tertiovitae-blog

[tertiovitae-blog]

(thusnarcissuswept‌)

you’ve no idea how lonely i sometimes am pulp kitchen, post-gala open to all !!

Julian was, for once in their life, perfectly content to stay right where they were: smack in the middle of a beautiful sunbeam, leather-clad feet propped up on the windowsill they sat beside. Settled in with a book in hand, they were prepared to spend the afternoon reading in peace. Or rather, leaving everyone else in peace. Within minutes of starting the book, however, that constant inclination toward striking up a conversation with basically anyone crawling into their very bones. 

They fought it at first, adjusting in their seat and refocusing on a line of text they had already read three times without absorbing one bit. If someone wants a conversation with you, they’ll approach you, they chided themself. Besides, alone time was supposed to be good for you, right?

Wrong, wrong, definitely wrong. Five minutes later they were out of their seat, heading toward the first person they recognized armed with a smile. At least nobody could say they didn’t try.

“Pardon the interruption, but you look so engrossed it’s hard not to take interest,” they said, almost theatrical in tone. “What are you reading that has you so fascinated?”

It was right in that perfect lull between the lunch and after-work crowd, Pulp Kitchen filled with warm light and the mingling smells of coffee and the still-warm cinnamon loaf one of their waiters had just brought from the back. Simon lived in these peaceful moments when he could simply inhabit the life he’d built for himself, perched on a stool at the counter with novel in hand while his creation operated smoothly around him. Not at all days had been so easy. 

It was a luxury, even if the particular book he was pursuing today was out of his normal wheelhouse. Simon had made his promise to Vincent and he’d follow through, a bit of extra work put into focusing on the text. Well, focus as far as he wasn’t being engaged by outside forces.

“Émaux et Camées,” The French was just on the side of off on Simon’s tongue, his expression matching his tone in terms of trepidation as he raised the cover for the other’s scrutiny, clarifying, “On recommendation. So maybe less fascination and more concentration. Interested in poetry?” 

He was prepared immediately for Julian’s dramatic inflections, knowing by experience now how bombastic their engagement could be and matching it, as ever, with contrasting restraint, as cooly amused as a professor across their desk as he slotted a bookmark between the pages and glanced down at poor abandoned text in their hand, “What’s... trying to capture your interest today?” 

[tertiovitae-blog]

(sweetxarsenic‌)

His answers left much to be desired but Arsenic wasn’t here to find out more about him. All of them were allowed their secrets, and as long as she deemed them nonthreatening, he was welcome to keep his. His footsteps echoed behind her own, a nervous walker perhaps? There were those who would have stayed in one place, giving themselves a chance to watch her, but it seemed he had to keep moving. Something further supported when they finally did stop and his hands moved to fidget with his jacket. 

A short laugh slipped throw her red lips, a moment in time that seemed to break some of the tension. Holding out a hand, she smiled at him, “Victoria. Call me Tori.” To some, it might have been worrying how easily Arsenic could lie, slip into another identity as simply as sliding on a new jacket. But it seemed right. Tori was more approachable. She was just another mysterious stranger someone wanted to get to know a little better. She was easy to dispose of after tonight. “And you? Or, are you not allowed to share that?”

"Tori,” He repeated back with a nod as he reached out to shake her hand after a moment’s pause, formal and confident as a business meeting. The name didn’t quite match her face, or maybe it was just the sudden shift to cordial warmth that pricked him. Either way, seeing her close enough to really register her features had prodded some corner of his mind that recognized something he couldn’t quite identify in the moment. “Simon, no nickname. It’s a pleasure,” in a tone that said, ‘I hope it will be’. 

He’d have to shake that feeling off; half of Dertosa had been through Pulp Kitchen at one time or another, vague déjà vu was hardly new. “So is it hiding from the crowd after all?” Simon nodded towards the case closest to them, “I understand wanting to sneak off for some fresh air, but I’d also like to know if you’re stationed to make sure no one’s back here feeling light-fingered.” He’d been dryly joking, but he realized the reality of the fact of how vulnerable all the treasures seemed while the drunk and rowdy swayed and shouted in the main rooms.

[tertiovitae-blog]

(streiknine‌)

Vincent laughed at the comment. “Do I really look that uncomfortable? I thought I was doing alright.” He nodded while Simon spoke, explaining to him something that he wasn’t going to bother to remember. “Oh, that makes sense. I guess I should look into that.” He wasn’t going to.

“Food is something that should be enjoyed with company you enjoy, anyway,” Vincent said. Sure, he didn’t mention that sometimes he paid for people to put up with him and his cooking (a minor anxiety flaring that it wasn’t actually any good), but Simon didn’t need to know everything. He’s probably hiding things from me too, his thoughts said, trying to soothe him, really, I’m not doing anything he’s not doing already, probably. “It’s a collection of poetry. Romantic aestheticism. If you’d prefer an actual fiction book then perhaps Mademoiselle de Maupin by the same author.” Vincent paused, squinting a bit as he thought on the book. “I didn’t like it that much.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Vincent let out a chuckle at the mention of Canada having a real winter, and at the little titter. Amusement in abject death… but none in the actual action of it. Strange. Perhaps there was some sort of line Vincent would have to walk. “Yeah, some places is Canada hardly get any snow. I’m sure you’ve seen more snow than someone in Vancouver has.”

