Montmarte Cemetery

[The Exodus]

The stately mausoleums, time-worn tombstones, and mournful statues suggest the ideal setting for ghost stories. However, the only thing 'haunting' the Montmarte cemetery are those paying their respects to the dead. But you never do know what things can go 'bump' in the night...

[The Exodus]

OOC: Rafael/Alexander! BIC:

Alexander Sokoll

Trees, buildings, and people blurred by. All Alexander could hear was a thudding in his ears and the slap of his feet against concrete as he ran through the streets of Paris. He knew what a madman he looked like, bumping past strangers unapologetically, staggering through crowds without noticing who he collided with. It didn’t matter. As far as Alexander was concerned, he was late for this meeting. It was long overdue in the first place. He’d been putting it off and putting it off for months—years, honestly. He crossed through the cemetery where Esperanza had been buried only a few months earlier, and though he stood in front of her grave now, it was Jules’ he looked at. The one right next to hers.

“I talked to your mom today,” he said to Jules. His voice was quiet beneath each panted breath he drew. Low, barely above a whisper. “And her lawyer.”

Veronique Roland-Passepartout had called this morning from her lawyer’s office, informing Alexander that if he didn’t find a job and a place to live by the end of the month, she and Marcel could legally apply for custody of Jules and Serena. He’d also received his latest in a slew of rejections—this one from the Moulin Rouge for the chief choreography position. Alexander was just desperate enough to consider taking on a job exotic dancing or cleaning out sanitation tanks. Anything to keep his kids.

His kids. Not Jules’.

It wasn’t Jules’ fault that he’d died before the twins were born. Alexander knew he shouldn’t have blamed him.

But it just wasn’t fair.

Even in death, the Frenchman got the girl.

His girl.

His wife.

Alexander had married Esperanza, but upon her death, she had been buried beside her first love—the funeral paid for by Jules’ parents. Now Veronique and Marcel sought to parcel off the children as neatly as they had the bodies of their dead son and dead almost-daughter-in-law, with no regard for the family Alexander and Esperanza had built.

Jules’ blood ran through the twins. Alexander knew that. But Alexander had adored them, loved them, raised them since the first sonogram. They were his as far as he was concerned and he’d do anything to hang onto them.

“Who the hell does she think she is?” Alexander asked, voice raising and wavering. “Where was she—or your dad or their freaking lawyer—before Esperanza died? I mean, they were pushing her and pushing her to see their doctor. Fine. Okay. Yeah. But after? When we needed a sitter? Or when we sent them the wedding invites? Or when Serena was teething? And Jules had a 102 fever? Who the f*ck are they? And who are you, Jules Roland-Passepartout? For the courts to consider you their ‘father’?”

Alexander sighed and sat down between the graves.

“Look. I don’t blame you. I don’t. I just… Aw, Hell. Look. You hated me in life. I know that. You kept thinking I was gonna steal Esperanza from you. I didn’t. I respected y’all. But I’ve always loved her. I always will. And those kids… I love them. More than you can possibly… possibly imagine. If you were me, you’d do the same, right? Right?”

Alexander looked at the tombstone. It didn’t speak. He sighed and looked at Esperanza’s grave. The grass hadn’t yet grown in. He ran a hand over the buzz-cut blades of green.

“You weren’t kidding when you said your in-laws were a nightmare,” he said to her. Then, to Jules, “No offense, man, but your mom is scary.”

He sighed and rubbed his face.

“God, I don’t need to be here… talking to dead people. I just… I needed that job. I need a job. Anything. God.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Rafael Lamaroux

When Rafael woke up this morning, the day seemed normal. Breakfast was made, the newspaper had arrived, and the Sunday cartoons were prancing around the TV like little puppets made out of millions of colorful pixels. Jen and the twins sat on the floor, watching the television. He sat in awe for a minute. As much as she protested, she was a natural with kids. Maybe that came from dealing with Rafael, or maybe (if Rafael believed in such things) it was a sign: a sign that their relationship should be taken to the next level. She was so beautiful as she sat between the children, and Rafael wondered for a fleeting moment in time what their children would look like.

