Tristan Sable || Dream (demos_oneiroi) wrote in musingslogs, @ 2010-12-19 22:00:00 |
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Entry tags: | alfred pennyworth, dream |
Who: Tristan and Alfie
What: Visits and first meetings
Where: Tristan’s new (Alfie-funded) studio
When: Tonight?
Warnings: Strong personalities
Grey Skies Gallery had called Tristan's cell phone earlier in the week, notifying him that a package had been delivered for him. When he finally managed to bundle himself against the chill and make his way there, he found a simple manila envelope waiting for him, a key inside. It didn't take a genius to realize what the key was for, and he used the address that had been in Alfie's original message to go look over the place.
It was, simply put, huge. Bigger than all the rooms of their apartment put together, and overwhelming. The light poured in through the windows, even though it was an overcast day. He wandered around, touching the tables and stools, shaking his head at the giant room. It was too much, but Alfie had been so insistent that he didn't know how to turn it down.
By the next day, he'd splurged on calling a taxi and brought several canvases, a large selection of his paints and brushes, some paper and drawing materials, and the coffee maker. It took a few trips from the car to the building at each end of the journey, and it was far from his full supply of materials, but he still wasn't sure he'd be settling in much. Even so, he worked on getting things set up to his satisfaction, puttering around the space as he sung wordless tunes to himself.
Going to the studio had been a spur of the moment decision for Alfie. She had spent a difficult morning preparing for Luke’s meeting with the lawyers and the police, and she was (admittedly) worried about the fact that some lie or another would be detected. Luke was, after all, just a boy, and he should not have to lie about something as harrowing as a kidnapping. She was tense, stressed and tired. And so she decided to do something that she would find entirely, selfishly enjoyable.
She had done no research on Tris, as she now knew he was called. She did not know his age, his type, his lifestyle. She knew nothing save for the fact that he was talented, and that he lived in the most rundown building in Seattle. She had her suppositions, of course. She suspected he was young, much younger than she was, and she suspected he was the quiet type, possibly eclectic, probably far from the mainstream.
She instructed the driver to turn around, and she gave him directions to the studio she has leased.
Once there, she did not email or warn the artist. She did not even know if he was to be found inside. She had kept no key for herself, and so she walked up the steps to the door, and she knocked, indicating that the driver should wait for her. She was dressed in work attire - a gray, slim skirt to her knees and a sweater that was cashmere cream, and she looked like the wealthy woman she was. Older, alone, and wealthy.
Tristan had forgotten to lock the door when he’d made his last trip up from the taxi, though it was firmly closed against the chill outside. The studio itself was still a bit chilly, though he’d thrown his jacket over a nearby stool as he worked, leaving him in his usual winter uniform of black jeans and a long-sleeved black tshirt, both faded to different levels of dark grey, both with unwashable splotches of paint.
When the knock came, he was on his hands and knees under one of the tables, trying to retrieve a number of brushes that had clattered to the floor and commenced to roll in different directions. He knew no one that would knock on the door, and so assumed it was someone for the previous tenant of the studio. Without pausing in his brush collecting, he shouted in the general direction of the door.
“Go away! They’re not here!”
Undeterred, Alfie knocked again. She did not yell, because that would not do. She knocked, and she decided he was younger than she’d thought, based on his voice. Not a bad thing, and nothing that bothered her. More interesting than anything, really. She wondered how so much experience could be in his works if he was as young as he sounded.
He cursed under his breath at the second knock, backing up slowly on his hands and knees until he was clear of the table, then standing, brushes in hand. His hair was even crazier than usual, thanks to his trip under the table, and stood out from his head in dark curls. He stalked over to the door and threw it open, words on his lips before he even had the door completely opened, brandishing his brushes at the person. “I said that whoever you’re looking for isn’t he--”
The dignified woman in front of him was instantly recognizable, looking shorter than she had on television, though he knew that he often towered over people. “Oh.” He lowered his brushes again and stared at her. “It’s you.”
Mmmm. Younger, yes, and taller, too. Alfie looked at the brushes, nonplussed, and then up at Tristan. “Yes,” she said, tugging off her cream-colored gloves and then holding out a refined hand, expensive rings twinkling on two fingers. “Penelope Worth. Alfie.” She smiled. “Are you going to invite me in?” she asked.
She was taking him in, of course. The wild mess of dark curls drew immediate attention, almost to the exclusion of all else at first, but then she noticed other things. The cut and quality of his clothing, the pallor of his skin, how thin he was. She indicated nothing, and it was not outwardly apparent that she was taking his measure, but she was. “Do you find the space to your liking?” she asked, and there was a slight upturn of lips there, the sign of a woman who had won, even if she was gracious in her victory.
He sighed and angled his body away from the door, almost an invitation as he walked back over to the corner he’d been working in. His stuff was still strewn around several tables, canvases and papers waiting for color and lines. It was obvious that he wasn’t the same sort of cut as the vigilantes she may have been used to, turning his back to her without hesitation or second thought. He nodded at her introduction, but still didn’t offer his own name. Not officially, at least.