A smile spread across Vincent’s face. “Yeah, honestly.” Simon probably had a bad break-up, at least, that was Vincent’s guess for his want to start over. Simon was a good-looking man, certainly he’d had people vying for his attention, and sometimes that’s what made one want to start over. “I had a rude awakening in university, I guess college for you, for my want to reinvent,” the explanation popped out of Vincent on its own accord, “But I’m liking this new start much more. I have… a sort of found family.” The Poisons, Vincent named them in his thoughts. “Good friends. And I never was one to want to go into the family business. Can you relate to that? Did you have a family business or something of the sort back in, uh, back in Washington?”

“Ugh,” the noise slipped out of Vincent, and he nodded in answer to his question. “Getting drunk isn’t even that enjoyable. It just makes you unpredictable.” Vincent blew air out of his nose in a slight laugh at the thought of Simon making himself into a drunken fool in front of his family. “It seems a common thing, I guess.”

Vincent nodded to the bartender and mumbled a thanks to them before grabbing the drink. He almost took a sip before he remembered that Simon had squeezed lime into it, and he squeezed his own lime into the mixed drink and swirled it. He took a sip — still refreshing. “Thank you, Simon,” Vincent said around his straw, “I’ll have to remember this when I go out.”

“You’re doing better,” Simon said on the sarcastic side of serious, “I think I’ve seen your shoulders relax at least five inches down from where they were hiked up around your ears when you first came over here.” Was that a flicker of real self-doubt across the other’s face? “Don’t worry, I’ll stop giving you shit,” He assured him with a thin smile, “You really do look good. It’s a snappy get-up.”

Romantic aestheticism, Simon almost laughed aloud. Based on the books he’d been served with his food so far, he should’ve expect it. Very Vincent. “I can’t really say I dive into poetry that often, but I’ll give it a shot.”

“In a way. It was more that I had no interest in the basic kind of nine to five. Office life would’ve driven me ballistic.” Simon had plenty of memories of break room coffee and reloading printer ink, but many more of the hours and hours of legal research that formed the backbone of his ability to do the same work now, just in the literary realm. “I’m glad to hear you’ve had a smooth transition.” The natural question to ask next would be was Vincent’s family did, but Simon was learning the pace of the conversation. He wouldn’t waste a lie when he could avoid walking right into having to provide his own answer. 

Then, a safe question (and an important one) came to mind, Simon’s brows furrowing as he turned fully to the other man, “What do you even do, Vincent?” He asked incredulously, “I can’t believe I’ve never asked you before.”

“That’s why you pace yourself with the right people,” Simon chuckled, sensing a good story behind the expression on Vincent’s face, “But... at an event like this,” He gestured around them with his drink hand at the milling masses, a few guests already looking like they’d dove a little too enthusiastically into the communal punch, “You’re probably right.” Simon may have been invited for his work with the museum, but he wasn’t under any illusion that the wealthy patrons looked at the shop-keep with any more respect when he was in a suit compared to a cardigan. Simon had an idea of his reputation with the museum board: cool, eccentric, one-track minded, occasionally useful. Entirely ignorant of how non-benignly middle class he’d once been. But, he reminded himself, that was the way they should be thinking about him.

“You wouldn’t guess from my sales pitch, but I’m usually on your side,” Simon added suddenly, feeling a strange compulsion to explain some facet of himself to his friend (?) in some way that wasn’t dangerous, “You prefer food with company, I’m the same with alcohol.” There were plenty of things that became a bad habit when you started to do them alone. Simon would try his damnedest to avoid tempting fate. 

[tertiovitae-blog]

[tertiovitae-blog]

(streiknine‌)

“You could say that,” Vincent said, offering no more than that. His shoulders dropped just a fraction at the acknowledgment he was uncomfortable and out of his element. A light sigh breathed out of him. “Dressing up isn’t my idea of a good time.” But we have to blend in, he added mentally. “And this vest is a little snug.”

“Please do.” It made Vincent smile — Simon was so good at reading the books Vincent special ordered from him. English translations, of course, so some of the beauty of them was lost. “I don’t mind cooking though. You’re not being a burden when you take my food.” A beat of a thought, and a squint up at the ceiling as he thought about what he wanted to read next — what he should get Simon to read next. “Théophile Gautier,” he said, “Émaux et Camées. Have you read it before or am I giving you more new content?”

“Where back east?” Vincent was curious at the intentional vagueness. “Are you more a Boston or a New York guy?” A small laugh, and a warm smile. “Or would you have been onto eastern Canada? The maritimes? New Brunswick in the winter is beautiful but there’s nothing there — my papa had to drive in a down jacket and extra layers just in case he crashed so that he wouldn’t freeze to death before someone found him.” A pause. “Spring can be quite the mess, can’t it? Though I’d take the slush and the occasional spring snow over thirty-plus degrees — ninety-plus for you — I just don’t…,” he trailed off, weight of the amount of words he was saying breaking his concentration. He wasn’t usually one to ramble so much, but Simon made it simple to talk, and he was interesting — there was something about this other man that piqued Vincent’s interest… what could he be hiding?

