Isobel | Rapunzel (7am) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-02-05 08:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | gwen stacy, rapunzel |
Who: Simon & Isobel
What: Cousins converge for dinner
Where: Simon's place at Turnberry Place
When: Recently!
Warnings/Rating: Silliness?
Simon was rather at a loss.
Even his brief life with the Crowleys hadn't involved doormen and private elevators, and he didn't know what to make of any of it. But Simon was terribly good at pretending, and this situation was no different than countless others.
And so he'd spent the day pretending he'd grown up in such opulent wealth that he barely noticed opulence any longer. Doormen? Regular occurance. The interior designer that had appointed the Turnberry Place flat precisely to his liking? Old hat. The sheer amount of space? Nothing disconcerting, not a bit.
And if all that space made him think of the genesis of this money- No, it didn't. He'd not allow it. He hadn't thought of Eric in years, and he hadn't thought of the family that had taken him in as their own. He'd not thought of days spent exploring the countryside with them, closer to them than he'd ever been to his own parents. His own parents had never understood, you see. They'd thought him a rather odd and eccentric little child, always lost in his own thoughts as he was. Old rubbish? Why did he want to go looking about old rubbish homes? No, they'd never seen the beauty in it, and he'd never developed their fondness for drink and debauchery.
But the Crowleys had been quite different. They'd longed for exploration, and they'd understood the pleasure of conversation. A cup of coffee and old tales and no hurry. Whatever reason was there to hurry? Everything ended up cobwebs; no need to rush there.
Simon hadn't thought on any of that in years, but it rather surrounded him now in opulent halls and empty spaces. And so he'd invited Isobel over. Isobel, you see, was never quiet. He rather enjoyed that about her.
He ordered in - ginger lobster, noodles, a delightful wine. He dressed down - slacks and a button down with sleeves rolled to the elbows. He set the table and wondered over a housekeeper - should he get one? And then he began a long conversation with the ivory, one that would last until Isobel informed the doorman of her arrival, and until her conveyance upward in the private elevator.
Simon's place was just far enough away to be annoying, particularly when lugging a rather large canvas, wrapped carefully in paper, along with you. The cab driver that had arrived to whisk her off to her cousin's place didn't seem thrilled to have his backseat stuffed with the painting, but Isobel gave him enough of a tip that he stopped casting her dirty looks as soon as the green was in his hand.
The trip was short, sweet, and to the point, though Isobel never got over seeing the sorts of sights that Las Vegas had to offer. Some might say that she was easily entertained, but she preferred to think that she just appreciated the world around her more than some might. It was over as soon as it began, and she was on her way up to the top of the building in a lift that was most decidedly private. The canvas was propped up on the toe of the simple black flats she wore, bouncing up and down with her nervous energy until the lift doors parted and allowed her entrance into the spacious place.
There was no time spent oogling and awing, however, for as soon as Isobel stepped from the lift car, she was talking. "And here I thought my place was rather nice. Yours puts mine to shame and I'm jealous. Quite jealous." She was a ray of sunshine, bubbly and bright, dressed in black from head to toe, a fitted black sweater and snug black trousers, a wide green scarf wound in her blonde locks to keep them away from her face. There were smears of paint on her skin and clothing, proof positive that she hadn't bothered to dress for the occasion, instead simply slipping into shoes and making her way to his place at the appointed time.
The painting was sat to the side, propped up against a wall, and she moved towards Simon to embrace him, long limbs and smelling of paint thinner and oils. "Good to see you, Simon. Really good to see you." Family was one of those things that had grown more important over the years. She had missed out on a lot of time with the ordeal in Ireland, and there was hardly enough time to make up for it all. That didn't stop her from trying, though.
Simon considered the entirety of the world beneath him, and his family was a topic that he seldom allowed himself to think about. He'd left home because they'd been an embarrassment, and time had turned that embarrassment into a personal shame. As a result, his interaction with home was limited to cards on holidays and texts on birthdays. His parents had no idea he'd inherited, nor did he intend to inform them. But Isobel was different; he'd no quarrel with her. In fact, he'd enjoyed her company the times she'd come to stay. She was the kind of bright thoughtless thing that entertained him. Harmless, she seldom said anything that made him think terribly hard. She wasn't perceptive enough to cause him any discomfort. She was companionship without effort, and he was terribly fond of her in a way that required no doubts or concerns.
