vincentluciusmoreau:

[What could he possibly say or do? Oh, God. He wasn’t Vincent. Vincent would have said something long ago. But Victor? What could Victor do? He didn’t want to be separated from Denise, nor did he want Denise to be separated from him. For many reasons. It wasn’t simply because he was selfish in the way that he always wanted to be with her; it was because, if something happened to her because he was not with her, he would never forgive himself. How could he function without her by his side? One of the reasons he existed was because… well, because she was here. Where would he go, if she left him? Perhaps he would simply… cease. The thought caught in his throat, and he swallowed it down. He glanced over at Denise, offering a brief, reassuring smile.] Yes. Right. [He cleared his throat, attempting to harden his gaze.] As Denise has stated, the two of us are better off… with each other.

[Surely, they couldn’t take him for a fool. How humorous it was to watch the two of them struggle in a futile attempt to convince him. As if they could have swayed his decision. A small chuckle fell from his lips, emitting from the back of his throat. So small in its sound, it was practically undetectable. He exchanged glances between the patients, his eyes lingering on Denise.] Right. [He drawled out the word.] I can see how well the two of you are doing. My m-mistake.

[It never takes much to change the flow of Denise’s thoughts — one trembling stream of consciousness to the next in the blip of a cosmic second. One moment, all she can think to do is watch the way Victor’s words fall out of Vincent’s mouth and wonder idly just who belonged to whom. The next, a rotting feeling begins to gnaw at her organs as if plagued with a parasite, eating away at all the sustenance she needs to carry on. One. Tiny. Syllable. 

Rainsford is no fool — not that she’d ever taken him for one. He’d tricked the two of them into mental break on more than one occassion, flashes of Vincent on his knees on the hardwood floor of her room, ramblings of violins and phantom tears pushing her heart into a state of oblivion. All over the simple implication that the doctor had put in his mind — the metallic taste of his forced lips upon hers. She’d been sitting right where Victor found himself. It was maddening, the lost particles of understanding in the air around them. He was playing a game, like always. Only they didn’t know the rules, only that the banker liked to cheat.] I’m sure you can understand why we would want one anothers… support in all of this. After all, we have been through quite a bit. [Her words are masked in polite overtures — but biting all the same.]

vincentluciusmoreau:

It’s quite simple, really. But, I see the idea isn’t very appealing. Let’s talk about your relationship.

The amount of time the two of you have been spending together is quite disconcerting. I’m sensing a bit of codependency. I recommend, as a Doctor, that you… oh, I don’t know. Stop going into each other’s rooms in the middle of the night? Yes, I think that would suffice. But why stop there? Let’s take it a step further. Why don’t the two of you simply stop? I think some time apart would do each of you some good.

[He simply stares at the Doctor for a moment, dumbstruck. Surely, this was just some joke, another one of Rainsford’s games. What, though, could he possibly gain from his and Denise’s separation? Some morsel of satisfaction? What would Vincent say? How would Vincent act?] I-I d-don’t understand. [He stutters out, not quite knowing how to respond.]

[Denise’s brow furrows almost immediately, waves of aggrivated confusion washing over the creases on her forehead. What did Rainsford gain from involving himself in their private affairs? Had they not kept quietly to themselves since the worst of it all had passed? There had been no wanton actions, no Gabe or Atticus to sully the flames — nothing but quiet, leisurely existence. Doe-y eyes heavy with sleep deprivation, yet refusing to close, winding yet another day to an end with the sight of one another. They had been peaceful — or, as peaceful as their personalities had allowed them to be.

Despite his questionable intentions and the secret past shrouded between the three of them — Rainsford still held authority. That was, perhaps, what made the situation so concerning. More so concerning was the clumsy trickling of words from Vincent’s perfect mouth. Denise’s stomach churns at the implications, shooting a glance in his direction, dripping with worry.] If the idea of getting better is what we’re worrying about, I think I should possibly point out how well I do in his company. And he the same. Right, Vincent? [Why now, Victor? In this moment. She brushes her hand softly across his forearm, offering solidarity to help him through.]

vincentluciusmoreau:

[A smile breaks out on Victor’s lips before he irons out his expression. Rainsford looks wearily at Denise, biting down on his lip in thought before speaking.]

