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✗✗ then I'll follow you into the D A R K; mature--closed--active
Topic Started: Sep 8 2011, 12:19 PM (770 Views)
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<BR>"Forget Kandinsky, you and me are best friends now."

<br><br>"Oh, do I get to make friendship bracelets?" He joked along with her, making his voice a much higher octave in order to imitate what a twelve year old girl might sound like, as he clasped his hands together. He laughed as his hands dropped to his sides, though to him, the notion of them being friends was no laughing matter. Her friendship would mean a great deal to him.

<br><br>"I can still remember my first hot dog."

<br><br>Carter cocked a brow at that before he gave her a grin, "I might remember mine. It's sorta foggy. I think I more remember getting ketchup and mustard all over me." Gosh, he was painting himself even then.

<br><br>"We were."

<br><br>He didn't fail to notice the smile she gave him... The sort of smile that held true fervor and sincerity. She was truly fond of what she spoke of. It somehow made her even more beautiful when he got to see her this way.

<br><br>"I understand,"

<br><br>Those words were so sweet to hear. She understood what he was saying. It was like an angel had been sent down to him, right out of one of those paintings.

<br><br>"The colors, the dreams, the world and what you see in it. You want to keep it, fold yourself into it…or into yourself."

<br><br>"Yeah! That's it!" The brightest of smiles claimed his face, his eyes matching his lips completely, as he pointed to her with both of his hands. He shook his head slightly as he let out a soft breath, "You get it."

<br><br>When they got to his office, her reaction wasn't exactly what he had expected. She inquired why he worked there when he could be doing his own thing. He was surprised at this. It touched him that she seemed to be that much of a fan of his work. "Heh." He shifted his eyes towards the paintings, rubbing the back of his neck as she seemed to realize the boldness of her question, dismissing her own words. She assumed he did it because he loved the old art, and of course, he did, but that wasn't the reason why he worked at the museum instead of putting all of his mind, body, and soul into his own artwork.

<br><br>"Just…"

<br><br>She wasn't letting it go, something that sincerely shocked him. It was wondrous for someone to have so much faith in his work. He could feel his eyes nearly growing damp.

<br><br>"…seems like a waste, Carter."

<br><br>Carter let out an awkward chortle, his hands slipping into his back pockets as he pulled his shoulders back, stretching out his lean body. "See, uh, I work here because I need money." What better place for him to work? He was doing what he loved, but in a way that revived others' work, and it got him connections. "Not everybody thinks my stuff is so spectacular." At least, they didn't see money signs. "I try, y'know, to get in a gallery, sell my stuff, but everybody I've gone to so far has told me no." He smiled weakly, the incidents of rejection upsetting him more than he let on. "But, hey!" He flashed a grin and threw his arms out, hiding any possible melancholy. "Just gotta keep trying. Who knows, maybe I won't be famous until I'm dead. That's how it usually seems to work with artists."

<br><br>Cora had no idea how much his statement really wasn't a joke.

<br><br>With that, he had led the girl to the shards. They were just as stunning as he had imagined, probably even more so. They were a wonder, to be sure, and he knew this was going to bring a lot of people to the museum. He gazed at the radiant display along side Cora, right until she turned to him and asked in a whisper when the shards would be on display. He pulled his earthy brown eyes away in order to gaze down at her, and it made him wish he was back at his apartment with his cans of paint and plethora of brushes, feeling inspiration soar through him as he just casually looked at her. It was ridiculous.

<br><br>"Uh." He kept his own voice as faint as hers, though he wasn't sure why they were whispering. "In about two months. We have to wait for the current exhibit to finish it's run, plus there's still a few items that need to be shipped and fixed up anyway." He informed her, not even bothering to look back at the shards. He decided her eyes trumped their beauty by far. "You can see whatever you want though. You've got a backstage pass." He gestured to himself with both hands, indicating that he was said pass. He'd happily lead her to see whatever it was she wanted, or take her right out of the museum to do whatever else she might want to do. He technically didn't have to work today, so he was free to do whatever she liked.
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"See, uh, I work here because I need money."