He smiled when she stepped into the flat, and he threw his arms wide to indicate his new demesne. "I am king of all you survey," he told her with a dimpled smile. "They did quite a nice job, didn't they?" he asked of the interior decorator. The place looked opulent, while still maintaining that vintage flair that Simon so adored. Whenever given the option, he prefered stories over things newly made. From the couch, to the kitchen table, to the bed, the items in the flat had all enjoyed prior lives. He was simply another step on a ladder, and he liked that in a way that he could spend hours attempting to articulate.
But the takeaway would get cold, and that wouldn't do, so he pointed at the canvas, and then at her paint-stained attired. "Are you wearing my gift?" He grinned easily, and he stood and motioned her in. "Well, unveil it, will you?"
Isobel flashed him a grin as she stepped back, taking another look around the place. "It certainly suits you," she said, and it was a compliment, even if it wouldn't sound like it coming from many people. Her attention was drawn back to the canvas leaning up against a nearby wall, and Isobel moved over to it with quick steps, kicking her shoes off as she went to leave herself in bare feet. "I'm always wearing paint. You ought to know that by now, considering how many of your shirts I borrowed and stained when we were in Boston." Another grin and she started to tear the paper away from the canvas, heart fluttering in her chest as bits and pieces of her masterpiece were revealed.
Isobel's method of painting was more abstract than reality offered. Bold strokes of colour, a story painted on the canvas of rolling green hills and bright spots of colour for flowers. It was peace and happiness, a bright spot of art. The paper was pulled fully away, balled up in both hands as she moved back to give Simon a better look at the art. "Well?" she asked, and there was hopefulness in her words, in the look in her eyes, as she bounced on the balls of her feet, waiting for approval that was important and needed.
Simon liked art. He cared for anything that made him want to sit and think. He wasn't fond of television or movies, and he spent no time on the internet. Art, music, literature, discourse, these were the things he enjoyed above all else, and the painting was a perfect housewarming gift for a man such as himself. He crossed his arms, finger to his chin, and he took in the overall work. Then, he moved closer and bent at the waist, looking at the stroke and thickness of the paint, all the things that made the larger work possible. In the end, he stood back. "My choice of green was superb," he teased. "It quite makes the painting, don't you think?"
His smile was more of a smirk than a smile, but it was always that way, and crinkles and dimples said he was teasing, jesting, something fond that he did when he liked someone terribly well. "I think it's wonderful," he added a moment later. "It was quite worth all those shirts I donated to your creative endeavors." He pointed to a space in the entryway. "There, do you think?" It would match with nothing in the flat, of course, and the interior designer would wail and gnash her teeth, should she ever come back, but Simon liked the personality of it. He didn't care if things matched; he only cared that they told stories, and the bright green with it spotted flowers certainly did that.
She was holding her breath as Simon got his first look at the painting, and then dipped closer to examine it at such a small distance. It wasn't until he straightened with that grin of his that she allowed herself to relax. Validation was important, praise even more so, though Isobel would have been hard-pressed to ever admit that to anyone. "I'm quite glad you think so," she said with a grin of her own, confidence regained with his approval, and then she took up a stance beside him, arms folded over her chest, to look at the area he indicated in the entryway.
Isobel didn't particularly get interior design; her own place was a mish mash of pieces that she liked, even if nothing really matched, but she acted as though she knew what she was talking about as she gave the area a nod of approval, her own stamp to let him go ahead. "It's perfect," she declared, leaning over towards him to give a kiss to his cheek before turning and moving towards the kitchen without permission. "So, what did you order in for us? It smells absolutely delicious." Food was another of those things that Isobel was continuing to explore. Growing up, her diet had been limited, whatever grew in the garden and whatever Elisabeth wanted to cook, but now, she was exploring all these tastes and flavours she had never gotten to experience before. "And wine! I love you just for this wine." She got to uncorking, hip propped up against the edge of the counter as she worked.