I think you should be careful with your words, Ms. Leblanc. I know I would be. Or would you rather reschedule our session? [He pauses, collecting himself.] You two seem to misunderstand the concept this fine establishment stands for. Or, rather, the concept that any establishment having to do with well-being stands for. “Getting better.” That is what you’re here for, didn’t you know? Now, I think we’ve all gotten off to a… well, less-than-fine start. But I think we can right that wrong. [He looks expectantly at the two patients in front of him, waiting for a response.]

[He crosses his arms over his chest, brow furrowing as he listens to the other man’s words. Briefly, he turns his gaze to Denise, a hint of a question in his eyes before he focuses his attention back to Rainsford.] There are a lot of wrongs I would like to right, doctor.

[Denise purses her lips tightly, unable to fathom a reason that Rainsford would ever find it within himself to come forward and attempt reconciliation. Just the tone in his words, the way his eyes travel over the pair of them as if they were simply there to entertain his boredom — it makes her uneasy. Had she found herself yet again alone in the office with him, her skin may have begun to crawl over her bones once more. But the heat from Vincent’s figure radiates next to her, calming her the best anything could manage.] I don’t believe I quite understand what you anticipate of us, sir.

vincentluciusmoreau:

Ms. Leblanc. [He stretches the name out, a subtle raise of his eyes making a sufficient enough greeting. A sigh escapes his lips, low as it is, but still detectable. The typewriter ceases, fingers suspended over the keys. He leans back in his chair, eying the odd pair in front of him.] 

I trust you know why you’re here.

[At the sound of Denise’s voice, he eases visibly with relief. A smile tugs at his lips as he glances over at the blonde. He doesn’t say anything, neither does he know what he would say if he were free to speak. If mouthing a ‘hello’ wouldn’t have made him look silly, he would have done so.]

H-Hardly. [He says quietly, turning his attention to Rainsford.]

[Denise’s attentions falter momentarily, Vincent’s eyes trekking in her direction giving way for distraction. She smiles slightly, always forgetful of their surroundings when given the option of subtle glances his way. It quickly fades, reminded by the cease of tacking noises upon typewriter keys, the liquid lull of Vincent’s voice — all of it.] Pardon my inability to summon mind-reading powers, Doctor. My inner medium is faltering today. You could tell us, if you’d like. I think that might be best.

vincentluciusmoreau:

Come in. [His voice chimes, a professional tone gracing the two words, through the droning clicks and clacks of his typewriter. He doesn’t bother glancing up to see who enters his office; he knows exactly who to expect.]

[Victor steps into the room, a surly expression present on his face in a try to mimic his counterpart. He takes a seat, not daring to speak, not even for a greeting.]

[The door is cracked open, as if awaiting her arrival; Denise steps into the office, thankful to see Vincent there, rather than the forboding view of Rainsford alone, like she had once been tricked before. She steps, quietly towards an open chair, seating herself beside Vincent in a polite manner. The men are quiet, almost unnervingly so. She takes it upon herself to speak.] Lively bunch you two are together. You almost make Atticus look talkative and social.

vincentluciusmoreau:

[places his hand over hers, thumb caressing the back of her hand] When I was young, my mother once told me, “The sky cannot meet the earth.” And naturally, like most kids whose priorities are to not listen and complain, I didn’t understand, and so I shook it off as some cliche line adults say when there is nothing else to say. She passed shortly after that, and I suppose that might have been part of the reason why that stuck with me the way it did. And it bothered me for the longest time because I didn’t understand what she meant. I’d get so frustrated over it — to the point where it was simply ridiculous. She was… lovely, my mother. She wasn’t the kind of person who said things just to say things. I used to imagine the sky as crystal. Fragile. The sky could not possibly meet the earth because it would shatter, and there would no longer be a sky, and the earth would be nothing but fragments of glass. If I learned anything from watching you, it is that you do not have to meet the sky to discern it. I have been happy before, Denise, but one cannot measure thought. If I knew then what I know now my emotions would be nothing more than apathy.

