something wounded fluttering inside her, but she worked hard to quiet it. smothering it was out of the question, but she knew how to keep her head. she would never have seen even a whisper of success otherwise. "i don't mean to be defensive."

[honeysnared]

what's tatiana's hard limit re: pr crisis management?

tatiana’s hard limit in pr crisis management — the one line she will not cross — is protecting anyone who has harmed children. the only truly defenseless beings in her eyes. the ones with no power, no say and no shot at fighting back. she'll lie, she'll deflect, she'll gut someone's reputation to save her own — especially if it means protecting her family. but if she finds out a client has hurt a child? that's it. she's out. no spin, no cleanup. she'll drop the client, pull the plug and let them burn. it's the only kind of crisis she won't touch. not even for the du bois name.

[honeysnared]

tight space: does your muse have any phobias?

laugh track: what is your muse's favorite genre for entertainment?

tight space: does your muse have any phobias?

tatiana du bois does not do well with losing control. it's not quite a textbook phobia but it is visceral. claustrophobia in the traditional sense? not really. she can handle elevators, tight corridors, the physical sensation of being boxed in. but emotional claustrophobia? that's another story entirely. she has a deeply rooted fear of vulnerability being weaponized — of someone seeing too much, knowing too much, getting in too far. the idea of being cornered — not physically, but in a situation where she can't spin, manage and redirect — that's what makes her feel like she can't breathe. also? she's not a big fan of bugs.

laugh track: what is your muse's favorite genre for entertainment?

prestige drama all the way. she claims it's for the acting, the cinematography, the cultural relevance. sure, that might be partly true. but the real reason? she likes watching people unravel from a safe distance. power struggles, quiet betrayals, morally gray decisions wrapped in beautiful writing — it scratches a very specific itch. intriguing chaos with a well-curated wardrobe? she's in. she'll occasionally indulge in a sharp political satire or a dark comedy if it's clever enough but she draws the line at slapstick. absolutely not. she has taste.

[honeysnared]

tatiana's brows lift — not dramatically but enough to say oh? she watches him for a moment in silence, fingers steepled in front of her on the desk like she's trying to decide whether to poke holes in his shift or trust it enough to let it stand. eventually, she leans back in her chair with a slow, measured breath. "well," she says, dry but not cold, "i suppose miracles do still happen." a beat passes. then her gaze sharpens, cutting past the sarcasm to something just a touch more sincere. "you're not wrong. the usual script can get exhausting. for both of us." she taps a nail against the side of her desk, thoughtful. "if you're really serious about the suit and the speech, i'll adjust the messaging. something a little less tragic heir, more… begrudging adult." her lips twitch. that's about as much warmth as he can expect to get out of her. "don't make me regret giving you a second draft." her eyes study him, steady and unreadable. "for the record? i don't care if it's not about conscience. i'll take the progress where i can get it." a beat. "although i will say, that's a supicious amount of cooperation coming from you — not that i'm complaining."

River sees something in Tatiana’s expression—that particular blend of expectation and resignation he’s grown too familiar with. For a brief second, he catches his own reflection in the glass award on her desk, mid-performance, and something about the image strikes him as painfully stale. “You know what?” he says, his smirk fading not dramatically but just enough to be noticeable. “This whole back-and-forth we do—it’s getting a bit predictable, isn’t it? How about we hit pause?” He shifts in his seat, not quite dropping the act entirely but allowing something slightly more authentic to surface. “I’ll do it. The suit, the speech, all that.” He shrugs, not with indifference, but something closer to pragmatism. Or his version of it. “Not because I’m suddenly developing a conscience about the Premier or whatever.” He glances out the window. “Just seems like maybe we could both use a break from the usual script.”