“It’s big. I’m not used to the space. And it echoes.” He paused, setting his brushes on a table and making sure they wouldn’t roll a second time. “The light is nice though.” It was grudging, like pulling teeth to get the compliment, though it was sincere under the gruff tone. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her still standing near the door. He huffed out something between a sigh and a laugh. “Come in. It’s your space. You’re paying for it.”
He was handsome, she decided, in his own unique way. He might have been surprised to learn that her life before Thomas had included a veritable dearth of vigilantes, and she didn’t move into the space until he told her that she could.
She walked into the center of the room, and she looked around leisurely, her gaze resting on him when she was done with her perusal. “We can pad the walls,” she suggested, a smile at just the corners of her mouth. “To cancel out the echo.’ She ran her fingers over the edge of one of the work desks as she spoke, but her attention was entirely focused on him. “It is your space,” she corrected quietly, emphasis on the your. “And I apologize for my unannounced visit. I will not make a habit of it. There is little worse than a woman of a certain age sponsoring a young, talented artist and expecting him to pay her court at the drop of a hat.” She smiled at the jesting. “I was in the neighborhood, and I wanted to see how you had settled in.”
The laugh escaped with her first comment. “Padded walls. Thanks.” He shook his head as he turned to dump two large plastic bags of paint tubes onto another table, beginning to sort them into smaller piles by color. The insistence that it was his space made him chuckle again and peer over his shoulder at her, peripheral vision partially obscured by his hair. When he saw that she was serious, he turned to face her, leaning back against a table and crossing his arms.
“I only just got here earlier. I wouldn’t say I’m settled in your space yet.” He put the same sort of emphasis on your that she had, and then rolled his eyes at her. “‘A certain age’. You make it sound like you’re half a step from the grave.” He shook his head again, hair moving almost independently. “You obviously have enough life left to roll right over people younger than you.” He didn’t move enough to gesture at himself, but it was pretty obvious that’s what he meant.
“Your space,” she repeated, but then she continued right on, as if it was just a reminder and nothing more. “In this world, I am half a step from the grave.” She grinned, then, and it made her look younger, lit up her face and gave her an aura of what she must have been like when she was young. “Well, perhaps a full step,” she admitted.
If he was implying she rolled over him, well, she chose to ignore it, pushing away from the workdesk and walking past him, close enough to make that wild and unruly hair move with the air around him. Then, without concern or qualm, she slipped the jewels off her fingers, and she began to sort paint tubes. “What do we accomplish by sorting these?” she asked him, not stopping her progress for the question.
He looked over, incredulous at the sound of her rings against the table and the sight of her starting to sort through the paint. “What are you...?” He turned toward the table, stepping closer and reaching out as if to stop her, but not quite making contact. “No, you don’t have to do that. It’s just... something to do. They’ll get mixed up again anyway.”
“Something to do?” she asked, as if it was an unfamiliar concept, doing something just to do it. “If it’s not necessary, why not do something else with your time instead?” she asked, setting the paint she was moving aside and turning to look at him. “Tell me, are you working on anything, Tris?” she asked, looking at that hand that had not quite made it the distance to stop her.
He finally dropped the hand, giving her a look that clearly stated that he thought her questions were a little crazy. “Well right now, I’m working on getting my shit into this ridiculous studio. After I do that for a while, maybe I’ll draw if I think of something. Maybe I’ll paint. Maybe I’ll just go home for a while. I don’t really know right now. Some crazy woman bought a couple of my paintings for an exorbitant amount, so our rent and utilities are paid up for a while. So I don’t really have anything else that needs to be done right now.” He didn’t mention that it was the first time he could remember having the luxury of being ahead on their payments.
She smiled as he spoke, an old smile, and she watched him. The things he didn’t say came through as clearly as his spoken words did, and once he finished she reached out a hand and placed it over his. “This is not charity. I find you amazingly talented, and helping someone with your talent succeed is a legacy I would very much like to leave behind. I have no expectations of you, of what you do in this space, of what you produce. I merely want to give you the opportunity to do what you would, without outside concerns. And to perhaps take some sort of quiet pride in it.”
He turned his hand over and held hers for a moment, fingers cold but firm and careful, before pulling away again. “It is charity. It may not be from your side, but from my side?” He shrugged. “It looks different.” He walked over to another table, grabbing the coffeemaker and trying to find an outlet to plug it into. He finally found one and plugged in the coffeemaker, returning to the table to get the filters and the coffee, a surprisingly good quality that was one of the things he almost always splurged on, even when they were broke. He got a pot started, hands going through the motions automatically. “And there’s always going to be outside concerns. No matter where I’m working.”
She watched his hand slip away, and there was a sense of loss in her expression when she looked back at him. Once upon a time, she would not have allowed the gesture to end there. “Do you think the great artists in history didn’t have patrons? They did. They lived on commissions, and they were gifted with a million things that were not charity. Being aligned to someone with great talent was considered an honor. I am older than I look, Tris. I don’t look at it as you do, darling.” To the comment about outside concerns. “There are always outside concerns, especially for the very talented. I believe you channel those into your work, don’t you? What concerns you now?” she asked, slipping the rings back on her fingers slowly.