No. No. NO! The thought, quick as it was, terrified him, and there was a sudden sinking feeling in Rafael’s stomach that told him something wasn’t right about today. He couldn’t place it. The food tasted good, the cartoons were entertaining, the newspaper was, well, filled with news. The kids and Jen were awake, Alexander was…. Not here. Alexander was not here. Where on earth had he disappeared to without a notice? Something had to be so pressing, so personal that he couldn’t mention it to anyone. Something like this sadness that had welled up in him like a blood clot recently. Rightfully so. Rafael would be sad, too if his not-wife, Jen had died. There was only one place Alexander would be today, one place he would want to slip to before the world woke up and had its Wheaties.

“I’m going out, everyone. Jules, Serena, be good for Miss Jen. Jen, baby, I’ll call you from the car!” Rafael ran his words together into one long sound, shoveling food into his mouth and abandoning the rest as he scooped up the paper and his keys in a swift, blurred motion.

The car ride was long, even for Rafael and his lead foot. It was dragged out as his mind raced with worry for his best friend. Taking himself to his wife’s grave was masochistic torture. It was cruel, like slitting up your wrists just watch yourself bleed, drinking drain-o just for the bitter taste. Why would Alexander—kind, reasonable, happy Alexander—do that to himself?

The graveyard came into view and between the bars of the wrought iron and vines of ivy, sat Alexander, his lips moving soundlessly between two headstones which sat like tree stumps in the umbrage of the trees. And where Rafael sat, he was transported to a California he knew well.

Alexander had stayed after Michael’s funeral, after every last mourner had trickled out, after even Michael’s parents had gone home to hear the ghost of memories run up and down their hallway. Alexander sat, looking into the tombstone as if he would see something there that hadn’t been there before, as if he was waiting for Michael to speak to him. Rafael calmly managed to pry him away from the headstone, his heart breaking for pulling a mourner friend away like an unfeeling graveyard patrol man. Rafael was back to being that seventeen year old boy who stayed in his room for a week, crying. He didn’t eat, didn’t talk, didn’t practice. But he emerged having painted a mask to wear; where most masks portrayed little villages and gondoliers and festivals, Rafael’s portrayed himself: his happy, laughing self. Everyone grieved in different ways. Rafael rarely showed it. He preferred to seem like a hero with an invisible cape and uniform. Alexander was unafraid to express his feelings and show weakness. That was true heroism, and Rafael gladly gave up his cape to Alexander, giving him something to pin his feelings to.

He returned to present time and climbed out of his car, walking gingerly to the spot Alexander sat. In true Doppler Effect fashion, Alexander’s words grew louder as Rafael approached and he could hear his words.

“God, I don’t need to be here… talking to dead people. I just… I needed that job. I needajob. Anything. God.”

“Well you’re in luck,” Rafael said, flipping open the pages to the ads. “It just so happens I found a place that’s hiring something other than fry cooks and bell hops.” Rafael offered a small smile. “It’s not exactly dancing, but I figured...” The pay wasn’t bad, it was still involved in making dance look good, and had Rafael been in Alex’s position and trusted himself around scantily clad women, he’d take the job himself.

[The Exodus]

Alexander Sokoll

Alexander didn’t expect Esperanza to answer. Nor did he expect Jules to answer—certainly not helpfully. But he least expected God to answer. Mysterious ways and all that. So when a disembodied voice said: “Well you’re in luck”, Alexander nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked up to see Rafael standing above him, holding a newspaper and flipping through it as though it was totally normal to job-hunt in gravyeards.


“It just so happens I found a place that’s hiring something other than fry cooks and bell hops,” Rafael said, smiling. “It’s not exactly dancing, but I figured...”

Alexander scrambled to his feet and snatched the newspaper from Rafael’s hands the way a starving man might snag a piece of offered bread. His eyes scanned past the missing puppies and the personal ads, all the way down to the “Wanted”.

Wanted: One House Mom at the Moulin Rouge.

Alexander stopped reading there and looked up at Rafael dubiously.

“They just told me ‘no’ to the choreographer position,” he said. “Why would they want me as a House Mom? I mean, really?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Rafael Lamaroux

Wide-eyed, Alexander looked up at Rafael. He looked so lost, like a little boy, and Rafael felt his legs turn to lime jell-o as he sunk to the ground to wrap his arms around Alexander.

“They just told me ‘no’ to the choreographer position. Why would they want me as a House Mom? I mean, really?”