[honeysnared]

"croutons and chicken,” she repeats, dry as ever, but a faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "living lavishly, i see." she watches him straighten, listens as the tone in his voice shifts into something more grounded, more serious. it's a small victory but a necessary one — and more than that, it's proof that he's still listening to her, even when he's fraying at the edges. her arms cross loosely over her chest, posture relaxed now that the perceived crisis seems to be ebbing. "i'm glad we're in agreement," she says, as if he hadn't just told her she was right — though the look she gives him is just short of smug. "you don't need to be the strongest one in every room, cass. just the most strategic." at his question, she lifts a brow, already pulling her keys from her bag. "of course i drove," she replies like it should be obvious, "unlike some people, i don't have the stamina for public transit at midnight." or at all. "and i knew you'd try to outlast the cleaning staff." she starts toward the door, the sound of her heels measured, unhurried. "let ransom have his little spiral," she calls back, "better him than you." then, a glance over her shoulder —her lips finally forming a more prominent smile, laced with something gentler underneath. "come on. let's get you home, so you don't sleep at your desk like some tragic cautionary tale."

“Croutons and chicken,” Cassius insists with just a hint of that petulance from their yesteryears. What she says fortifies him, though; ‘we’ll figure it out.’ For whatever reason, he believes those words coming from Tatiana’s lips than he would anyone else’s. Maybe because he’s heard those words a thousand times before when he’s come to her with a problem, and she always has figured it out. So between the two of them, what couldn’t they possibly accomplish?

Which is to say: it’s best if he listens to what other points she’s making, and finally straightens from his lean against the desk with an idle roll of his shoulders. “You’re right. I mean, of course you’re right.” He shoots a glance back towards his cousin, his de facto other sister, and smiles a crooked smile that slowly turns more serious. “This is the last time I should be letting myself show any weakness. Which means, regrettably, I should stop banging my head against this wall and get some sleep.”

It isn’t as much of an argument as it could’ve been, because Tatiana is right, and it’s a good reminder; Cassius needs to be that stalwart pillar standing beside Dominic now more than ever. He can’t be adding blood to the water when the sharks are already circling.

“I don’t suppose you drove? I could use a lift.” Cassius says it like he’s joking but he’s not, tilting his head and smiling at Tatiana with a vague sense of amusement. “I got Ransom to go home, but not without a fight. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if he pivoted to work the night shift instead.” Night shift being the indispensable fixer role Cassius has him in, which Tatiana well knows. “His levels of tension might actually be worse than mine.”

[honeysnared]

there's a pause, brief but perceptible — not the kind that implies hesitation but calculation. tatiana absorbs angelica's words with a slight tilt of her head, arms crossed, expression unreadable. but when she speaks again, her tone has gentled by a degree. "you don’t have to apologize," she says and for once, there's no sharpness in her voice, "i know you're trying too. i see it, even when you think no one's looking." her arms lower then, folding instead behind her back as she rises to her feet. she steps in just a fraction, enough to feel less like an obstacle and more like a tether. "i want people to see what you see when you look at your work. that's the goal, isn't it? not to dilute it. not to make it easy. just to make them pay attention long enough to understand it." her gaze settles on her cousin — not scrutinizing this time but steady. clear. "if it lands, they'll pretend they always believed in you. that's how this place works. but i'll know it wasn't luck." a beat. then, quieter, almost like it slips out, "and i'll be proud of you. even if i forget to say it when it counts."

it was her curse that she couldn't hide her feelings, hide the way she was hurt by tatiana's words. even the apology, appreciated as it was, didn't change the bite of marketing logic. she was right, of course. most people didn't get the opportunity to bring their dreams to life even once, regardless of how appealing it was to the masses. but that wasn't fair. she felt the words rise in her throat, but they died before they could clear her perfectly-white teeth. life wasn't fair. that was the only answer she had ever been given. that wasn't fair, either. "i know," she said instead, and she did. she knew that tatiana only meant well, that she just thought about things in the same drab tones that the rest of her family did. indeed, that the rest of the world did. reputation meant a lot, nearly everything, and she had never exactly fit the mold. eccentricity wasn't a prized trait among the du bois. "i'm sorry, i don't mean to get upset with you. i know you're just trying to help," she continued, sighing. eyes down, she clasped her hands in front of her. "i'm trying to make something that will land." then maybe, finally, someone would be proud of her for a change.