<br><br>Well now, Cora felt completely ignorant for not thinking of that. It had just been so long since she had last been hurting for money that it didn't really come up as problem in her mind anymore. It wasn't something she had to worry about…but it wasn't like things had always been that way. Cora hadn't grown up in the wealthiest of families--it was how she had learned to appreciate smaller, simpler aspects of life. Her parents, especially her mother, had always been dreaming of bigger, better things. There had been times after her immortality when Cora had been in desperate need of funds as well, and she had to resort to charity or theft. Sometimes she had been lucky enough to meet kind people, but other times…she wasn't so lucky. Dying from starvation or lack of proper shelter had happened before, unfortunately. The need for money was such an integral part of being human. Cora just wished people like Carter could live without it.

<br><br>"Just gotta keep trying. Who knows, maybe I won't be famous until I'm dead. That's how it usually seems to work with artists."

<br><br>She was sorry she had brought it up. While Carter wasn't exactly bawling with the tears of disappointment, Cora was no fool. She knew that being turned away from something you were this passionate about wasn't something easy to deal with. Life was just unfair. Cora completely believed that Carter had more than enough talent to make his living by painting alone, but…people these days were into buying names, not talent. She knew that if she had been to one of Carter's galleries and if she had a home to put things in, she would have bought his work. But Cora was sure that buying it now would seem like a pity purchase, however, so she didn't offer that. She would just give him some of her money if she could. It wouldn't hurt her in the least. But life didn't work that way…it wasn't simple. You just couldn't randomly give a guy a million dollars, not without a reason, not without an explanation of how seven hundred years could chalk up a sizable bank account, and that it was fine.

<br><br>Cora ceased her thought process. She had never even faintly considered something like this before. Why was she putting so much of herself into this guy's life? She had to stop before things got out of hand. "Kind of a long term plan you've got there, don't you think?" she chuckled, regarding his talk on death and oblivious to Carter's circumstances. Still, Cora wanted to say something to reassure Carter, after being the one to bring the whole thing up. "…maybe you just haven't met the right people yet," Cora suggested, her tone light. She glanced at Carter with a smile, one that hinted at hope--because she did hope this for him. And all the while, she was unaware that meeting the "right" people sort of alluded to her herself.

<br><br>"In about two months. We have to wait for the current exhibit to finish it's run, plus there's still a few items that need to be shipped and fixed up anyway."

<br><br>Cora didn't know whether to be glad she had plenty of time to put everything together, or to be miffed at the fact that her mortality was being put off even further. All this time, she had just been hoping the gang would sell it to her, and now…well, she was going to have to go shopping for equipment on the black market…maybe buy some new clothes in black, and maybe even work on creating yet another identity, so she wouldn't be tied down to any drama about the stolen shards.

<br><br>"You can see whatever you want though. You've got a backstage pass."

<br><br>"I see that," Cora said, unable to control a smile from breaking out. Maybe his attitude was a little contagious. "Thanks, Carter." Geez, how many times was he gonna make her say it? It was like verbally making tally marks on how much she owed him. "Well…," she started, taking a small step back, her body leaving the proximity of Carter's. "…I should get going." She had gone far past the usual, safe amount of time to spend with a person, really. And although he was going to be her key to getting those shards…Cora didn't have time to dawdle [ironically]. She had to get going…buy equipment, pull some strings…this wasn't going to be a cake walk. Not to say that obtaining a relic ever was, but it would have been nice if Fate tossed her a bone instead of pitching curveballs all the time. "On a tight schedule and everything," she added, retreating slightly further back against the crowd.