“Alexander,” Rafael said, pulling on an invisible suit that stuck to him like an adhesive, giving him the power to conjure up intelligent-sounding words. “When I was in the military, someone told me that passion, love and ambition are the two most important things in life, that you have to do anything to preserve them. Your art is your passion, Jules and Serena are your love, and by George, Alexander, you have enough ambition to keep those going strong. I mean c’mon. You’re a dancer. You’ve gotta be used to rejection, right? Go for the job. They’ll see you’re determined and hire you for sure. Then you can support your love, and carry out your passion. See? I got this all figured out, buddy.”

Rafael stood, pulling Alexander up by the bicep. “Up you go. Dust yourself off…” He caught sight of the tombstones and fell silent. “Oh. Hello, Esperanza. I know you’re probably busy dancing up there in Heaven, so I’ll keep my message short and leave it at the beep: you were wonderful and we all miss you. Also, share a dance with Michael—he might be a little rusty now, but you won’t regret it.” He squeezed Alexander’s arm lightly, assuring him that his support was readily available to him.

[The Exodus]

Alexander Sokoll

There was no chance in Hell the Moulin Rouge would want him. They hadn’t wanted him for a job he was certainly better qualified for than this; he didn’t expect to land this job, either. He could just imagine the conversation with the Passepartouts if he did become a house mom. They’d probably seize custody of the kids anyways and Alexander would be alone in the world. All the money he made would be spent on court fees in a desperate, Sisyphean bid to win his kids back.

“Alexander,” Ray said seriously. “When I was in the military, someone told me that passion, love and ambition are the two most important things in life, that you have to do anything to preserve them. Your art is your passion, Jules and Serena are your love, and by George, Alexander, you have enough ambition to keep those going strong. I mean c’mon. You’re a dancer. You’ve gotta be used to rejection, right? Go for the job. They’ll see you’re determined and hire you for sure. Then you can support your love, and carry out your passion. See? I got this all figured out, buddy.”

Alexander smiled faintly. Maybe he would apply after all. It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it? He could still look for another job somewhere else… anywhere else. But Rafael had a point. Jules and Serena were his loves. The only thing he should care about was their happiness and the rest would follow.

“Up you go. Dust yourself off…” Ray helped Alexander to his feet and both men stared back at the tombstones.

“Oh. Hello, Esperanza. I know you’re probably busy dancing up there in Heaven, so I’ll keep my message short and leave it at the beep: you were wonderful and we all miss you. Also, share a dance with Michael—he might be a little rusty now, but you won’t regret it.”

Tears pricked at Alexander’s eyes. He clapped Ray on the back for support and stared at his wife’s grave.

“I love you,” he murmured to her. “Very much. Thank you.”

He cleared his throat and looked at Ray.

“Thanks, man. Let’s go home.”

[plantnerd92]

OOC: Open! BIC:

Linnea Hepworth

First she got lost in the catacombs, and now this? Apparently something about dead people attracted Linnea, and it was really starting to give her the willies. She was still hot and sweaty from the Latin jam aerobics class she had gone to, and now she was on her way home. For some reason, she had decided to cut through the cemetery on the way back to her apartment. The night was almost stiflingly warm with a rather high level of humidity and it made Linnea long for her apartment and a nice, cool shower... Or a shower with Maksim...

Whoa. Where the hell did that come from? Linnea squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to get the mental image out of her head. Bad Linnea! Bad! She decided she was going to need a very cold shower after that thought, as it had made her body heat up with a furious blush. Heaven help her should her boyfriend ever find out she was entertaining racy thoughts about him. Maybe she needed to cool things down a little with him before they end up going too far... Linnea frowned. She didn't want to put them on the back-burner.

No, she decided. She could handle it.... couldn't she? Thinking about it again, Linnea wasn't so sure. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she hopped up on one of the above-ground grave-monument-mausoleum things, and crossed her legs Indian style. The marble was cool against her skin, clad in a pair of shorties and a tank top, and with a sigh, Linnea laid down across it, her back pressed against the stone, and her dark ponytail spilling over the side.