[honeysnared]

tatiana doesn’t flinch. not when he mocks her tone, not when he paces like a man allergic to silence, not when he throws barbs disguised as charm. she just watches him with a look that could file paperwork on its own — flat, efficient, unimpressed. "you'll wear the suit, you'll read the words and you'll pretend you understand what grief looks like," she replies, folding her arms as she leans back against the desk. "i'm not asking for a transformation, river. just an illusion. you of all people should know how to sell one of those, no?" she lets the silence stretch just long enough to make her point before continuing, cool and composed. "as for your heartfelt statement…" she taps a pen agains the edge of her folder, slow and deliberate. "you'll be relieved to know i will write it myself. because some of us don't need to be half-lit to be quotable." she pauses there, watching for a reaction and when none comes — or at least not one she considers worth engaging — she exhales softly and reaches for a pen. "and for the record," she adds, tone softening just enough to be believable, but not enough to be inviting, "i'm not worried about you embarrassing me. that would implyi expected better." she clicks the pen once, the sound sharp between them. "but if you do manage to somehow pull it together? i'll admit to being… mildly surprised. maybe i'd even find something nice to say. i'd not even bother requesting for it not to go to your head." a beat. "i suppose we'll see if it comes to that."

River leans back in his chair, lips pursed in exaggerated consideration, as if Tatiana’s laid out some profound philosophical conundrum rather than basic instructions on how not to be a public embarrassment. “Hmm,” he muses, tapping his chin. “Sounds suspiciously like you want me to pretend I’m actually my father’s son.” The comparison clearly amuses him. “Quiet. Respectable. Behaved.” He draws out the last word like it’s a foreign concept. He stands abruptly, pacing behind the chair in a burst of restless energy. “Fine. I’ll wear your pre-approved funeral costume. I’ll read your little script without adding my own colorful commentary.�� He stops, bracing his hands on the back of the chair, leaning forward slightly. “I’ll even manage to look appropriately somber about a man I met exactly twice, both times while he was pretending not to know I was high at some gala.” His smile returns, that practiced, sharp-edged thing that never quite reaches his eyes. “But let’s be honest, Tatiana. We both know what happens as soon as the spotlight moves on. You’re just buying time until the next inevitable River Masten incident keeps you employed.” He straightens up, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket with deliberate casualness. “But hey, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ve already got contingency plans for when I inevitably fuck up at the memorial. Maybe I’ll surprise you, though.” He winks. “Maybe I’ll only be a minor catastrophe instead of a full-blown disaster.” For just a moment, something almost sincere flickers across his face. “So who’s writing this heartfelt statement I’ve apparently been agonizing over? You? Or are you outsourcing my grief to some entry-level copywriter who’s just thrilled to put words in the Chancellor’s wayward son’s mouth?”

[honeysnared]

she doesn’t even look up from the file. "you're not unspinnable," she says flatly, though she's not sure she fully means the words, "you're just inconvenient." she flips another page in her folder — deliberate, precise — as if she's checking for any last shred of tolerance she might've misfiled by mistake. her tone is cool, clipped and so very tired of his voice already. "we don't need people to believe you've had a complete moral transformation. just that you have the bare minimum emotional intelligence not to look delighted while the island mourns." she finally meets his gaze, eyes sharp. "you'll issue a statement, ghostwritten, of course, about how the premier's passing was a tragedy. it will talk about loss, legacy and civic duty. say things like 're-evaluating priorities' and 'taking time to reflect'." she flips the file shut with a soft but definitive thud. "you'll show up to the memorial. wear a suit i approved. something black and somber. and you will not end up in any fountains." she fixes him with a look that's not too far off from a glare. "you'll be quiet, you'll be respectable, and for once in your charmed, chaotic little life, you'll behave." a pause. then, without even trying to hide the disdain, "at least until public attention moves on to the next catastrophe. which — if you keep doing what you're doing — will probably still be you."

River’s grin only widens at Tatiana’s words. “Not enjoy me? Ouch. And here I thought we were developing such a special bond.” He’s all mock-hurt, hand briefly pressed to his chest like she’s wounded him deeply. His eyes flicker to the folder she’s opened, knowing full well it’s probably filled with all his recent fuck-ups meticulously categorized. The thought almost makes him laugh. “Maybe I should be flattered that you’ve got a whole file dedicated to me.” He shifts in his seat, “So these are my options, huh? Let’s see…” He pretends to consider them deeply, though his eyes are already dancing with mischief. “Number one sounds boring as shit. I’ve never been ‘grief-stricken’ about anything except maybe when they discontinued my favorite vodka.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Number two… civic-minded? Really? You think anyone’s going to buy that? I’m pretty sure the last time I showed up at a civic event, I ended up in a fountain with the mayor’s daughter.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Or was it his son? Honestly can’t remember.” Then he leans forward, elbows on his knees, suddenly engaged. “But number three… you want me to just shut up and look pretty? That’s literally the first sensible thing you’ve ever suggested.” His smile turns sharp, almost challenging. “So what’s the narrative, Tatiana? How are you going to spin the unspinnable? Make River Masten, professional disaster, suddenly give a shit about Coronado’s political climate? I’m genuinely curious.”

