Cal Remington

List of Cal's Character Tropes

"Man Who Escapes Public Execution at Least Twice a Day says 'He Had No Idea'"

The Luck of This Man Defies Physics

Himbo Prince

Mr. Optimism

English Nobleman

"Man lists Smoking, Drinking, and other Careless Life Choices as Key to Longevity."

Talented Against Everyone's Lowest Expectations

Anti-Work

Scandal Survivor

"Audience Stunned Man is Well-Adjusted In Spite of Father's Death at Young Age. Public Reevaluates Others."

Womanizer is Actually a Pretty Nice Guy

Only Child Gains Protective Sister and Brother 45 Years Later

she smooths over her own elation, the image conjured some part absurd, some part complete truth. some loving gesture to be taken as whatever she wants it to be. that they will make it over the finish line together, whatever that might be. wherever it might take them— far from the marbled galleries of old. the light finds its way to bury itself again, reminders of time and place have her step a tile back. her eyes find their way back to the painting. 

“who knows when these parties end.” guests lingering just as long as they possibly can in the presence of art or power, the intoxicating mix of both. stragglers used to find their way into the morning, but now she finds that privacy is the most profitable gesture to offer one’s host. will everyone play by such rules, only time will tell. “tomorrow i might find a pair of running shoes.”

"Might wake up to a pair at the foot of the bed, will I?" he murmurs back. His eyes slip over to her, that gleam of a boyish tease in them that desires more of her laugh than anything else, perhaps color on her cheeks. She's taken her step while he stays where he is, distance of no matter when it's close enough to still talk underneath the din that blankets them. There's always optimism shining brightly from him, a glow that becomes warmer at the image of her knocking on his door.

the heat of his arm against hers, a slight, unobservable pressure, coils something in her stomach that has no easy description. her instinct is love, delight, the easy knowing that in any situation he might find his way to her. the next layer anxiety, stress, the building fear that there was in fact someone who could see right through her, read her mind and see that there was hardly room for her own husband in her heart any more. there might be a slew of topics for him to run towards her for, she can think of one thousand more to keep the sane person away— but what was love but a mad girl’s song. 

“depends on the finish.” she thinks only of standing in the doorway of his home, the peace that washes over her when she stands int he kitchen and finds only calm between them. ophelia’s expression offers her little help, only a sense of the helpless drowning that heavy layers provide, weighing oneself down in subtext until there is no easy answer. still, she ventures to try and invite herself anyways, the bravest she might get while the room is still crowded with those waiting to speak to mrs. reeves. “to home?”

They could have been standing anywhere. Surrounded by priceless artworks, underneath northern lights, in the middle of Piccadilly Circus; she was the crown jewel against a black backdrop. Couldn't help but give her a winding smile, the kind of smile that's folded away a shared secret close to the chest, safe from prying eyes, near enough to peek at.

THE THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR (1999)

Cal Remington as Thomas Crown

“I don’t know how you survive with Siobhan in the thick of it with you,” Tomas wasn’t sure if it was admiration or fear that he felt to his director at the way he handles things. He gave Melly an apologetic smile, but perhaps an A.D. that has worked with him before already knew his ways and already planned ahead of these extra cushion time. Tomas peeked into the crate as Cal cracked a small opening and he looked back to Cal with a small frown, “isn’t that dangerous?” Probably a good thing this wasn’t the Boy Venus set with how much fire play they had going on in that show. Time to make a mental note of that, which prop to avoid, but then again, how many more props are hidden with alcohol?

“Ha.. I wish,” it would’ve been an interesting experience should they have actually gone out of the country. A light shook of the head was in response to the question asked, eyes revealing a solemn, nostalgic smile, “no- not really, I’m more Northern European so.. I never really got to travel down too far.” France was as South as he had gone. “Have you? I know Roman cuisine is really unique.”

"Scary sort of business, innit? Not for the faint of heart, it's not." His grin tells otherwise, a spiral of jest tangled in the short smile he throws to Tomas between cracking open the bottle he's retrieved. There's a look returned, not so much to him, but to the very bottle that's without its cap at the moment. "Dangerous?" It's a word that's seemingly plucked out of Tomas' mouth and juggled about, where it lands, no one knows. The glass is brought closer, a small whiff taken before glancing back. "Might be on the scent of something there," he agrees before raising it to toast. "Won't tell if you don't."

Good moods are hard to ruin when they belong to one Remington, who is already pouring some into that metal tumbler of his that once housed a vodka cranberry. He's ever the gracious host, an offer to share passed along while conversation goes on in the forefront. "Shame, that! Would've gone down a treat for you, it would. Been to Rome before, yeah. Brilliant little thing called Prosecco there. Serve it during all hours, they do."