Vincent absently cracked his fingers while he paused. “Oh, y’know…,” he said, as noncommittal as possible. “I just really wanted a fresh start. This was as far from Québec I could get.” He smiled. “Can you relate to wanting to start over?”

“Stupid is what it was. Scotch doesn’t even taste that good. I just wanted to impress my—” a half-second of a pause, “friends. You know how kids are. Chase the scotch with Southern Comfort and meet the floor halfway through the night.” Vincent cringed when he said that, and added internally, ‘and get into several fights before you can’t remember which way is up’. He didn’t like drinking and him being an eighteen year old idiot was more than half the reason why. Vincent watched as Simon squeezed lime into the glass, curious about the flavour profile of this so-called refreshing alcohol. “Blackberry and basil sounds like a good combination with seltzer water, too.” Without hesitation, Vincent picked up Simon’s offered gin and tonic and took a tiny sip. It was refreshing, Vincent would admit, with the springy-tart citrus flavour complimenting it well. Another small sip, just for good measure, and Vincent slid the drink back to Simon. “It’s good,” he said, the bright sting of cool air hitting his tongue from having the alcohol (no matter how light, it was still alcohol), “I might actually drink that.”

He had a sip of his own drink — the cranberry and sprite tasting sugary sweet and artificial after the fresh lime and tonic — and it showed in a scrunch of his face that it was just a bit too sweet for him now. “You’ve ruined my own drink now,” he joked, “I’ll have to get what you’re having now.” A beat of a pause. “Light on the gin though, if I were to get one.”

Simon laughed, half-consciously adjusting his own suit, “No wonder you looked so uncomfortable.” A badly fitting layer piece would only make things worse, especially in this heart. "You know, tailoring isn’t too expensive if you know where to look, it’s supposed to fit comfortably close, not like a corset,” he framed his waist jokingly with his hands, “Even if this is your only big event for the year, I promise, it’d be worth it for the future.”

“You’re not burdening me when you share it either,” Half a wisecrack and half an open invitation to continue the cycle. Vincent was both spoiling Simon with food semi-regularly and giving him fresh ideas for his own meals, which otherwise were usually prepared with a mechanical attention to nutrition rather than creative flavor. He squinted at the title (predictably, French), then shook his head, leaning his elbows back on the bar as he tried and failed to hunt down some recognition in his mind, “Never even heard of it, I’ll look forward to the mystery. Fiction or non?” 

“Washington D.C.” A rehearsed lie without guilt or hesitation, worn down into smoothness over time after countless blunders until he could say it even easier than the truth, “So you’d probably say I don’t even know what real winter looks like considering I’ve never been to Canada,” He’d given the appropriate titter of amusement at Vincent’s story, “But the way you talk about it, I’m not sure I want to.” Or if he’d ever travel outside of the country again. Some rebellious curiosity wondered what would happen if he tried -- how often could it be that the object of government protection was the one rebelling against them? 

Paranoia whispered that Vincent’s next question was targeted, not just innocent chatter between friends. It wouldn’t make sense -- Vincent shouldn’t have a reason to think anything different of Simon than what he’d told him of himself. Then again, Simon thought grimly as he adjusted his frames, logic, as cold and clear and comforting as it could be, rarely won the day. “Who hasn’t tried to start over at least once in their lives?” He replied ruefully with a what-can-you-do? shrug, hoping to imply something in the realm of a bad breakup or a failed business, the normal sort of thing that inspired reinvention. Part of him wanted to ask what had led to Vincent’s, but he’d learned his lesson now about how those questions would be turned around and stayed on the neutral ground instead, “How are you liking your new start? Heat notwithstanding.” 

“So is that why you stay mostly dry?” The expression on Vincent’s face recalling the details of said encounter with scotch was hilariously recognizable. “Don’t worry,” Simon reassured with a slight grin, “My first time getting drunk wasn’t any more elegant.” For this part, at the very least, he was truthful, almost feeling as if Vincent was owed these small scraps of honesty. “Actually, it was was an event a lot like this and I made a great fool out of myself in front of my family.” That, and that fact that lies mixed with the truth were the easiest ones to remember. 

“If we were at a bar, I’d pay for ruining your purchase.” He watched Vincent take his taste, grin growing only larger and more satisfied at the wrinkling of Vincent’s face as he tried his virgin drink again and found it lacking. “Gin and tonic again, please,” Simon said, louder as he retrieved his glass, giving a nod Vincent’s way for the bartender’s benefit, “Heavy on the tonic.”

[tertiovitae-blog]

(sweetxarsenic‌)

It took a minute but once Sun had placed her companion, she felt more at ease. Simon Chun, currently the owner of the Pulp Kitchen. She might have been a stranger to him, as far as she remembered they’d never spoken more than a few words in passing when she was there for a meal, but he was no stranger to her. Most people in this city weren’t as she made it her business to know who was who. It made things easier, especially her job. “What was the question again?” The woman asked, teasingly, as she moved around the case, to stand on the side closer to him. “Oh, that’s right, what am I doing away from the party?” 