<br><br>"I really…can't thank you enough for the help," Cora remarked, not wanting to list everything Carter had done for her because that would lead to the whole coming back to life topic again. She didn't feel the need to go into detail anyway. She felt like Carter knew she appreciated it all by now. Without thinking, her hand moved and gently grazed against his, but it snapped back as soon as skin touched skin. "I guess I'll see you later?" she said, her smile turning tilted, but not losing any of its sincerity. Cora drew back to leave, almost turned around, but then…something stopped her. She frowned and pursed her lips for a second, thinking, wondering if she would regret this…but no, it was the good thing to do, right?

<br><br>"Uhh…" Cora had to pay Carter back in some way, after all. Even the smallest gesture. "Would you…wanna go out for a quick cup of coffee first?" she asked, raising a hand towards him. There was a sort of almost endearingly awkward wince on her face, because despite the fact she had already decided to go with this, Cora still didn't know if she was going to regret it. "It's the least I can do," she said with a small shrug, dropping her hand. Her expression smoothed out into an expectant smile. Cora had been to New York enough times to at least establish her favorite little coffee place. It was a place not too well known of, but she had a feeling Carter would appreciate it.

<br><br>Her mind was doing its best to suppress the fact that it wasn't out of her gratitude or manners that she was asking him out.

<br><br>They weren't even factors.

<br><br>It was merely desire, standing alone.


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<BR>Cora's mention of my plan being 'long term' sort of hits me in a way I don't expect. It's hard, because she has no idea what's going on with me, and how death isn't exactly far off going by my odds. She doesn't know to stay away from things like that. Like, hey, when I joke about that stuff, I'm expecting it. I make light of a situation that I have no real control over... Though I guess there is some control, since they say stressing over it only makes you sicker. I just can't see the point of moping around and waiting for the end instead of making the most of what might be my last days. However, when other people mention it, I'm not exactly prepared. Usually, I just push through and smile anyway but sometimes it catches me off guard. I get a second to think about how I don't really have any long term plans. Things are day by day for me.

<br><br>Fortunately, she laughs, so it makes it easy for me to smile and let out a curt chuckle myself, cause she's cherub like and spectacular with that little laugh that I can hardly help myself anyway. "Yeah, maybe." I answer, deciding the answer isn't too specific. She mentions how I might not have met the right people yet, so I jut out my chin and nod, cause that sounds accurate. "Well, hey, that's why I work here, you know? It gets me those connections I need." I pause for a moment before I grin towards her. "Looks like I'm already on the right track." I give her a quick little wink, basically saying I am already meeting the 'right' people, meaning little miss her.

<br><br>Little miss more radiant than some shards from the mirror of a goddess. Little miss special who came back to life after being shot and bleeding to death. Little miss enigmatic and great and beautiful and who fills me with more inspiration than I can believe. It's like she could be a model for a post-impressionism painting. I swear she looks familiar too, like I have seen her in a post-impressionism painting. I gotta look through my books when I get the time at home. If my hunch is true though, I'll be disappointed that I wasn't the first one to paint her.

<br><br>So, the afternoon isn't really going as I had hoped, because after my little backstage pass comment, she's thanking me again, which is unnecessary really, and saying she has to go. Is she serious? "Aw, come on. That's it? I show you priceless artifacts and you want to ditch me? How is this fair?" I cross my arms over my chest and wing my head to the side with a huff like I'm some platinum haired drama queen, but when I look back at her, any smile I had on my face fades abruptly, cause she's serious. She has to go, or she wants to go. I honestly can't place which one. "You really don't have to thank me." I say softly when she does it once more, and then she has to go and make my hand all tingly my touching it with her own, and it's only for a dang second. Ugh, no, she's torturing me now. "Yeah. Hopefully. Soon. I'd rather soon." I admit, not one to hold back. If I want to say it, I say it. If I want her to know how I feel, I'm going to tell her, because life is too short to regret the things you didn't say. "I'll see you." I add in a tone sadder than I wanted as she moves to turn around, but she stops, and I freeze, and I wait.

<br><br>She asks me if I want to go get coffee.

<br><br>She asks me if I want to go get coffee!