Should she say anything to Maksim about how hard it was getting for her to keep her raging hormones under control with him, or should she just be quiet and using the situations as a strengthening exercise for her self-control? Linnea made a face. How droll that sounded! She cursed Maksim for making her learn how to control herself. Physically between the two of them and in the society she found herself in now that they were a couple. She was expected to behave like a lady. Maybe not by Maksim, but by his environment among others.

Linnea dreaded the upcoming parties and events that she would no doubt be attending with Maksim. Don't get her wrong, she loved having the opportunity to be with him and dress up and look nice for him, but once they started going to those with each other, the press would pay even more attention to them, and soon enough, she probably wouldn't be able to keep anything private from prying eyes and ears. The idea of it terrified her. She'd been her own person for so long, with no one paying any mind to her, that she didn't know how she would handle having the spotlight on her. She marveled at those who dealt with the press and gossip on a regular basis. How did they do it? Surely they couldn't enjoy having people talk about them like the greatest scandal in the universe!

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Linnea reached up and pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to clear her head and relax. She didn't want to worry about all that rubbish yet.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

It had been quite a while since Solange had come to visit her grandparents. Right after her grandmother had passed away she had tried to make a habit of bringing flowers to the grave every Sunday. Her grandmother had started the habit after her grandfather had passed away and Solange had tried to keep the tradition going. But after a while, the time between visits got longer and longer. Now she hadn't been in probably two months or more. Guilt hit her hard because she knew that this was not an entirely selfless visit.

She finally found her grandparents shared plot that rested beneath a large shady tree, a bench almost directly across from it. She smiled sadly as she always did, taking comfort that the two of them were together even after their death. She knelt in grass and pulled out the old flowers from the vase in the headstone. They were long ago wilted and dead and she set them to the side to be reclaimed by the earth. In their place she put fresh new lilies that she had brought, smiling as she touched the headstone gently. "Bonjour, grand-père, grand-mère,"she whispered tenderly.

She rose and went to sit on the bench, huddling further into her coat. She wasn't really sure where to begin exactly. After the kiss (or kisses, really) between her and Tristan she had been left utterly confused. She didn't really know where they stood anymore. They hadn't exactly gotten around to addressing the state of relationship. He'd said he wanted to go out with her but there was a distinct difference between going out with someone and actually having a relationship with them.

"Grand-mère, you remember Tristan," she murmured quietly. "I know you do, obviously. What I'm really asking, I guess, is if you remember that promise you had me make? To take care of him? I...I'm doing my best. Things have gotten a little complicated between us lately. I'm not sure where exactly we're heading right now. I could really use your advice right now to figure this all out,"

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan hated bringing bouquets to the graveyard. Bouquets were flowers, snipped at their prime of life and they would eventually – quickly, actually – turn brown and die. There were enough dead things in cemeteries. In fact, Tristan spent so much time around dead things in general that he usually didn’t buy cut flowers as a principle. So today, when visiting Jacqui’s gravesite, Tristan brought a potted hellebore; winter roses, as they were called, would stay in bloom all winter until April. Not that Tristan expected the plant to still be there in spring. The groundskeeper always came by to clean up tombstones within the week. Still. It was the thought that mattered.

He looked totally in place, driving his hearse through the cemetery. However, there was no one inside except Tristan. This was a personal visit. One of gratitude, really. Well, gratitude and confusion.

Yesterday, Tristan had kissed Solange. Or, more accurately, she had kissed him first. Yelled at him, too, a bit. But that wasn’t the important part. Solange had kissed him and he’d kissed her back. For the last few months, Tristan had wondered and desperately wanted to know what it would be like to kiss Solange. And nearly twenty-four hours after getting his answer, Tristan could still taste her lips.

If Jacqui had told him nearly a year ago that one day, he would have fallen head-over-feet for Solange, Tristan would have laughed. At the time, he hadn’t even known Solange. And once he’d met her… Well… They’d gotten off to a shaky start. Given the circumstances, though, there was no other way they could have started. When they’d met, both Tristan and Solange were focused on keeping a business afloat and doing their best not to openly grieve Jacqui’s death. It had been a difficult time, to say the least.

Tristan wondered if this was what Jacqui would have wanted for them or if he’d failed her completely. She’d said “watch out for Solange”, not “make out with Solange”. And though Tristan wasn’t always one to follow instructions, he knew the difference between the two. And, yes, he’d watched Solange. Perhaps too closely in retrospect.