He watched the pot brew as she spoke, smiling at it and shaking his head. He didn’t turn around, but his words were meant for her. “I know that great artists have patrons. Even today. Doesn’t mean you can expect me to be comfortable with having one myself. That’s putting myself into a category I’m pretty sure I don’t belong in.” The pot gave one last gurgle and he goes to fish out the two mugs he’d brought along, glad now that he’d had that foresight to bring more than one. He poured both and crossed back over to hand one out to Alfie.
“Right now? I’m concerned about why you keep talking like you’re days away from dying.” It was infinitely easier than talking about himself, at least.
“Luckily for you, the patron gets to decide if they feel an artist is meriting the title of great, and I have decided.” There was an entertained smile in her words, and she took the mug when he offered it to her. “Thank you,” she said politely, before taking a sip and appreciating the warmth of the liquid. If it was not her usual quality, she gave no indication whatsoever.
“I came over from Musings much older than most. The people who cross over are young, not yet concerned about mortality, physically they have time remaining. I don’t have so much time,” she explained, no pity in it, only truth. “The average lifespan here is somewhere in the 80s, I believe, but good cognitive function fails before that eventuality. I am merely realistic, and trying to do the most with what I have remaining.”
He made a face at her around his own mug, swallowing a mouthful of coffee before shaking his head. “You don’t seem like someone that’s forced to do much of anything, so I imagine you came over of your own volition. So why are you so upset about it?” He took another drink before continuing, before she could reply. “And there is absolutely nothing wrong with your ‘cognitive function’ right now, from what I can tell. Stop borrowing trouble.” He knew it was a strangely old-fashioned phrase, but it seemed appropriate in the moment.
“I did come over of my own volition, but I didn’t quite appreciate the finality of it until my knees began aching in the mornings,” she said said evenly, without ire. “I still know I did the right thing in coming, and I do not regret it. But I acknowledge what it means, and I realize I am different for that realization. What one does with an expiration date it very different than what one does without one, wouldn’t you say?” she asked, smiling at the comment about her cognitive function. “I am not bound for the nursing home yet, no,” she said. He had absolutely no idea of how she was accustomed to being treated, and he didn’t walk that line. Didn’t bow and grovel to the billionaire. Were he anyone else, she would have put him in his place. But he was who he was, and she was inclined to let him treat her as an equal.
He gestured dismissively with his free, non-coffee hand. “We all have an expiration date over here. We did over there too.” He frowned, not pulling any punches - he treated everyone the same, no matter who they were. The fact that she had money didn’t phase him. “If you’ve been around as long as you say, then I’m sure you lost people over there too. Whatever takes us in the end doesn’t care how old we are or aren’t. Even now, I could walk out of my apartment tomorrow and get hit by a bus. You could end up living for another 30 years and be sharp as a tack until the day you die. We don’t have any say over it.”
She nodded in agreement. “I have lost a great number of people in my life, yes,” she agreed. “And not one of them from old age. It doesn’t mean I do not fear dementia and all the things that come with it. It is a new concern. Perhaps it will pass, and we shall all be lucky.” She smiled as she looked at him, looked him over, not concealing the perusal. “You’re not exactly what I expected, but you’re exactly as you should be,” she told him, taking a sip and watching him over the cup. “Perhaps you can teach me to paint, and I can concentrate on that instead.”
“So age is something new and exciting to die from.” He shook his head and took another sip of his coffee. “Be glad you’ve got what time you do.” Crossing the room, he went to refill his mug, lifting the pot in offer to Alfie. “Not sure what you expected from me. But if you want to paint, there’s the brushes, there’s the canvas. You’ve got a studio you can use. Just go for it.”
Alfie responded by putting her own mug down. “Thank you, but I should be going. Perhaps you can be aggressive with the canvases once I’ve gone,” she said with serene calm and the quirk of a brow. He was angry about the space, about being trapped into taking it, and she knew that from the beginning. But she still stood by her choice. Perhaps he would channel that anger there, making something for himself and his sister. “I do not have a studio I can use, but I can obtain one, should I wish it.” she assured him. “Have a good holiday, Tris.”
He rolled his eyes at her. “Infuriating. In person too.” But he sighed and put down his own mug and going over to open the door for her. When she got close enough, he placed a hand on her back to guide her. “Happy Holidays, Alfie. You know where to find me.”
“I do,” she agreed, “and I am.” She gave him a smile. “Thank you for the beverage and for opening the door for a fragile, old woman,” she said, a grin and a tease on her lips, and then she walked out of the studio to the car, where the driver was waiting to open the door for her.
He shook his head as he closed the door behind her, but found himself smiling as well. He turned back to the tables, heading for the paper stacked on one of them to try to sketch some things out.