A moment passed where she considered answering but instead smirked and continued walking through the exhibit pausing now and then to take in the artifacts on display. It really was an impressive museum, one that was too good for the people who lived in the city. None of them were the wiser of what treasures a thin layer of glass was protecting. “So much beauty that no one is allowed to touch, not that any of them realize. If they did..” she trailed off. Well, they wouldn’t be alone in here to start. Without realizing, Sun was slowly, slowly, circling around the outside of the room, simultaneously circling around Simon, almost like a cat still trying to decide to pounce on the mouse. Pausing in front of the only door to the room, her eyes fell on him, her smirk growing into an actual smile as she walked back towards him. “If I told you I wanted time away from the crowd, to catch my breath, would you believe me?”

It was a perfect nonanswer, the intriguing silence after her teasing acknowledgement of the exact question she was ignoring. Simon was hardly the type of man to aggressively confront her about it, merely offering a neutral, “Yes,” his eyes on her face and then her back as she turned to peruse the rest of the exhibit with little care left behind. He watched a moment longer, eyebrows furrowed, then did the same. What else? Still, as Simon’s gaze flitted distractedly over labels and fragments of pottery, the distant sound of the orchestra coupling with the slow click of her heels as she orbited the room, he felt.. stalked. As if even in taking her attention away from him, she certainly hadn’t given up her awareness of every move he made. 

If it was meant to be unsettling, it worked. Ridiculous. Had his shoulders always tensed like this at the sensation of being alone with a stranger? Her voice came as a relief, even with the continue ambiguity of her words. “If they did, they’d want to touch it,” Simon finished her thought with a small, amused twist of his lips, “Some people would argue pretty things are best left alone.” His head turned to catch her approaching this time, walking the same track as he had when he’d first entered the room. “I would. That’s why I’m here.” Simon weighed his options, unconsciously tugging the bottom of his jacket to adjust it, “What’s your name?” Then, dry humor for tension, “If that’s not confidential too?” 

[tertiovitae-blog]

(streiknine‌)

“Yeah I’m certainly not comfortable,” Vincent said. No need to lie about something that was so blatantly obvious to others. These sorts of fancy events weren’t his forte. He would have rathered been without the vest, tie, and jacket combination — so many layers made him feel like he was choking. Rolling his shoulders back, trying to relax them a bit, Vincent had the thought of ditching his jacket flit through his mind, but quickly dismissed it. At least for now.

“Then you’ll just have to figure out the good fishmongers,” Vincent let out a little laugh, shoulders finally relaxing a fraction, “I’ll tell you next time I make you something, if you’re still wondering.” A pause. “That cold is clarifying — there’s nothing quite like the sting in your lungs to wake you up. But, yeah, seeing Dertosa with snow would be a sight.”

The lack of underlying amusement in Simon’s wisecrack should have tipped Vincent off that maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to joke about. But then again, Vincent wasn’t always the best at picking up on those things. “I said friend of the mayor’s — not that I was some pocketbook, or worse, a knife-for-hire,” he laughed, still finding his jokes far more amusing than he should. “I’ve been in Dertosa for a long time, of course I have connections.”

“Yes,” he said plainly, “Well, almost — again, the occasional light beer. I’ve had several people try to get me to drink. I don’t think I’ve been drunk since…,” he trailed off and scrunched his face as he thought back to when he’d last gotten drunk, “since I was eighteen? First year legal to drink, you know? At least in Québec, I know it’s quite high here.” He took the sprite and cranberry from the bartender, murmuring a ‘thanks’, took a sip, and continued. “I was more into scotch then — and vodka, but I doubt anyone at eighteen wasn’t drinking vodka.”

At the description of gin, Vincent nodded. “Maybe I’ll have to give it a try. As long as it doesn’t taste like rubbing alcohol smells, I might be able to handle it.” A little smile. “Oh, fruit is good. You can mix gin and fruit?”

"So, you’re pushing yourself to do it for your good friend the mayor?” Simon prodded, raising one eyebrow, good humored and blatantly still interested. “Don’t worry,” He added, a bit more sympathetically after he saw the look on Vincent’s face, suddenly reminded of the first such events he’d attended as a teenager and how suffocating the entire theater of it felt, costuming and all, “It’ll be over before you know it, don’t be afraid to loosen up the tie. Maybe get that massage afterwards.” 

Aha, good news. “Then I’m going to have to read another one of your books, I can’t keep accepting dinners for nothing.” Which Simon said genuinely enough, any book a customer was interested enough to ask for on special order was worth looking into, even if classic French literature had never quite.. registered on his radar. Vonnegut might titillate him more than Flaubert, but Simon still valued Vincent’s thoughts after. He didn’t have to enjoy it to want to understand why someone else did. “What’s the next recommendation after Dumas?” 

“Back -- ” ‘In Boston was at the tip of Simon’s tongue, he swallowed it down without pause, substituted quickly, “East.” More technical truths. The easiest kind to remember. “I used to walk to work in the middle of November. I think my coworkers thought I was crazy, but if you got out early enough in the morning..” He could remember the hard edges of the city after a fresh snow, softened with drifts glowing orange under the streetlights, his breath steaming in the air and the street so quiet it allowed his mind to try to mimic that peace. “Well. It almost makes the mess in early spring worth it.” Simon said finally, lifting one shoulder in a small shrug. “What got you from Québec to California, if the cold is more your thing?”