He threw the hearse into park on the dirt path reserved for funerary vehicles and stepped out into the chilly, February air. He picked the hellebore up and carried it with him towards Jacqui’s grave. It was a path he well knew. He’d conducted the funeral himself; he visited monthly to report back on how things were going. He treated it almost like a staff meeting, usually, or a business lunch, telling Jacqui how the business was going, how Solange was adjusting, occasionally soliciting advice that never came. But he didn’t get too personal usually. At first because he didn’t want to complain about Solange to Jacqui. She was her granddaughter. Granddaughter trumped ex-boss any day. Later, because he wouldn’t have been complaining and he didn’t want to dwell. Sometimes, he brought sketches to the tombstone and left them there a little shyly. It was a less personable relationship in death than it had been in life. And for that, Tristan felt guilty to get all weird and personal now.

But if anyone knew what to do about Solange, it would be Jacqui. And if anybody could give him their blessing about dating her, it was also Jacqui. Of course, Jacqui could also make Tristan feel guilty without saying a word. She’d been that way in life; even death wouldn’t change that.

Tristan’s feet crunched against the fresh snow. It was still early enough in the day that foot traffic hadn’t disrupted much of the cemetery. But suddenly, Tristan’s feet weren’t crunching nearly as much. He looked down to see that his foot covered a smaller, more delicate print. He stopped walking and followed the trail with his eyes. It led to Jacqui’s grave. And at the end of the trail, was Solange.

Her dark hair gleamed in the sunlight, standing in stark contrast to the grey and white surrounding her. At the base of Jacqui’s gravestone was a vase of flowers that Tristan could only assume Solange had brought with her.

Tristan wasn’t a superstitious guy. He couldn’t afford to be in his profession. But if there was such a thing as signs, this was one. He took a deep breath and walked towards her.

“Hey,” he said quietly. With one arm, he clutched the hellebore plant to his chest. The other arm hung loose at his side awkwardly. Tristan gave a little half-wave with it. He grimaced at his own ineptness. “I can come back another time if you and your grandmother are busy.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

The air was still and silent as she sat there after asking her grandmother for advice. She obviously didn't expect a direct answer. This wasn't a Disney film and ghosts of dead relatives didn't magically appear to guide you and tell you what to do. Yet she was sort of hoping for something; some feel or sign. Then she heard the sounds of footsteps crunching in the snow and she glanced up to see Tristan approaching her, a pot of flowers in his arm.

For a brief moment she recalled a time not too long ago. 9 months ago, actually. Her grandmother had just passed away and she was an absolute mess. She had been 21 and knew almost nothing about arranging a funeral, nor was she in any kind of state to plan one for her grandmother. Tristan had approached her then and told her in a calming voice not to worry about it, that he'd take care of it. At the time she had simply nodded and that was that. She had never really told him how grateful she was for what he'd done.

“Hey,” he said, his voice bringing her back to the present. He gave a small half-wave with his free hand that made her smile slightly. “I can come back another time if you and your grandmother are busy.”

She shook her head and waved him over, scooting to the side to make room for him on the bench. "No, it's okay. I don't mind. I don't think she will either," she said with a smile. She waited for him to join her on the bench and she found herself reaching for his hand, lacing her fingers with his. She was rather glad of his sudden presence. Coming back was harder than she had thought it would be and she glad to have him there with her.

"It's just still really hard, you know," she said with a sigh, glancing at the grave. "I still really miss her. I definitely should come more often." She turned and glanced up at him now. "I never did thank you for taking care of her funeral. It was really great of you," she said with a nod. "So thank you. It meant a lot to me even if I didn't show it."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan felt like he’d just intruded on something intensely private, like a prayer or a telephone conversation. The last thing he wanted to do was hang around, waiting his turn. He and Solange hadn’t spoken after they’d kissed; not about anything important, anyways. There had been funerals to oversee, orders to place, bodies to tend. There simply hadn’t been any time, since they were booked solid. Tristan wished that wasn’t true. If they’d gotten a chance to just talk about the kissing, maybe he’d know what to do now. Maybe he’d know whether he should just let Solange have her space.

But Solange shook her head and slid over on the bench, indicating he join her with a wave of her hand. A small smile touched her lips.