<br><br>"Now, what better to wash down all those bagels than with a cup of some New York joe, eh?" The grin that lights up my face could probably power a couple hundred light bulbs. She's basically asking me out, and if I was not me, I would pat me on the back. You tiger, Carter. You tiger. You getting the girl like this. I just sort of stare at her for a couple seconds after that, admiring her, before I gesture animatedly with both hands towards the nearby door, letting out a loose chuckle, "C'mon, lets go get that java." My arm swings around her tiny shoulders, my hand grasping her arm farthest from me in a buddy-buddy manner as I lead her out of the museum and back onto the musty streets of the city. Once the sunlight hits us, I drop my arm and shove my hands into my jacket pockets, not about to push myself on her and all. I'm friendly, not creepy. I think. "So, coffee. Which way do we go?" I over exaggerate myself looking left and right (and even up to the sky) before I rest my eyes back on her and smile. "Where's this coffee of ours?"

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He's adorable. He really is. Just with that look on his face…you'd think no one's ever asked him out for coffee in his life before. But that's something I highly doubt, because he has one of those personalities. The ones that are always drawing people in and attracting them, the one with the twinkle in their eyes and always a handful of stories to tell. He's the opposite of me, who's always building walls…leading people into labyrinths, just always running away, always on the move. I've forgotten what it's like to be hurt by someone else. But I've also forgotten what it's like to have a real conversation with someone else, so I have to say…I'm looking forward to this. Maybe it's going a little off track, and I should be immediately making phone calls and ordering gear so I'll be prepared to rob this museum…and maybe I've worked to hard to slack off now, but…c'mon, I think I owe myself a break, just a small one, and just this once.

<br><br>I'm not used to anyone acting so casual with me, wrapping their arms around me or any of that. Because usually, that requires being friends first, and I've never had time to build up to that. I mean, I have accomplices now and then, but…nothing like this. Not a sunny, grinning guy who ushers me out of his workplace like we've known each other since we were kids. I don't react to it though, knowing that I can't, and when he releases me, I just smile back, hands at my side, keeping my safe distance. "Our coffee is just around the corner over there," I murmur, cocking my head to right as my thumb jabs in that direction, clicking my tongue. "C'mon." I swerve around and start walking off, leading the way.

<br><br>The coffee shop, The Ink Spot, is actually an underground one, with no advertisements announcing its presence. It's just something that you have to know about. Not too many people are aware of its existence, or even notice it, really, either because they think that down below is just any the bar, or because the place constantly overshadowed by a prestigious dance studio above. It also has such odd hours of business that it's a wonder how it's still operating but I think it was started just as a hobby of a billionaire, however, so the owner's probably not hurting for money, anyway. Once you go down the concrete steps, you enter this shop with brick walls and a colorful, yet homey feel. There's artwork hanging everywhere on the walls, some famous pieces, some just by people who visited the place. "Not bad, right?" I murmur, raising my eyebrows as I look back at Carter. I used to do a couple of deals down here. It was ideal for privacy.

<br><br>We sit down by a wall actually made of blackboard, where people who've sat here previously have scribbled and sketched various things, ranging from a fairly accurate drawing of the Eiffel Tower, to a caricature of some famous actor. And everything goes well. We continue to chit-chat like we did on the way to the museum about the small things, and to my relief, Carter never gets too personal with me, never asking about last night. And I really…really miss this. Just being able to sit down and talk with someone. He actually makes me think of my two older brothers, Edmund and Geoffrey, and what they would have thought of him. They probably wouldn't have approved of an artist for me, for back then most found it a little unmanly, but I think he'd be able to win them over. He'd make them laugh, and my parents, too.