That was an unexpected enough answer. “Scotch at eighteen. Classy.” Simon replied, amusement creeping back in more steadily after the strangeness of Vincent’s jokes. He looked him over, tried to envision the other man gangling and slim-shouldered, adolescent with a tumbler in his hand, couldn’t quite grasp it. “Absolutely you can,” He said confidently, squeezing an ample amount of lime juice into the glass the bartender placed in front of him, after a quick sip asserted the quality of the drink, “You should try a strawberry smash sometime. Not as bombastic as the name suggests. Or gin with blackberry and basil, that’s a summer drink if there ever was one.” Simon slid his G&T closer to Vincent with a nod, “Try mine, tell me what you think.” 

[tertiovitae-blog]

(streiknine‌)

“I— no?” Vincent didn’t give the little poke any other thought. “How are you so comfortable? Have you done this before? It, uh, it looks like you’re right at home.” A smile spread across Vincent’s face — maybe Simon had some secrets that would be meaty to dig into, eventually. It was something that was going filed away in Vincent’s mind for later — pry into Simon’s personal life more; have Merc do it, perhaps.

“I’m not giving away my secrets.” Vincent went to push his glasses up again — screwing his face up in an annoyed look when he remembered he wasn’t wearing them. “You’ll just have to get fish from me. And, yeah, I feel you on the cold. I miss having a real winter — with snow and neg thirty temperatures.” A pause. “Celsius, not the stupid Fahrenheit you use here.”

“What, are you afraid of me having killed someone or something crazy like that?” Vincent laughed — if only Simon knew his entire business was killing. “Don’t think the worst of me — I just like to cook. I’m sure you can infer the things I do with a knife in that regard.” Boring things, Vincent added mentally, chopping an onion was nothing to stabbing into a body.

A wave of a hand to the bartender when they started to go for the vodka that Simon had suggested prompted Vincent to say, “No, just sprite and cranberry. I don’t like alcohol that much.” He glanced over to Simon. “Do you drink a lot? Is gin light? I’ve never had it — if I do drink it’s mostly just light beer.”

"I’ve been to my share of museum shindigs, sure,” Simon said neutrally enough, giving away little without being dishonest either, “I’m glad that’s the impression. Never hurts to seem like you know what you’re doing.” He damn well didn’t need to ask Vincent if he had a hold on the situation, the taut line of his shoulders were answer enough to that question. “You, on the other hand,” he said, more amused than taunting, “Look like you needed at least a thirty minute shiatsu massage before you put that suit on.”

Simon caught the fumble and briefly hid a responding grin behind his hand, sympathetic now that he’d had to deal with the things himself. The gesture only repeated itself as he reacted Vincent’s disdain for the American temperature system. "Don’t be such a gatekeeper, Vincent. I mean, come on, we’re an ocean city, getting your hands on quality seafood shouldn’t be an issue at all. And I don’t know about that cold, but just once in my life I’d like to see Dertosa under snow.”

Vincent’s flippancy earned him another skeptical look. “I was more interested in your deep political connections, but if there’s a confession you want to get off your chest...” It was jokingly rhetorical enough, but noticeably lacked the real underlying amusement of Simon’s other wisecracks. He didn’t want to dwell on the extreme option, even in the hypothetical. Not while he was watching the other man wringing his hands and meddling with non-existent glasses out of assumed social nervousness.

“Really? Completely dry?” Simon asked after he gave his own order, curious about this new tidbit of information, “I don’t make a habit out of it, but occasions like this seem to call for a drink or two. Gin.. it’s not light beer, but it definitely isn’t vodka. It’s cleaner, almost. Doesn’t coat your mouth or turn your stomach in my experience; I think it’s one of the few boozey drinks that’s actually refreshing -- you might like gin mixers, if you go for fruit.”

[tertiovitae-blog]

(sweetxarsenic‌)

Giving him a quick once over, Arsenic came to a few conclusions in a matter of seconds. One, his drink was light, most likely tonic and therefore…gin. Could have been vodka but most went with the classic mix, it sounded better when you ordered it and tasted just the same. His eyes were curious, not necessarily about her, but the room itself - he was actually there to enjoy the artifacts on display which meant, he was out of place at the Gala. Those who got their invitations based on their place in the city had no desire to see what was around them, only who was. And if he was here, then he didn’t think he belonged there. 

Her smile softened, light steps bringing her closer to him. Muscles relaxed, her hand, only a twitch away from the knife hidden under her dress, fell back. At the moment, the threat of attack was low. With a breathy laugh, Arsenic stopped next to a particularly inviting display, the fragments of once beautiful clay pots resting on the cushion under the glass. “You could.” Was all she said, her eyes lifting to meet his, choosing to answer his non-answer with one of her own. 

The stranger wasn’t irritated at having her solitude disturbed, or at least, she was trying not to let it seem that way. A pretty stranger too, with an outfit far more suited for the social aspect of the evening than leisurely academic pursuit. Not at all eager to make herself any less of a mystery ( -- as if he’d answered any better ). Fair enough. In half a second, she’d charged the air between them with an inviting edge that stood in dramatic contrast to the theatrical sociability happening in the great hall, and Simon let his natural trajectory take him to the case she’d posed herself behind, overshooting just enough to curve to the other side and finally meet her gaze through the glass. 