"Yes, my approbation is exceptionally important," Simon responded. It could be said, and it would be entirely true, that he'd affected his speech and manner to appear superior to others. But the truth remained that he did think the painting very fine, and he thought Isobel very sweet, and his pretension was just a layer overtop his true feelings, one that was too old now to shake. A jut of his chin had served as his security blanket in his youth, when his parents had made him want to hang his head in public. These days, it was all just habit, instinctive, much like breathing.
"Lobster, noodles and some wine," he said of their meal, and he motioned her into the kitchen, which was presided over by a vintage refrigerator that was short and squat and gave the illusion of homeyness in the huge space. But she'd already found the wine, and he laughed at her eagerness. He let her uncork, and he sat at the table there, preferring the small setting to the larger, formal dining room.
"Well, tell me what you think of this hotel business," he said, never one to demur. He lifted his fork, used it to point at her meal, and then began on his own twist of noodles on the fork. He'd never been one for prayers, neither before meals or otherwise. He respected religion, as any good historian did, but he had no faith, and blame that on the same academics.
"Never let it be said that you don't have fine taste in delicious food," Isobel said as she pulled the cork from the bottle, leaving it attached to the cork screw as she poured them both a glass and settled at the table with him.
A forkful of noodles and shellfish later, and Isobel let herself muse on the question that he had asked. "Honestly, I'm not entirely sure, yet. It seems a bit fantastical, doesn't it? The sort of thing you read about in books, but doesn't really happen to anyone for real." Though, Isobel thought, a large chunk of her life could fall into that category. Her life was the thing of stories and books, even if she didn't like to think about it that way. "Do you know who it is you're sharing time with? Or are they as stubborn as you can be?" It was said with a grin over the rim of her wine glass, blue eyes alight with laughter and brightness. "I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," she singsonged a moment later, pointing at him with her fork before she took another bite.
"I have fine taste in everything," he assured her, entirely confident in the belief that he was, in all things, elegant and refined. He further proved this by letting his wine breathe, and then by swirling the liquid around the base of the goblet. He didn't like wine as much as he liked coffee, but he was still very fond of anything that tasted like it cost money. If he thought on it, he might realize it was the reaction of someone raised shamefully poor. But he liked to think on other things, better things.
"It's precisely the kind of thing that would be a hit on modern television," he said with derision. The derision was not for the hotel, no, but for the entire concept of television. In his opinion, television had killed conversation in the home entirely. And Simon adored conversation. "Though, I do wish I had someone better. I have a silly girl from a comic," he admitted, and he sounded as displeased about that as he was. "Can you imagine, all the literary options and I get saddled with a girl in a comic book?" he asked, taking a careful bite of his noodles and bit of ginger lobster. "Now, your turn."
Of course Simon had fine taste in everything. Isobel had learned quite quickly that when it came to her cousin, it was best to simply nod and agree with most of what he had to say. He was exceedingly stubborn and unwilling to budge, and Isobel had better things to do than fight and debate with her family. So she nodded with a smile, bright and sunny, and occupied herself with a bite of lobster and noodles as he spoke on his thoughts of the hotel.
"The hotel should be admonished for not asking for your input in who to have before giving you someone so silly." It was said with as much sincerity as she could muster, but there was a teasing glint in those blue eyes as she put her fork down, fingers curling around the stem of her wine glass instead. "I've a girl from a fairy tale. It feels as though this place knows me entirely too well given who they've plopped in my head." She was intelligent enough to recognize the similarities between herself and Rapunzel, and it was disturbing, in a way, that she had found herself with the damsel in distress.
Simon knew there was something resembling humoring in that nod and smile, but he was accustomed to that from Isobel, and he thought nothing of it. She chattered, he discussed, and they both liked each other for the family relationship that bound them together. They were people who would, likely, dislike each other greatly under other circumstances. But, circumstances being what they were, he regarded her with a fondness that was normally reserved for his saxophone. He swirled his wine once more, and then he drank the liquid down with a satisfied sound that was not entirely proper for a dinner table. But good food, good drink, good company, these were the things that made life bearable, and he enjoyed them greatly.