"No, it's okay. I don't mind,” said Solange. [n]“I don't think she will either."[/b]

Tristan returned Solange’s smile shyly. Then, as if making an offering, he turned to Jacqui’s grave and placed the potted hellebore plant beside the vase Solange had brought. He took a step back to look at them – these splashes of color against the grey stone – before turning to sit with Solange.

It was silent except the street traffic beyond the cemetery gates. A gentle breeze played with the end of Tristan’s scarf and tousled Solange’s hair. He looked over at her when she took his hand. Her fingers were chilly. How long had she sat there alone? Tristan squeezed Solange’s hand, hoping that his hands were still warm enough to do her some good.

Tristan wanted to say something, but found himself at a loss for words. Usually when he was here, he was full of useful platitudes. She’s in a better place. She’s not in any more pain. She would want you to be happy. But Solange had heard them all before; she’d heard Tristan say them to total strangers. What good were platitudes, anyways?

The things Tristan wanted to say couldn’t be translated into any language he knew. He glanced at Jacqui’s grave, maybe for divine inspiration. Nothing came. So he looked back at Solange, hoping he didn’t have to say anything and that for now, just being there to hold her hand was good enough.

"It's just still really hard, you know," she said with a sigh, glancing at the grave. "I still really miss her. I definitely should come more often."

Tristan nodded. He made trips to this cemetery at least once a week, but he visited Jacqui’s grave much less often. Often enough to ensure that her burial site was treated with respect by the cemetery staff, but not often enough by far. He and Solange looked at each other.

"I never did thank you for taking care of her funeral. It was really great of you," she said.

Tristan blinked. His eyes stung; he blamed the cold. But he’d never expected Solange to thank him. A few months ago, he would have wanted her to. It would have only been right. Now, the thanks made him feel slick and empty inside. Usually, when someone thanked him for doing his job, Tristan responded graciously. Of course. I’m so sorry for your loss. When Gwen had thanked him for the cremation ceremony for her stillborn daughter, Tristan had hugged her and said, “Of course. You’re family.” But this was Solange. She wasn’t just another mourner and she sure as hell wasn’t Gwen. Tristan sucked in his cheeks.

"So thank you. It meant a lot to me even if I didn't show it," Solange finished.


“Don’t,” he said, voice crackling over his vocal cords. “Don’t thank me. Please. It was… It wasn’t just another job. It was Jacqui; I would have done anything for her.”

He sighed and turned sideways on the bench.

“Solange, you know – Well, maybe you don’t know – but I would do anything for you, too. Before Jacqui… When she was still working for me, Jacqui said if anything happened to her, that she wanted me to watch out for you. And Jacqui’s funeral… that was a part of that.”

It had also been Tristan’s way to say goodbye to the woman who had put her faith in him when he was some dumb kid with no reputation, no experience. If anyone else had performed Jacqui’s service, it would have been the same as spitting on her grave. And it had helped Tristan to know he was the one to ease Jacqui into the next life. Whatever that entailed.

He looked at Solange, hesitant to speak again, but he cleared his throat.

“But whatever’s been going on between us,” he said, unable to find a word for the feelings that he’d had for Solange. Love sounded so serious, so definite. But to say he cared about her or that he liked her was absolutely inadequate. He took a deep breath. “Whatever’s been going on between us isn’t a part of that. That’s something… else.”

[blueeyeddevil]

+Solange de Grace

What Tristan had done for her by taking care of her grandmother's funeral, taking on all the arrangements himself, was something almost intangible. Not only had he taken on the burden of planning the funeral himself, he had given a broken young woman a sense of peace. He had helped her in a time when she had no one else she could turn to. He didn't even seem to realize what that had meant to her, never brought it up again. And only now, 9 months later, she was finally finding the courage to thank him.

“Don’t,” he said in a slightly strangled voice and she frowned, worried she had somehow insulted him instead of portraying her gratitude. “Don’t thank me. Please. It was… It wasn’t just another job. It was Jacqui; I would have done anything for her.”

She gave a watery smile, nodding in understanding. Sometimes she forgot just how close of friends Tristan and her grandmother had been. Her grandmother had always said that Tristan was just like family to her. It had been part of the reason she'd made Solange take her old job, so she could watch out for him the way her grandmother had. Well, maybe not in the same way. She watched as Tristan turned to face her now, something obviously on his mind.