Should he take the bait and respond in like? Or take the easy way and twist the conversation back into something plebeian? “Well, not it depends on whether or not you’d answer me,” Simon replied, slipping his spare hand into his trouser pocket and letting his eyes fall disinterestedly to the artifacts displayed between them, “Or if you’re going to make me guess, just for your entertainment?” He had a few ideas off the cuff, but sometimes it was better to let the truth come to you first.

[tertiovitae-blog]

(streiknine‌)

The flinch wasn’t lost, but hey Simon was a little bit of a jumpy guy — probably not a bad thing around here, thought Vincent, it’d definitely keep you alive a bit longer. Instead of commenting on the flinch, Vincent asked, “Comment va-tu?” trying desperately to relax and show that he wasn’t out of his element. He wanted to appear calm and confident. He needed to.

If this had just been a regular security job without the hoop jumping maybe he could relax.

A little laugh bubbled out of Vincent like champagne in a flute. “Good quality olives can be good — especially when they’re stuffed with garlic and soaked in chardonnay, but I can see how a olive tapenade isn’t your cup of tea.” He paused, taking a breath of a pause to remember what was the last thing that he’d cooked and dropped off for Simon. “Oh? Did you like the bouillabaisse?” Vincent had figured out that Simon liked seafood and had made a batch of seafood stew just for him. After the other man had shown him a handwritten note by Alexandre Dumas, Vincent wanted to give him the best food he could make. Even if it had heated his little apartment up to almost unbearable temperatures.

“Yeah, let’s.” Vincent started toward the bar, walking in stride with Simon. “You could say that I’m a friend of the mayor’s.”

They reached the bar, and Vincent glanced over at the offered sodas. “I’m getting a sprite and cranberry, what about you?”

Simon didn’t know the words to respond, but habit with Vincent and context clues gave him enough to understand, “I’m exuberant,” He shot back with a wry curl of his lips, “In my element actually. Aren’t you?” It was good to hear Vincent laugh, even if only a little as they started to tackle the crowd.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Was all he said on the topic of olives, looking far more invested in the aforementioned bouillabaisse, “Thoroughly enjoyed it. I haven’t had a real stew in who knows how long, though it would’ve been even better if it was more chill outside. You need to let me in the loop about where you’re getting your fish.” Though he wouldn’t say no to Vincent’s culinary gifts continuing as is, either.

At Vincent’s next comment however, Simon’s eyebrows shot up, shooting the other man an unabashedly taken aback look, “A friend of the mayor’s?” He repeated back emphatically with a little laugh, internally chastising himself for lapsing into a preconceived idea of exactly who the other man was and who he might be involved with, “You really are keeping secrets from me. Any other surprises I should be prepared for?”

Mercifully, for Vincent at least, the question came just as they arrived at the bar, Simon’s attention shifting towards the offerings.“Vodka cranberry?” Simon clarified questioningly, drumming his fingers on the top of the table, “I think I need gin, something light. Better to prolong the mystery of how good the champagne is until later...”

[tertiovitae-blog]

(sweetxarsenic‌)

when: 10:00pm where: exhibition room within the museum

So far the evening had been quiet. Arsenic didn’t expect the night to continue that way but for the time being, she was more than willing to accept it. Drink in hand, she made her way around the room. Yes, she was here with Felix, but the Poisons had been asked to stay on alert, adding some security to the event in a time when safety was never guaranteed. At first, Arsenic had been worried about the Gala. A night where all the most important and richest people of the city were under one roof. If someone wanted to get rid of a few of them, it would be oh so easy. 

Leaving the main room, she started some rounds through the other open exhibits, it’s a wonder they didn’t close them all off. She would have a chat with security about that later. If they wanted to be able to keep their eyes on everyone, having a bunch of open rooms wasn’t going to help their case. Footsteps on the tile alerted her to someone else being in the room with her, someone who shouldn’t have been there. Turning to face them, Arsenic smiled, perhaps warmly it was hard to tell in the dimly light room. “Hi, what are you doing so far away from the party?”

The exhibit rooms were a welcome respite from the crush of bodies in the main room, Simon slipping away from it with a gin and tonic in hand, just for the moment to breathe. There were more than a few faces he’d glimpsed that he recognized from Pulp Kitchen or his other haunts in town. It only made him all the more curious about the connections of people he might’ve not otherwise assumed would attend an event like this, when the exclusivity was a part of the allure. Regardless, there was one thing Simon had forgotten -- just how irate the attitudes of the types attracted to that exclusivity could make you. 

For now, the display cases were just as interesting as the people ignoring them. The ability to wander the rooms alone enhanced the pleasure, Simon taking his time to absorb what he realized he’d neglected, even working with the museum. Except he wasn’t alone, he discovered, glimpsing the slim outline of another guest at the end of the hall he was walking. She turned just before he’d formally entered, catching him first even with his headstart. “Recovering from it,” Simon replied dryly, curiously running his eyes over her as he came down the short steps into the room, “I could ask you the same thing.”

[tertiovitae-blog]

(streiknine‌)

Time: who knows Location: gala Who: @tertiovitae

“Bonsoir,” Vincent said, lilt of the chuckle that followed lifting the end of the greeting, bending down to get close to Simon’s ear, “Think this food is as good as mine, Simon?” Vincent was out of his element, even though he was at the Gala for security, he still had to fit in — if Nightshade wearing that gown was any indication (along with the rest of the Poisons dressing up) — and, so, he focused on the food.