[she sighs an almost happy sigh, his thumb moving comfortingly over her skin, and she instinctively moves forwards, closer to him, wrapping her free arm around his core.  The fabric from his clothes rub against her skin and she can feel his warmth through them, like a fireplace on a cold winter night.  Her head finds its way to his chest, resting peacefully against it with her eyes closed, listening to his voice lulling in her ears]  You don’t talk about your mother, not often enough for me to paint a picture of her in my mind.  I’ve always had to go off of Atticus’ words.  I Imagined her tall, dark brunette hair that sat in mops of unruly curls atop her head.  And, yet, she managed to make them look graceful, like a classic actress from the 40s, with a silver glint in her eye that said that she knew how life would be for you three, but loved you nevertheless: because that’s what mothers do.  [her eyes open and she moves her head so that she’s looking up at him, doe-eyed, chin still touching his chest]  If you were the Earth, and I the sky, I’d shatter gladly.

vincentluciusmoreau:

Most ev… [about to speak when Denise places her palm to his cheek, and then lets his sentence cease, words failing him; his gaze meets hers almost wistfully before it falls] I… [he licks his lips out of nervous habit, then sighs] I think we both know why there… [he starts up again after a few moments] …There are a lot of reasons why you should be unhappy with me, Denise. [says softly, in a tone that is barely audible enough for the both of them] Most everything is beautiful of you.

Beautiful is… [she runs her thumb along the line of his jaw, a comforting measure, as if Vincent ever truly needed outward comfort from anyone]  …subjective.  You see beauty — I see mistake after mistake.  But, we’ve both been there, haven’t we, love?  [she swallows, her words getting caught in her through like the always seem to do]  I’d had happiness before you, but never in a way that made me want to be different — never in a way that made me want to stand still, instead of flying away like I always seem to do.

vincentluciusmoreau:

About… if you are unhappy with me burning the letter or if you are unhappy with me. [pauses to add on: My love. at the end] You are obviously unhappy with me. I have overstepped… s… I have overstepped my boundaries. I do that a lot, sometimes. More often lately. But I suppose that’s what I always do, isn’t it? I… do horrible things, because I like to remind myself that — [he cuts himself off abruptly] That I… I am human…? [he blinks at Denise, thinking over her last few words] We’ve been through this. [says dubiously] M… [stops momentarily, if only to correct is speech] Maybe I could… find remnants of the letter. [muses quietly to self] Of course I know — I know that you are your own, and you… you care deeply for most everything and everyone, and that’s… beautiful of you.

Beautiful of me?  [she opens her mouth at the end of the sentence, biding her thoughts in her mind before speaking, as if carefully choosing what to say next]  It isn’t like you to be so forward with flowery antics for my benefit, Vincent.  [her eyes fall to her hands, picking at the stray string on the end of her dress]  Nor to put so much care into… anything, let alone your words.  I’d almost think you cared what Atticus thought, or what I thought of him.  [her brow furrows in confusion, stepping forwards and placing a bare palm to his cheek gently]  How could you ever come to the conclusion that I’m unhappy with you?

vincentluciusmoreau:

[sighs out of frustration] Thank you for elaboration, Denise, and yes — [pauses to hold his hands behind his back out of some respectful manner] We Moreaus: we could destroy ourselves. Some of us already have. [starts slowly, as though picking out his words carefully] Perhaps you’re right. I’m sorry for my actions — my stupid, thoughtless actions. I am… I don’t know. I’m so stupid sometimes, but you of all people know that. [furrows his brow slightly in thought] We — or I, could mail Atticus and tell him that his letter got lost, and ask him to send another if it is of import — or even if it isn’t, even if it is mindless and even if it is so vapid it would waste your time, I’ll ask. Or, is this not about that anymore?

[she stops, closing her eyes and sighing out a shallow breath, almost in annoyance, but not quite, as that would just take far too much energy]  And, what else could it possibly be about, my love?  Hm?  As much of myself is yours, I still find that I wish to hold the right to my privacy and the understanding that you respect the piece of me that does not belong to you.  You do know that, don’t you?  That there is always going to be a piece of my heart meant solely for my own purposes?  [she bites down on her lip, cocking her head to the side and opening her eyes to his]  Is this some fear that that part goes to him?  Because, we’ve been through this, you know?