"I agree. It was very discourteous of the hotel to assign me someone so inappropriate," he teased, but it wasn't entirely true. The girl, with all her young emotions, was an academic; he could appreciate that about her, though their fields of study differed. And he remembered being young and- Well, there was no point dwelling. Instead, he focused on Isobel. "Cinderella?" he considered. "No, I can't imagine you doing housework. Sleeping Beauty? Surely not, you'd prattle in your sleep. Snow White? Doubtful." His grin said he expected her to supply the true damsel in question; he'd no doubt it was a damsel.
"You should write out a suggestion and put it in their comment box. Perhaps they'll take your wishes into consideration in the future." Isobel gave him a grin before she knocked back the rest of her own glass of wine, not at all proper, and then filled her glass yet again. She had manners, of course, but rarely employed their use except when required. That wasn't to say she was a messy thing with belching and bad manners, she simply didn't enjoy being stuffy with her behaviour. Not anymore, not since she didn't have Elisabeth to chastise her for everything that she did that was 'wrong' in the woman's book.
She listened to Simon rattle off his thoughts for who she could have in her head, grinning as he gave explanations as to why each would not work for her. "I'll have you know that I'm quite good at housework. I can mop and dust with the best of them, not that I enjoy it, mind you." Another grin and she shook her head at the continued guesses. "None of the above. Shall I give in and tell you or simply make you work harder for it?"
"Perhaps they'll assign me Roderick Usher. I could live with Roderick. Or Charles Marlow, though he does get rather filthy on a regular basis," he teased, but he didn't truly care. Whatever happened with the girl in the comic wasn't his concern, and he wouldn't be meddling. He'd already perused the network on the girl's phone extensively, and he knew that sometimes there was meddling. He wouldn't meddle. He wasn't a reader of comics, and he wasn't fond of those blockbuster movies with the man in the red tin suit, and he was perfectly content to keep it all separate. In fact, his communications on the network hadn't been especially pleasant, and he didn't feel the need to continue them in any large way. To each their own, as it were.
He pushed his plate away, and he concentrated on finishing what remained of the wine in his glass. "Tell me, my darling goddess of domestic bliss, who you've been graced with." He was terribly tongue-in-cheek about it, grin and dimple and a sip of his wine after.
"I'm going to pretend I know who either of those people are," Isobel responded around a mouthful of lobster and noodles, giving him a closed-mouth grin before swallowing the bite. She imagined they were people who were quite full of themselves in a way, much like her cousin, and even though she thought of him like that, she loved him quite a bit. He didn't fuss over her or try to cage her in like so many others tried to. No, he let her exist and live as she wanted, and she loved him for that.
As Simon pushed his own plate away, Isobel followed in suit, fingers wiped on a napkin before she settled with her hands around the stem of her wine glass. "It's horribly ironic," she started, "but I've got Rapunzel. Maiden in the tower." It seemed too much of a coincidence, but perhaps that's how things worked here. They got people that were like themselves - at least in a manner of speaking.
"They are far superior," he said of the men in his preferred literary works. But there was no point dwelling. A comic book girl he had, and a comic book girl he would tolerate. He supposed it could be worse; at least she seemed intellectual, when she wasn't brimming with tears. He saw Isobel's smile, and he understood that it was her way of saying she knew he was a pretentious twat, but that she loved him anyway; the sentiment was returned. When she spoke of Rapunzel, he gave her a look over the edge of his glass. The irony wouldn't have been lost on him, even had she not mentioned it. "At least you've things to talk about it. It can be a sleepover in your head," he suggested cheekily, setting his glass back upon the table.
"Now, tell me, does Rapunzel do dishes?" he teased. Yes, it was good to be around family again. Family he could tolerate, that was.
If the food they had been enjoying had been something that was throwable, she would have done just that at his cheeky remark. "Oh shut it," she demanded of him, tipping back the rest of her wine before pushing the glass away to join her plate. "And no, Rapunzel does not do dishes," Isobel continued, folding her hands together atop the table, leaning in towards him. "But she's quite certain that my lovely cousin will be more than happy to clean up after us." A grin came before she reached over to tap him on the nose, and then she was up to clear the table, humming as she did so.