[honeysnared]

there's a flicker — brief, barely visible — in tatiana's eyes when angelica says she wants to watch it. it knocks her off-balance for a second, the way only a rare, genuine moment from angie ever can. that softness isn't familiar. not anymore. and it makes tatiana hesitate, just long enough for the heat in her voice to cool a fraction. "i never said you didn't have a right to an opinion," she says finally, quieter now, but still firm, "i just think there's a difference between defending your work and setting it on fire before anyone else can touch it." she folds her arms across her chest, weight shifting as her gaze narrows — not in accusation this time, but in thought. "you're allowed to be frustrated. i get it. people talk like they know everything. they don't. and i know what it's like to feel like everyone's dissecting something that meant something to you — reducing it to bullet points and bad headlines." her voice softens another degree. "but most people don't get to keep making films that don't make their budget back. most people don't get another chance. you do. and maybe that's not fair but it's real. and it means you can't act like none of this matters. not if you want to keep doing this." she unfolds her arms and lets out a breath. "i don't want you to paint straight lines. i want you to paint something that survives the storm that follows its release. that's the difference." there's a beat and her next words are more of an offering than a correction. "if this one follows a usual structure, then maybe that's a good thing. not because it's safer. but because it might actually land where you want it to." a pause. "and when it does, maybe people will actually watch it and see what you see. understand it the way you do. that's all i want, you know. for it to land. for it to work. even if it doesn't always sound like it — i want you to succeed."

the higher in the clouds you rested, the harder you hit the ground when you fell. tatiana's words cut through her like a knife. "i want to watch it," she said, voice small. it had been a long time since she had let herself sound like that, an issue corrected. the next time she spoke, it was clear. "what does it matter if nobody else likes it? art isn't made just to be liked. sometimes you're not supposed to like it. and if you don't, that means it isn't for you!" she lived in a world that was kinder to the strange than reality—if it didn't sell, she had been told over and over and over again, what was the point? her feelings, her visions, never seemed to matter. not even to family. she should have been numb enough to that experience by now, but she wasn't. "i've never pretended to be something i'm not. just because you think i should paint straight lines and squares doesn't mean i don't know what i'm doing. and," she continued, voice higher. "i never said i cared about how it lands, either. i know people misunderstand my work. i see it all the time. don't i have a right to an opinion on what people are saying about me? not even my work, me!" anger was short-lived. shrinking into her self, angelica pressed her fingertips hard into her temples—the one place she could do so without ruining her make-up or her hair. "control the narrative?" there was no malice in her tone, but no favor either; she might as well have been slapped with a trout. "this one isn't as experimental," she continued, flat. "it follows a usual narrative structure. you should be happy about that."

[honeysnared]

"four hours ago," she repeats, eyes narrowing like she's doing the mental math, "and what was it yesterday? a power bar and a half-complaint about the espresso machine?" there's no real bite in her voice and she doesn't push it further — not now — but the look she gives him makes one thing clear: she's not letting it go forever. she watches him as he speaks, listens without interruption, the way only someone who's known you since you were young and stupid can. her gaze flicks toward the board when his does, eyes scanning the scattered headlines, circled names, scribbled threats masquerading as theories. her jaw tics. "you're right," she says, blunt but measured, "this isn't just a pr nightmare. it's the kind of shit you don't spin — not really. you contain it. you brace for impact." tatiana doesn't look at him when she says it, instead reaching for one of the proofs and holding it up to the light like it might change in her hands. "we knew something like this would happen eventually. not like this, not this messy — but the pressure's been building for years. the only surprise should be that it took this long to boil over." her fingers tap against the edge of the paper, then she exhales slowly through her nose. "we'll figure it out," she says, like it's not up for debate. like it's law. "but i need you at full strength. i need the guy who taught me how to out-talk, out-think and out-play half this island." a beat. "and preferably one who doesn't pass out on live television because he thinks salad qualifies as a meal." she finally turns back to him, sharp gaze softened by the tilt of her mouth. "now be honest. was it at least the one with the croutons?"