“girls do love clothes.” there’s nothing concrete in her statement, the kind of nebulous shrug that just means that she likes buying new clothes. it was the whole reason why she’d tried her hand at costume designing, the pops of color. “i can’t make a swim suit, but i could totally make a cover up.” something crocheted with flowers to match. call that an installation and collaboration— she was nearly warhol. 

“that’s perfect! i mean if she’s a collector, what’s a better gift?” people liked to have unique things, and she liked to help work on them. life was about the experiences, no matter where they came from and what they lead to. “she’s so welcome to have the first original clem.” although she’s not quite sure who the she in question is, it doesn’t exactly matter. the point is not to add to a gallery, but to help cal. and he seems just as excited at the prospect. “i mean it’ll kind of be yours too, if you wanted to share.” different plaque names pop in to her head, all dependent on his answer. was it for a woman, was it for a couple, only one person knew and it wasn’t her. “the cover up can be all hers though.”

"Would be brilliant, that would. Could always have a bit of a swim in about anything, yeah?" What did he know about fashion or clothes at all? A cover-up conjured up about as much to him as anything else, something in the mind that resembled a dressing gown, something to wrap around her with a little belt at the waist. Nothing much to it but the most basic outline. "Don't think she'd let me have a quick gander if that was all there was to it, do you?" he asked, a grin tickling his face in jest before hiding it up behind a drink.

There was a great many deal of things to share. Clem brings up the idea straight from the back of his head, a smile left behind from the dig, as easy to uncover as the rest. "Course! Though, won't be able to say no if she wants it all to herself, have to say. Will have to make it out to the both of us otherwise, yeah? The duchess and me." It had a particular ring to it, one that echoed through the glow offered up to the artist in front of him. "Nothing to worry yourself over. Wouldn't dream of taking her cover-up away from her! Would make me a bit of a rogue, it would. Can't have that any."

she’s not sure if the wink aimed at her pales her or makes her flush, an influx of emotions that she hadn’t been prepared for in the slightest. these events were already high-strung affairs, she knew at some points eyes would be on her. she just hoped they were not at the moment when cal remington winked at her, and she didn’t turn away. 

“what topic would do that?” she turned back towards the painting as though she were asking about something as innocuous as the weather, though her voice was too quiet for anyone else near to pick up on. the betrayal was in tone alone, that she dared to ask such a thing in the house she shared with her husband was a different problem completely. perhaps one she does not have to immediately answer for. “not shakespeare.”

“totally. she’s like really smart.” the mention of shakespeare was some academic stamp of approval, as if all it took was the ability to read through a play. hamlet was long though, that had to count for something. “she’ll definitely get it.” lots of colorful flowers, most of them going in the pool.  “it’s like the pinnacle of romance, you know?”

she takes another sip of the shake in front of her— birthday cake maybe, and looks like she’s in thought. but when she speaks, the track is simple “it’s like an art installation. i’ve never done one.” and that alone is the reason to do one. her life is just an endless bucket list, where she takes on the challenges as they come and spurs the narrative on. if she could do it and the opportunity presented itself, why shouldn’t she. “i mean it’s just for two people but i like art. i’ll put up a plaque.”

"Don't know the half of it. Clever as it gets! Runs circles ‘round the lot of us, she does." Proud of her as if she was his and his alone, utterly without claim yet acting as if it was a matter of destiny instead of marriage license. It was the daydreamer's will. He was in good company, fanning the clouds, spreading them further together until crashing them into reality. "Might need a new bather to wear, she might. Been trying to have her take a swim with me for the longest. Might just do the trick, all this," he added with a charmed grin, somehow boyish in its playful virtues.

"Could do with a plaque," he encouraged, enthralled already by the idea with a fist propping up the side of his head in thought. "Adds on to what she has hanging already that way, yeah? Makes it a bit of her collection, that does. An original Clem, hasn't got one of those yet! Time to change all that, innit?"