<br><br>When it's time to go, I insist on paying and don't take no for an answer. But when the waitress comes over and I open my wallet…I'm suddenly reminded of how suspiciously thin it had felt when Carter first returned it. And now I know why. My cash and my credit cards…gone. "Um. Could you come back in a second?" I ask the waitress, frowning as I start to rein in my inner hysteria, and she rolls her eyes and walks away, going over to another table. Once she's gone, I hurriedly empty out the contents of my billfold. "Fuck," I mutter at first, and I quickly pull out all my remaining cards…(I.D.'s, mostly, fake and all) and the scraps of paper with the intel on old relics I've collected, like a sketch of Dionysus's wine goblet. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck," I repeatedly say as I try not to have a complete freak out, the pad of my thumb flipping through the bits of plastic I have left. No money, no credit cards, nothing. Those bastards. I suppose I'm lucky they didn't steal my information, probably thinking it was useless crap, but right now I'm virtually penniless.

<br><br>I suck in my breath as I glance at Carter from across the table, wincing. Feels like I've turned to him for help dozens of times, when we've only just met last night (and barely at that, because I passed out within two seconds). "...I might have to take a rain check on treating you, Carter…" I admit. I don't want to mention the thugs from the other night because I've been avoiding the topic ever since I woke up, not wanting to put any emphasis on the fact that he most likely saw me die and then just come back to life, but I don't really have a choice right now. They stole from me.

<br><br>"Do you think you could spot me?" I ask with a sheepish smile. In reality, it's amazing that I'm even holding this together because behind this embarrassed, smiling mask of a girl who was simply robbed, lies an immortal who has grown tired of the things she's had to endure for six hundred years, and knows fully well that that she's now in deep trouble. In the all the mind ruckus, I forget that anyone else would be calling the police right now, or their credit card company. But I can't call the police because, well…let's just say that I've acquired a bit of a record over the years. It's not easy for me to call the credit card companies, either. What with my multiple names and accounts, things can get sticky, and I try to stay as far from them as possible. And I don't need just a little bit of money to get by right now--I need funding for my theft, I need equipment! Preferably before two months pass and things get really heavy-duty with security down here. But all of that seems shot to hell now because some gang members just couldn't be happy with murder alone, and had to get down and gritty with some side theft as well.

<br><br>No money, no equipment, nowhere to stay. It's been a while since things have gotten so rough, and I can't say I've missed it. Worst comes to worst, I just might have to get a job again.
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<BR>I've lived in New York a few years now, and honestly, I've been to a lot of coffee shops. I'm expecting her to bring me to one I've been to at least once, but nope. She manages to surprise me, taking me to an underground joint with the sort of feel and decor that I can definitely get behind. I grin to myself as I look around, hands shoved in my pockets as I lean forward, looking at the different artwork. I appreciate the famous pieces and the local ones equally. "Huh, this place is great." I respond to her before we head on over to a booth, and to my delight, the wall we are next to is actually made of blackboard, and admittedly, I grin as if I'm a five year old that was just given a bucket of chalk to play with on the sidewalk.

<br><br>As we chit chat with our delicious joe, I'm sort of half facing the wall, doodling with the broken bits of chalk provided on the table. I prefer painting, but this sort of black and white medium isn't too bad either. Art is art, and I'll do it in any way I can. I keep things light. As much as I wonder about last night and mystery that is Miss Cora, I don't mention it. That'll just make her run away, and I don't want that. That's one of the last things I want. As we talk, I think of Dexter, my twin, and how I can't wait to tell him about this beautiful girl who I managed to get coffee with, and he'd laugh and say how that's easy for me, and how I could probably charm my way into coffee with a Victoria Secret model or something. Of course, then I would mention how he managed to get none other than a Hawthorne, that incredibly wealthy business family. I gotta say, I'm proud of him for even being able to ask a girl out, never mind her, who happened to be his high school crush on top of it all. Not to say my brother doesn't have a lot to offer, it's just that he's never been as personable and positive as me.

<br><br>I really can't say much though. I'm not even dating Cora. She isn't my girlfriend. She's a girl who I attempted to save last night, who ended up dying anyway before coming right back to life. Since then, there's simply been bagels, the museum, and coffee, all with a zombie. Okay, that's an awful description of her. She's obviously not a zombie. She's not partly dead or anything. I'm not sure what she is. I only know that she's pretty incredible.