It was a comfort; familiar.

“Have you tried some of the crostinis?” Vincent went to push up his glasses that weren’t there, winding up almost poking himself in his eye. “There’s an olive tapenade on one of them, with goat cheese.” A smile. A swallow. Nervousness showing in the tenseness of his shoulders and the flex of his hands. “Want to find the bar?” He had no idea if that was a proper thing to say, but he wanted to get a drink — sans alcohol.

If he squinted, it could’ve been any other party from a million lives ago. Some Manhattanite social affair, or a Suffolk fund-raiser. Strange to experience exactly because it wasn’t.

Simon tried to hide his flinch at the sudden voice so close to him, head turning quickly towards the source before he registered the other man and his hackles slowly lowered again. “Bonsoir, Vincent,” He returned automatically, surprised, but pleasantly so. Simon was relaxing, but he noticed that Vincent didn’t seem to be doing the same, the Canadian’s pleasant small talk darting from place to place with a nervous, jerky energy. 

“You might look at me differently for it, but I’m not an olive kinda guy,” Simon admitted with a thin smile, shaking his head, “I’d take one of your dinners over crostini any day.” Which only reminded him of the Tupperware in his office he’d yet to return to the man who was quickly becoming one of his favorite patrons. Vincent, for his small quirks, was as comfortable a conversational partner as Simon could have hoped for in the glitzy crowd.

“Bar sounds good,” He was quick to agree, “Shall we?” This question accompanied by the gesture of his thumb pointing over his shoulder to the wall of drinks stacked up across the room, Simon pausing for Vincent’s agreement before starting the walk, “You can fill me in along the way  – didn’t expect you, you a friend of the museum?”

[tertiovitae-blog]

EVENT 001

Simon’s in, if only for a small favor he paid the museum this past year in donating a few valuable documents circulating through Pulp Vintage – which means a (hopefully) enjoyable night of schmoozing and brushing the rust off of his muscle memory for bumping elbows at posh events like this. Keep it classy, Dertosa. 

[tertiovitae-blog]

(angelofmore‌)

Grayson’s eyes flicked immediately to the clock in the corner, allowing the familiar wash of panic to come over him, before he pushed it away with a smile. “What can I say? Traffic was nonexistent this morning.” Or perhaps, more simply, Grayson had trouble deviating from his routing, no matter how hard he tried. Years of keeping to the same schedule, and the same mannerisms had ingrained in him an ability to keep to task without even needing to try. And he’d been doing his damnedest since coming to Dertosa to break himself of the habit, because there were only so many times he could laugh away a particular quirk of his before people started asking questions he didn’t have the answers for.

“As if I’d ever turn down free caffeine.” An addiction like many others, but one Grayson could easily manage so long as he kept to the schedule he so badly wanted to break. Reaching down for the carrier, he hitched the other bag back up on his other shoulder and gestured for Simon to lead the way, “I figured we’d start small, at first. Misty here is one of my particular favorites, and she never fails to woo a person with a single bat of her eyes.” Grinning at the carrier he lifted it up enough to get a look at the grey Scottish Fold cat inside who eyed him as warily as she ever did. She was small for her size, which made her perfect to be a companion in an overly stuffed bookstore. “I brought enough supplies for a week, for a trial run, and figured we could go from there.”

That was the response he was looking for. It’d be a good chance to get a sense of the veterinarian outside of the purely business conversations they’d had so far, scope the man out. "You, and the rest of us,” Simon shot back as he led the other man through the glass-paned doors that separated the bookstore from the eating area, the cafe empty and filled with soft, natural light without customers. “One day I’ll go broke from mooching off of myself during business hours.” He may keep a Keruig in his office just in case, but the whole thing still felt a little sacrilegious when the smell of espresso came drifting down the hall. 

He nodded at this new information, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement, “You have pets yourself? I’d be surprised if it takes a week, I’ve had people come into Pulp just because they saw the cats on Instagram. We’ll get that shelter empty in a month, tops  – just don’t set her on the table for now,” He interjected quickly, eyeballing the carrier still in Riddle’s hand as he ducked behind the pastry case, reaching for the rack of clean mugs, “Go full free-range back in the store, but we keep those doors closed for a reason. You probably hear even more bitching about sanitary regulations than I do.” Simon tilted his head towards the line of stools on the other side of the counter, a clear invitation to the other to take a load off, “Cream, sugar, or straight?” 

[tertiovitae-blog]

(yourxvngel‌)

Eyes widened slightly, “that narrows it down.” Sarcasm dripped from her words and she smirked at him. What was his game? Angel knew he had something on his mind or else why would he make the effort to come over here. There was a moment when she worried he knew something he shouldn’t but it was becoming increasingly clear that he had nothing. It seemed like he was flailing, hoping something would cause her to spill some kind of information he could use against her.

“Did you say Abrams?” This was her moment to fuck around with him a little bit. If he wanted something dramatic to be happening, she’d give it to him. Whoever this Abrams was, Angel didn’t remember nor did she give a fuck, but she could pretend. Her face shifted from amusement to concern. “Shit. He said he was leaving town?” She looked away from him, glancing out the window in disappointment as though this man had let her down for the last time. “I should have known. I shouldn’t have told him but,” she paused, looking back over at Simon. “I didn’t think he’d fucking skip town, you know? I get it, some guys aren’t ready but am I? Fuck.”