“Well– plenty of others to spread the love around,” Tomas tried to deflect any further offerings of the fiery liquid, knowing it was definitely a terrible idea. He’s pretty sure there’s some policy that said no to being intoxicated during work unless the nature calls for it. Dunkirk didn’t seem like it would require him intoxicated at all. He limply reacted to the pat, shoulder shifting with the sudden weight on it that added to the surmounting pressure already resting on them. Any more and it might topple him over. Yet Tomas managed a passing laugh, still being able to process Cal’s words underneath the worries, “damn, what did you do to have earned that?” A rhetorical question, easily imagining what small little issues could easily get his own name right beside Cal’s. Tomas shook his head at the offer, reaching over his bag for his own bottle - only with the good old h2o, “no I– I’m good. Can’t waste too much time, I’m sure the AD would be pulling her hair out if we dragged on further..” he paused bringing his own bottle to his lips and exhaled out dmsome of the anxieties, “your call, whenever to start again.”

Tomas scoffed as he shrugged off an answer, “not really, not yet for me at least.” When you’re stuck in a middle of a moment like this, things never seem to see the end of the tunnel to get better, get easier. “Oh- the first-? That was..” Interesting? Memorable? Traumatising? Exposing? Anxiety inducing? Depressing? Feeling like if you didn’t get casted maybe your own director would’ve been still alive? “Boy Venus was.. well- I.. I got through it, I guess.” That was the best he could really say, huh? There were a lot of mixed feelings and large baggage that came with that film. Tomas still wasn’t sure even till today if he truly processed it all. Find something easier to talk about. “Um- we didn’t actually get to go to Rome though.. did everything in the studios..” a soft sigh if disappointment escaped his lips as his hands held on to his bottle like a safety blanket. “Would’ve been nice, maybe.”

"Oh, all a bit of the usual, innit? Always in the thick of it, I am. Nothing but trouble," he joked, grinning with boyish pride, as if he was the child who couldn't help but give unintended grief to mother Siobhan. He lived up to it in mild cases, proving it with Tomas, attempting to share what could only be spoiled towards disaster. As it so often went, though, there was only one of them that understood the potential of extended delays and missed deadlines, and it surely wasn't Cal. "Melly?" The A.D. was glanced at while he made himself at home on the edge of one of the set props--an empty supply crate for the soldiers, brief wonder if they had gotten a pack of smokes while he took a drag of the one lit between his fingers. "Mm!" Sudden thought made the smoke stream before he withdrew it, waving it slightly with another smile. "Could use a livener, then! Will save her some. Should buck right up after a belt or two of this, she should," he assured, poking open the side of the crate to show off the hidden vodka bottle the tumbler must have been sourced from.

He had heard bits and pieces of Boy Venus. Who hadn't? Nasty sort of business what with Jessie gone and whatnot, but doesn't make for good conversation. "Couldn't tell the difference! Could've sworn by it you had all packed up and left for it," he went on with a shake of his head, dusting the ash off to the side. "Have you been? Beautiful sort of scenery. Can have yourself a glass of shiraz whilst looking over the piazza, you can. Not a bad time to have, not at all."

“totally.” she didn’t know for sure, or if it was the kind of fact that she’d known at some point, it was no longer made of anything concrete. his reasoning felt sound enough for her, white shirts to tie dye wardrobes, flowers in the same light. “daisies are a dream.” and just like that, the alliteration has shattered any pattern of thought, another milkshake is taken up with a long sip. 

she tends to have the run of any place she enters, the idea of boundaries or propriety never exactly solidified. the time in which it might have happened, those foundational years in virginia, had no roots. and so she nodded along at the idea of taking over cal’s house as though it were her own. a playground where in the only requirement was that there were flowers. “you want a surprise too! i can do that.” words said without any thought to back them up, but she was sure that it would come to fruition all the same. good things always did. “flowers in the pool! you’re a genius.” there was a dim recognition that the idea did come from artwork, but she could only think of one, “that’s so monet.”

"Had a hand in all that, Monet did, didn't he?" He chuckles, lightness in his lungs, wonder in his breath. Something of flowers in a pond, a bridge, maybe. It stirs familiar images enough to stitch together into a masterpiece before it lands off to the side. Ophelia takes up more room. "All to do with Shakespeare, this one," he goes on. "Has it hanging up in her wing. Standing proud, it is!" What did he need to know of tragic backstories? This was no suicide attempt; it was splendid peace, a dip in the water with fresh blooms surrounding her. "Wouldn't mind her having a swim in it, flowers in her hair and all."

He looks to be beaming, a proper sun to melt all the milkshakes at their booth while his arms fold atop the table. "Can't have you doing all this for naught," he tells her with a smile plastered on. "Has to be something you fancy, yeah?"

she watches her comment grow in his mind. first only responded to, and then flourishing with the anecdote that comes along with it. it’s been so long since she’s heard mention of family, how they could still be in the present tense, that they could contribute to different parts of his life. cal has a mother, and she’s still alive. something about it warms her heart, she takes another sip of champagne to disguise the feeling with something more substantive. there was no use in expanding on such thoughts here, the last thing she needed was to draw attention to herself by tearing up in front of the ophelia, so she smiles back at him, she only wants to say that she’ll teach him, that she can show his mother, and it is the only thing that she cannot say. 