Despite the scolding, Cassius has nothing but warmth in his smile and his heart for his cousin — his second sister. He knows full well, knows her well enough, that the little sarcastic pokes and prods are softened by and wrapped in genuine concern. When she settles against the desk beside him, he leans in to gently bump his shoulder to hers and shakes his head. “It’s a twenty-four hour network, of course there’s gonna be documents timestamped at ungodly hours.”

It’s a feeble excuse. More of a tease, maybe, since he knows she knows he’s not meant to be 24-hours. That doesn’t change the fact that yes, since the assassination, more and more of the papers and documents on his desk have trended later and later — or earlier, depending on how you looked at it.

Tatiana’s subsequent question prompts a ghost of a chuckle, because yeah; she knows him entirely too well. It’s her job to, sure, but he still knows that also comes from a place of genuine concern. “I ate…” He brings his watch up, and doesn’t bother to mask the brief grimace when he sees the time. “About four hours ago. And it was more than just espresso, before you ask. Salad from the cafeteria.”

Before she has the chance to point out that isn’t exactly substantial, Cassius continues, turning his attention to the board of proofs in front of them. “This is… different, Nana. This isn’t me distracting myself from other things by losing myself in work. This is bad.” His voice quiets, even in the near-silence of his office. “This is going to affect the entire family. The entire island. And I'm not saying that because I think you don't already know it, I just...” His jaw sets and he shakes his head slowly. “It doesn’t matter who actually did this: it’s still bad news for us.” The Du Bois family. “Either the Del Bosques or Shibata are responsible, and they’ll be coming for us next. Or neither of them are responsible, and it’s someone with all three families in their sights. I don’t see an explanation that leaves us safe.”

[honeysnared]

she doesn't look at him at first. one glance over her shoulder when the commotion started had been enough for her to keep her gaze laser-focused towards the front, as though she could avoid the inevitable if she just sat still enough. she's already pinching the bridge of her nose like the headache's been summoned on cue. the scene playing out beside her is nothing short of absurd. the trail of popcorn. the profanity. the veiled threat involving bodily fluids. a du bois soldier, technically. a public relations disaster, realistically. finally, tatiana turns her head, slow and composed as ever, gaze cool and cutting in the flicker of the trailer light. she finally glances at the couple he's menacing, leans forward just enough to flash them a professionally apologetic smile. "he's with me," she says, like it's the kind of burden she's long since accepted, "if you let him sit down, i promise i'll keep him quiet." a pause. "quiet-ish." once the seats clear, she gestures subtly for him to sit, like she's already regretting every life choice that led her to this moment. so much for a moment of quiet and solitude. then again, she'd come to the cinema for a distraction. and he was certainly distracting. the second he's in the seat, she hisses under her breath, "this is a public venue, not row's end fight night. you—" she looks him over, sighs, "—are going to get us both banned."

SETTING: the lights go down and offer the scattered heads a chance to escape into a world that isn't theirs. the beam of light shines out of a square hole of the projection booth at the east end cinema. a number of trailers go by. suddenly, a dark silhouette appears over the screen. @honeysnared

Long legs climb over empty rows with haste, leaving a trail of popcorn in his wake. There’s a spark in his eyes — he knows the back of that head well enough now.

A couple groans as he jostles through them. “What?!” He snaps back at them, leaning down and intruding their personal space. It’s less of a lion’s roar and more of a bark over a muzzle. Throw him a bone, he’d still want to play. They go back and forth then, with Lucky’s feet firm on the ground it’s clear he doesn’t want to move. But neither do they.

“You want me to piss in your drink, huh? I’ll fuckin’ do it.” It’s unclear where his motivations lie, until — he turns to his right, then finally addresses who he’s come to see. “Hi.” A shameless smile. “Can you tell them to move? I wanna sit next to you.”