Chapter Text
Darkness lurks about the city, long settled on the buildings throughout the night. It eats away all the light, eagerly swallowing the world. Remy Lebeau stirs as his alarm blares. It shrieks over and over.
Remy groans and hits the alarm clock. As soon as he is awake, he feels all the same feelings that sleep had made vanish with its dreamy fluff.
It feels like the day after a holiday. All extended family has left; no more big feasts to be had. Just a void of emptiness, with mess from presents and food to clean up still lying all around. Hollow and tired. With none of the lingering joy that comes with the holiday.
Remy rubs his chest. It would almost be better if his chest actually hurt. Or if he could feel anything other than numb. It feels like sitting in a pool of water, with everything muffled and hazy all about. If he could, he would likely spend all day asleep. Find something that would knock him out and let him sleep through the day and the night. Never have to wake up and face the day. Never have to face the fact that he is waking up in a foreign bed once again and is still so, so far from home. A majority of his soul wishes to remain lying down in the too firm mattress and waste the day away hiding from the words.
But... He has work to do. A whole cafe is dependent on him. Just him. Omar, who had taught him the ropes of running the cafe down below these small rooms he now lives in, had left over a week ago. Leaving Remy truly alone. Omar had told him everything about running the Bean Vault, a cafe that acted as a money laundering front, safehouse, and at times a storehouse for the items that needed to be taken back to the vault.
Remy sits up and shifts out of bed. He sighs. One leg forward, then the next. Out into the darkness of the room. He ignores the shut triptic, not up for morning prayer. He also leaves the rosary behind, heart sagging heavy with guilt and from the belief that he might just have put himself beyond redemption. Out of God's caring hands, where even Mother Mary dare not come to comfort him.
He drags himself to the bathroom, flicking on the light. He winces at the brightness of the light and averts his eyes from the burning artificial glow. He presses a hand to his worn eyes, exhausted and wishing that he had been able to sleep without the nightmares that had twisted his miserable sin and thrust it into his mind throughout the night. Remy grabs a bottle of Advil after scrubbing his face and stares into the mirror.
Pale.
Thin.
He looks like a shambling corpse.
He puts the Advil down. It would make him sleepy, and the siren call of the bed would be impossible to ignore then.
Remy bends his head and twitches a little, demon eyes lingering on the sink top. He brushes out his hair, brushes his teeth, and shaves. He goes back into the bedroom and dresses, pulling his hair back into a short ponytail. He pauses and then picks up the rosary, the first he had touched it in the month he had been exiled.
Turning on the ovens is almost second nature as he trails through the kitchen. He starts mixing and rolling, prepping muffins and sweet bread. Cinnamon rolls and croissants. Cookies. He finishes prep and lets them cook, slipping to the front of the house to start up the coffee machines. His eyes flick about.
The Bean Vault is a sturdy little coffee shop that has been run by the Thieves Guild since forever. The floors are a rich, dark wood that Remy keeps immaculately clean. It matches the wood of the tables, chairs, and outlines of the booths. The rich blue walls are decorated in medieval manuscript-inspired paintings and flowers arching across the wall. They loop and wind, interrupted by the booths, counter, and the bookcase. The bookcase is a take a book and share a book library that Remy keeps neat and orderly.
The front windows that frame the door are stained glass; depicting a saint on each side. Remy often spends closing time faithfully wiping away the dust that had formed throughout the day on the scenes. The light coming in clearly through the panes helps just a tiny bit with the empty holes in his soul.
One of the scenes is Saint George artfully bent over the neck of his pale steed, lance inches away from the dragon's neck. Princess Sabrina stands behind him, hands clutching tightly at her wedding regalia.
Sometimes Remy wishes that someone would ride in like Saint George and stab at the internal demons that keep him from being able to feel. And sometimes he wishes that he could be slain like the dragon so that the world would be free of him.
The other stained glass window is a scene of Saint Dismas on the cross, eyes turned up towards heaven. Some less educated in religion thought it was Christ, but it lacked the symbols of Christ the Redeemer. Plus, it had a name plate clear below the man’s feet. Remy wonders if the pentitant thief had ever killed someone.
…
Likely not. But the thought hits him near daily as he cleans the man whose eyes are on heaven.
Both stained glass pieces have the crest of the guild tucked in the corner, a sign to those in the know what this place is at its heart.
There had been a handful of complaints about these scenes over the years, according to Omar. But the building had been secured as a historical landmark, and no one could get the panes of glass removed. Remy is glad. He thinks he may have lost it more completely without the Saints guarding his door.
Remy flicks on the lights, eyes lingering on the saints that defend the door. Remy hopes that he is still worth protecting in the eyes of the saints he often beseeched.
He sighs and flips the sign to open after glancing over the deep blue walls. Remy wipes the counter and settles into cleaning the already spotless areas of the cafe.
He pulls the chairs down. He straightens the books on the shelves and tucks away the loose odds and ends.
Regulars come in gentle waves, never a true surge of customers, and rarely anyone new. It had taken forever and a day for the regulars to get used to the new face. Remy knows his eyes did not help.
Dawn starts to creep through to city, while Remy’s little sign on the Bean vault has been flipped to open for a good long while. Dawn stretches out, lingering gold and rosy pink in some areas while leaving others dark and shadowed.
Remy glances out the window while ringing up a customer, unable to help himself from thinking about how much prettier dawn was at home. Almost like a different angel conducted the business of heralding the day here in Bayville. In New Orleans, the dawn would set the city ablaze in glory and shimmering delight. Here, the dawn slithers and creeps, timidly dropping her colors against the dull, boring buildings and carelessly missing areas. But those shadows are not the friendly ones of home that hid the thieves safely. No, these shadows are lurking, dangerous, and potentially hungry.
Remy shoves away the thought because it's making his heart clench and his eyes wet.
Hours pass blankly.
He makes orders, makes coffee, and cleans.
Nothing seems to permeate the hollowness of his chest or heart. Closing time comes right at five, and he gently shuffles out the stragglers before starting his end-of-day clean.
He wipes the tables, ears full of the music playing from the speaker, puts up the chairs, and scrubs the floors. He then moves to the windows with a rag and pauses for a second on St. George's face.
“I dunno that I be doin’ the right thing. I know I've done wrong. Not been brave enough to get to the confessional. Didnt mean too- mais you probably never killed without meaning it though, non?”
Remy wipes the face. He needs a priest. His soul is so soaked in sin that he can practically taste the sulfur tang of Hell's air. But he is
But he is not brave enough.
St. George seems to give him a look.
“Just… send help. s'il te plaît.”
He finishes wiping both saints and fiddles with his rosary.
He really should eat.
Should go out.
Get some sun and hair and…
The thought spins his gut. He takes a breath.
He knows his papa would be sad if he just gave up.
So he gets a cup of coffee, a muffin, and goes up to the roof to sit. He stares up at the sky, watching the sky. The clouds drift along slowly across the sky.. He slowly starts to feel a tinge of… something. Slipping throthe hollowness and pure miser that rests in his chest. He breathes deeply.