“it’s probably better that way.” she sighed, looking upon the wretch in her melodious lay. it wasn’t that she was particularly well educated on the topic, but axe always had a way to make sure she understood the messages that were being conveyed. she was merely the editor of them, hardly the first step towards creation. “i’m no shakespeare scholar.” the end of her academic studies had been weighted down with course credits for the time she spent at the axed! offices, a supplement for her education given in hard work and the learning experiences of her own life. could she say that she had missed out on anything, she doesn’t think so, she doesn’t know. “but happy endings don’t feature in a lot of them.” even her juliet, lay dead next to the boy she loved. 

“sorry, hardly a topic a hostess should bring up.” the self deprecation rings hollow to her, but she doesn’t know how to navigate back to safer ground before she says something that she shouldn’t, hints at something that she has to take back. “we’re just here for the art.”

He's always been a light of optimism, a pure embodiment of ignorance being blissful. Her spoken thoughts roll around in his mind, keeping the skull company until they're churned into something brighter, shinier, glistening in the eyes in contrast to the clouds that occupied hers. "Shouldn't bother finishing any of them, eh?" That was fine by him. No happy endings? Couldn't be anything of interest to him, and yet he's still pleased to continue on if that was to stay as the topic for the night, would find a way to enliven it, to drum up some spark for her. "Will put my hands up," he swayed in her direction, voice lowered as if some secret was being conveyed. "Haven't much started on one. Only caught up in the middle of a few whilst in class. All Greek to me."

“orchids.” she answers the question that hasn’t been asked, giving away her answer in a murmur. giving it away even though it hasn’t been asked of her, and the answer isn’t immediately assumed to be roses. it seemed every anniversary that’s what she had come to expect, even when the truth was only a question away, if it were ever to be asked at all. “they can be nice, if you tend to them.” purple blooms just needed a little more coaxing than most, free time that she hadn’t been able to devote to anything in the past. but she was finding her way to it now, to wanting to look after such a thing.

such tender buds of thought, dashed away at the portrait that he gestured to. the girl laying in the water, deliberately hung in in her section but kept displayed where no one could ignore it the way that they could with her landscapes and happier faces. “you know your shakespeare too?” although it’s obvious that she’s turned back inside herself at the conversation topic, she still lets him lead her further down the gallery, though the painting is obvious in placement, the sound carries less, and for that she will allow it. just the moment’s more reprieve. “it’s a bit much for her too.”

"Orchids, is it?" his voice gives way to a pleasant surprise, not at the answer per se but that there is an answer, and it's been shared with him to keep. It's a little sliver of information that he'll hold onto, store it close to him, share it only with a florist and a most trusted girl with sunflowers and daisies on the mind. There's no pretending that the smile it causes doesn't exist, particularly when he lets her have a clear view of it from the sidelong glance he sends her way. "Love a good orchid. Perfect sort to have tucked behind the ear, yeah? Bit of an image to keep." Lips curve even more, a grin that forgets where he is before being pried back to the paintings. "Can remember a few lady orchids," he goes on, a share for a share, information for information. "Didn't last all that long, hate to say. Always has more of a black thumb than a green one, mum does."

Cal's head tilts, a slight off-axis move that has him take a more thorough look at the woman in the water before a breath of a chuckle is heard. "That's where she's from, eh? Can’t be Juliet, can it? Leaves Ophelia, yeah?" In truth, it's a guess laced in a joke. Shakespeare couldn't fit within much of the schedule he led when it all mattered. "Never did finish the whole play," he confesses without shame, more of a tease than anything else. "Opens it to a chance at a happy ending that way. Earned herself one, she did. Can't have Hamlet taking all the shine away."

she doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying, but she can take a guess that it’s something simple. and yet it doesn’t matter when in comparison to the fact that he’s said anything at all. she can’t respond, but certainly the curve of her lips is enough in the moment. she is acutely aware that they’ve drifted from the party, mere inches away from creating a bubble of their own little world wherein she can laugh at what she’d like. but it’s not the case here, in her own galley. instead she settles for the continued exchange of details, as though it is enough to replace the feeling of his arms around her. 