<br><br>Soon enough, I've finished a drawing of a large tree, bare of all of it's leaves, with spindly limbs going every which way, and a figure nesting in it, looking up at the stars and moon above. I dust my hand off after I put the chalk down, rolling back my shoulders and turning myself towards Cora as it gets time to pay. I insist on paying for myself, but her insisting is scarier than mine, so I let her. I did buy her bagels this morning so I guess this would make us even and all that good stuff.

<br><br>There seems to be a problem though. She looks into her wallet, and ends up asking our waitress to return. I furrow my dark brows as she starts to freak out a little, emptying out the contents of her wallet. "Is everything alright?" I ask, though obviously it's not. I look at what she's poured out, my mouth swishing off to the side as I try to make sense of it all. Are those all of her IDs? What's with the weird drawings? That's all that is there though. No credit cards. There's no cash. There isn't even a penny. She's bone dry, and I remember how she was shot last night, and if they were any sort of criminals, they didn't hesitate to take everything she had once they believed she would die, and the sides of my mouth fall, because that really sucks, which might be an understatement.

<br><br>She gets all embarrassed, which is pretty adorable, and asks me if I could pay for it after all. I know the situation, but I crack a joke anyway. "So, this is how Cora works, eh? She presses that she can take a starving artist-" I'm not starving, but I am an artist in New York. Close enough. "-Out for coffee, but then plays the 'I've been robbed' game so he's guilt into paying in the end." I'm grinning at her as I lift up slightly and pull my wallet out of my back pocket, which has specks of green and white paint on the worn black leather exterior. I pull out a crumbled five dollar bill, which has a spot of purple paint on it, and place it down next to the bill, which is enough to cover the drinks and give the waitress a grasping of a tip, who lost points for rolling her eyes. It's either that or a twenty, and I can't afford to give away the twenty, nor do I want to wait for change, because I want to talk to Cora about what happened. "Come on, charity case." I tease her as I get up from the booth, holding my hand out to her, waiting until she gathers all of her stuff before she can take hold of my hand, and I lead her out and upstairs. Though the sidewalks of New York aren't exactly private, it's one of my favorite places to talk, because everybody else is too preoccupied with themselves to pay attention, so it won't matter.

<br><br>"So, they took everything?" I inquire as I raise a brow at her, walking with my hands slipped into my pockets. She knows I'm talking about the guys who shot her. I'm not going to press it, but I'm not hiding it either. "I would suggest calling the police and all that protocol but that's not an option, is it?" I study her face, and without a word, I can see that the answer is that, nope, it's not an option. Not for her. "You're some sort of special, aren't you?" I smile softly at her, and I say nothing more than that on the subject. I don't want her to feel awkward or scared I'll find out some big secret. I mean, I technically already have, since I saw it with my own eyes. If this was Dexter, he'd probably think she's an alien, but I'm not sure about that. I think she's human... Just with a little something the rest of us don't have.

<br><br>"So, do you have a place to stay?" I wonder if each ID has a different address on it. Is she always on the move? When's the last time she had a sense of home? "Or do you have the money to keep up with rent?" Suddenly, I get all sheepish, which doesn't happen often. That's Dexter's job. This is all kinds of forward though. I reach back with a hand and rub the back of my neck as I abruptly laugh, "Cause you know, you seemed pretty comfortable at my apartment, so my home is always open to you. I trust you not to murder me in my sleep and steal my paint supplies." I give her this half grin as I look her in the eyes, admire as they glint in the chilled New York sunlight, my own gaze shifting to the ground as I grow afraid of the answer. Is it easy to say I'm lonely? It's hard to have friends, in my state, cause all they do is worry about you and make you uncomfortable, because you are just making them uncomfortable. She doesn't know about me. It's be a nice arrangement, and on top of it all, I wouldn't mind seeing her all the time, especially when her eyes make me want to paint a hundred oceans and a thousand skies.
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SKINNED BY ALISON WONDERLAND OF ATF.