“Solange, you know – Well, maybe you don’t know – but I would do anything for you, too. Before Jacqui… When she was still working for me, Jacqui said if anything happened to her, that she wanted me to watch out for you. And Jacqui’s funeral… that was a part of that.” he said and for a moment Solange was stunned by what he'd said. Her grandmother had asked him to watch over her? “But whatever’s been going on between us. Whatever’s been going on between us isn’t a part of that. That’s something… else.”

She gave a fond smile towards the grave and shook her head. "Oh, Grand-mère," she murmured as it became more apparent what she had been doing. Solange looked back up at Tristan now. "You don't know this but before she passed she asked me to watch out for you. She begged me to take over her old job. She wanted me to take care of you." She thought for a moment. "Do you think she was trying to push us together?" she asked.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

When Tristan finished speaking, Solange didn’t look at him. Instead, she threw a smile to Jacqui’s grave and murmured something under her breath. Tristan waited until she turned to look at him again.

"You don't know this but before she passed she asked me to watch out for you,” Solange said. This revelation brought a skeptical look spark to Tristan’s eyes. Watch out for him? Did he seem like he needed particular watching over? He thought about all the mornings he was running behind because he’d spent the night tagging. The time he sliced his hand open with a scalpel in the embalming room. Or the morning he’d come into work with a hangover – and caused Solange to have one, too. Maybe he needed as much – or more – looking after than Solange did. “She begged me to take over her old job. She wanted me to take care of you."

Tristan rubbed his hand over his mouth and chin. Behind his fingers, was a lopsided smile. He looked over at Jacqui’s grave and shook his head. He’d seen and heard some odd last requests, weird wills, and strange traditions. But this was some fancy footwork; tricky. Jacqui must have worried about them more than she let on.

"Do you think she was trying to push us together?" Solange asked.

Tristan looked back at her, dizzy as though his head was waterlogged. He’d thought for sure that the kisses they’d shared had been some sort of miracle or else the culmination of their awkward flirting. But hearing that someone might have been pulling the strings – and that that someone was Jacqui – sent him reeling; Tristan didn’t believe in predetermination of any sort. But if Solange was right, he’d have to beware. De Grace women were tricky.

“Are we together?” he asked. “We never actually decided.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Solange had never known her grandmother to play matchmaker the way many grandmothers and mothers did. Her grandmother had always seemed perfectly content with being single and had been overly proud of a granddaughter at Cambridge. The idea that Solange was going to go on and get a PhD in psychology from such a prestigious school was what she had always bragged to other people about. But it seemed like she worried about leaving Solange along in the world and had help fate along a little bit.

She could see the amusement flickering behind Tristan's blue eyes as he looked back at her grandmother's grave. It was obvious he was making the same connections she was. She asked his opinion on the subject, wondering if he thought her grandmother had been pushing them towards each other in hopes of them taking care of each other after she was gone.

“Are we together?” Tristan asked. “We never actually decided.”

It hadn't exactly been what she meant, but it was certainly a fair question. It took her a long moment to think it over. She gazed down at their entwined hands. Was this what her grandmother had been trying to make happen? There were so many landmines that could be triggered by an office relationship...it was taboo for a reason. And yet she couldn't just ignore what it seemed they both felt and she honestly wanted to see where it would take them. She wanted to see the other version of herself she'd become by being with Tristan.

"I...I'd like for us to be together," she told him, a smile flickering to her lips.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Despite the cold, Tristan would have sworn his palms were sweating. A reel of possibilities started to roll through his mind. Solange could say no. And there were probably a hundred thousand reasons for her to say no. He was her boss. He was clumsy. He told bad jokes at the worst times. He had crazy hours. He tagged buildings in his spare time. Some catch he was.

But there was one really, really good reason for Solange to say “yes”. Even if he hadn’t promised Jacqui that he would take care of Solange, Tristan would do his absolute best to make her happy. For as long as Solange would have him, Tristan would do everything in his power to keep her smiling.

"I...I'd like for us to be together," Solange said.


“Me too,” Tristan reached up to stroke Solange’s cheek. His fingers curled under her chin to pull her close for a kiss. But he stopped just shy of her lips. Then, teasing, his lips brushing hers, he murmured, “Can I kiss you now or…?”