“they just need some water, i’m sure she could take care of them.” if given the chance to, instead of being captured in their wilting state. but that was why she’d chosen the painting in the first place, some desire to keep all of the quiet women of the canvas protected. they were merely misunderstood in their moment, better to be kept in like company. she hadn’t thought that the details of which would ever be noticed, or commented upon with solution. “if violets even were her favorite.”

"She could, sure of it as anything," he agrees with a whole heart, willing to risk his entire being on one solitary act, as if his life is linked to the flowers in question as long as both are looked over by the same person. Maybe his viewpoint is skewed, affected by a wordless smile, brought on by spoken French, a little give and take between two, tête-à-tête, isn't it? He looks in wonder, half in jest, eyes dabbling over the painting before swaying back to Emma, a light flickering in them the moment they land on her.

"Don't reckon they are, eh?" There's amusement in the curve of his mouth as the words are formed, as if they're playing a game, where the rules are being drawn up as they go along. "Might have to be on the look out to see what she fancies, yeah? Will have to keep sending her some to see what all happens." His head gestured to the artwork down from the one featured before them, farther away from the rest of the crowd. "Just a splash of water too much for that bunch, innit?"

“oh it was totally funny. they were great at first.” there’s no reason on dwelling in the aftermath, even if it had involved hard work on someone else’s part. it hadn’t been hers. dimly aware of the repercussions of her actions only in the moment. if she survived it then everything was fine. they were great at first, what else mattered. and look at that, she had her apartment back and now she was helping with picking out flowers. she doesn’t know the name of most flowers, retained by sight alone she only focuses on the common ones. 

“everything.” she nodded sagely, as if it was even a possibility to accomplish such a task in a single afternoon. she took a sip of the first malt that had been offered to her. to an outside viewer, they could have almost been convinced that there was a rational thought flowing through her head. but then her mouth opened, “if they don’t have everything i’ll tie dye a bunch of daisies. then you can have every color.” another sip is taken. “can i pick the room?”

"Brilliant, that! Would've never thought to. All magic and mystery, that is." Who is he to doubt the possibility of dyeing flowers? Sounds all right by him, can't think of anything that would go against it, it surely is beyond him to know how, so why would there be a why not? "White ones, aren't they? The daisies, yeah? Bet they take color like a dream." And doesn't that just settle it? Always with a plan B, they are.

"Leave it up to you! Have the run of the place, you do. Could leave it a surprise for the both of us, you could! Bit of a treasure hunt of sorts. Have to follow the scent to have a look at them, yeah? Could even have them floating in the pool. Would do some good with that, it would. Has a painting like that, she does."

her paintings do not have placards of history for the passerby, it’s after all a gallery not a museum, but the proper names are easy to come by with a quick look at their curation guide. there must be a record of every investment kept somewhere, files of information that will make sure that the manets stay apart of the monets, and in between no one can just walk out of the house with something that doesn’t belong to them. she knows it’s her home, sometimes it has the tendency to feel exactly like the business they leave every day. 

“they keep these titles simple.” she finds herself wandering down the gallery, away from the chatter and click of glasses that populate the party. if anyone notices now, there is a pretense. she is showing a guest the art, she is a hostess, and the color is coming back to her expression, the life finds its way to grow in her voice. as though the sudden party had startled her, but she was emma once more. “or in french.” especially if it was a manet, stopping at the first canvas of a woman staring straight on and into their souls. she gestured to it with her glass, “berthe morisot,“ literal in execution. scanning the image for the part that she as missing before it came to her.  “with a bouquet of violets.”

“i think the title is forgivable, if the painting says enough.”

"En français?" he muses aloud, has that sway to him that always tips his hand, cards he's holding a suit of five aces with the smile to match the humored play. "Le parlez-vous?" England has its hooks in his French, charms it instead of refines it into a precise point. It's clear when he speaks it that it's more to tease her than impress her, is unashamed of the rust that's flaking off in the pronunciation when most of it is coated in natural confidence. It glides by just enough, allows him to stand in front of her painting before he finally turns away from her to look at it.

"Tells us all we need to know, it does," he agrees, voice serving as the nudge to her shoulder where his own shoulder doesn't, stays where it is, warmed by her touch in spirit only. "Could use a bit more on the violets, couldn't she? Bit wilted and the like. Could use a fresh sort." His eyes slip back to her, the woman beside him instead of the one created by brushstrokes and stretched canvas. "Don't have the faintest when I'll be seeing her again. Wouldn't mind passing them on if some made their way over, yeah?" His head tilted, turning her into co-conspirator in the lightest of crimes. "Can't have the mademoiselle without any color to her."