Aha, now she was sticking to something, hinting at the pregnancy route which was immediately refuted from the fact the times he’d seen her had been spread out among weeks, and as far as Simon could wager without being lecherous, she’d stayed slim as ever under her shirts. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’d even gotten thinner. “I’m sorry to hear things didn’t end well.” A straightforward, unimaginative line, the type an empathetic stranger would give when they felt bad and had nothing better to say. It wasn’t hard to turn his expression into something a little softer, sensing he’d been creeping unconciously towards a tone more like an interrogation.  

So, was she going to be the quiet type or looser lipped? Some people jumped at the chance to unload their burdens. Some liars lied for the love of the sport. “Tough situation?” Simon prompted with a small, nonthreatening smile, though he wouldn’t bring himself to the point of being doe-eyed at that elfin face, “I’m no Dr.Phil. And it might not be my place, but I’m always happy to listen to my customers.”

[tertiovitae-blog]

(yourxvngel)

At the moment, Angel didn’t have any current victims to swindle. She’d been taking a bit of a break, actually having cancer and convincing people to give you money for surgery was tiring work. Exhausting even. It sure paid off though. True, saving money wasn’t a huge goal of hers, what was the point when you were guaranteed to die young? But the point wasn’t to save money for retirement, it was to fund her poor poor choices. The income she was getting from her job at Galaxy Theaters wasn’t enough and hitting up some poor soul every now and then, or more often than that, was covering everything she needed.

For the most part, she’d been keeping to herself today, waiting for her waitress to arrive before placing her order. Only, it wasn’t her normal waitress that showed up. Light blue eyes met dark brown ones and she was curious. Who was it that had come back looking for her? Maybe she needed to find a new spot, but after all the scams she pulled, Kat was running out of places to go. “A friend? Hmmm, must have been, I haven’t heard anything. Did they happen to leave a name?” Not that she was ever going to call them…she doubted she had their number and it wasn’t her problem if they realized they’d just lost a few grItand.

It took an active effort not to narrow his eyes –  oh, she was       full of shit. He didn’t need to know the full extent of whatever she was pulling to figure that out; ‘sixth sense for guilt’, one of his coworkers had joked about those frustrating cases when one sensed obvious fault and yet had no obvious evidence. “It was a man,” Simon continued, furrowing his brows as he tried to remember the stranger beyond just a distraught face, “His last name was Abrams, I think. He said he was leaving town soon and he needed to meet you before. Considering that was a few days ago, I’d hoped the confusion had already been figured out..”

It was tempting to try and lead her, see if he could come up with something conflicting to trip her up on, but there was still too much he didn’t know. Whatever she was inspiring all these emotions with had to be big. An illness? A pregnancy? Just from the glimpses he’d gotten, he’d hazard a guess it was something medical. Nothing made people cry like that type of tragedy.  

[tertiovitae-blog]

(angelofmore)

Closed Starter || @tertiovitae Where: Pulp Kitchen When: Before Opening Hours

“Knock Knock!” Grayson’s cheerful hello was unnecessary as the bell above the door signaled his arrival, but old habits died hard. It was better to announce yourself when arriving anywhere unexpectedly, for one never knew when there might be someone waiting around the corner with a loaded gun. Ridiculous to imagine in a small bookstore slash coffeeshop, but he’d survived this long by be being unnecessarily paranoid, and he wasn’t about to stop now. Hip checking the door the rest of the way open when nothing happened, he made sure the carrier he’d brought with him was still securely latched, and set it down beside the doorway. 

When no answer was forthcoming, he paused in setting down the rest of the supplies he carried in with him, and glanced around, “H’lo?” His fingers itched for a gun that wasn’t there, and he forced himself to breath through the sharp edge of his own paranoia as he set the bag at his feet, “I know it’s early, but not that early. And need I remind you, you’re the one that asked me to come by this morning?”

"In fact, it’s almost eight thirty... precisely.” Simon appeared from the end of the bookshelves, calm demeanor not betraying how quickly he’d shoved himself out his office when he’d realized the faint chime of the doorbell wasn’t his ringtone. He made a mental note to change it for the sake of caution, “So not early,” When they were finally close enough to be considered face to face, Simon greeted him with a faint conspiratorial smile, “Exactly on time, actually. Maybe I should just say, punctual as always. Thank you.” His eyes automatically shifted from his guest to the carrier at his feet as he stepped past him to flip the sign on the door, smile broadening in the way of anyone more instantly comfortable with animals than others before he dipped his head to check his wristwatch again. 

“We’ve technically got half an hour until the cafe officially opens, but I’ll be staying with you. My staff can handle a Thursday morning on their own.” What he and the veterinarian were partnering up on was a bit novel, but he felt confident this was the man who’d help him pull it off. If anything, Riddle’s tolerance with Darlene’s infamous bad attitude out of the book stacks put the man in Simon’s good graces. “Coffee? Then you can tell me about what you’ve brought with you.” He nodded towards the carrier, “And who.”