If I Were A Painting... [OPEN]

[baisant]

Jean-Claude sits in the office of Guilty Pleasures, staring down at the account book laid before him on the desk. He is usually a lot more productive than he finds himself at such a time as this, but the air in the room is somewhat oppressive with the weight of time and memory that he feels bearing down on him, and he finds it difficult to concentrate on much of anything for long periods of time. The city is in turmoil over this business with the witches and the fae, and the wolves have begun causing trouble of their own.

He has made decrees of his own in response to these problems -- all vampires sympathetic to the Daybreak cause are to be expelled from the Nest. And the wolves? Well, since they were going about killing any vampire on sight that set foot in East End Pack territory, Jean-Claude made his own declaration in return. Any werewolf caught trespassing will be subject to punishment of that vampire's choice. He does not want an all-out bloodbath on his hands, to decree that they might kill on sight in return would be downright foolhardy. But he cannot let this go either. Perhaps he should have thought things through more, but he had been a bit preoccupied of late.

And that preoccupation had everything to do with the new portrait hanging on the wall above his couch. New, in the sense that it had not been there before, but definitely not new in age. Oil on canvas, painted over five hundred years ago, depicting three people dressed in the style of the 1600's. The woman wears white and silver with a square bodice showing quite a bit of decolletage, her brown hair styled in careful ringlets, with a red rose held loosely in one hand. A man stands behind her, tall and slender, with dark gold hair in ringlets over his shoulders. He has a mustache and a Vandyke beard, so dark gold they are nearly brown. On his head he wears a large floppy hat with feathers, his entire outfit of white and gold. It is the third that the onlooker will recognize. Seated just behind the woman, dressed in black with silver embroidery and a wide lace collar and cuffs, he too has his own wide-brimmed floppy hat, with a single quite feather and a silver buckle, this one black. Though he does not wear it, instead resting it across his lap. His black hair falls in ringlets across his shoulders, and his face is clean-shaven, his eyes strikingly blue even despite the medium. The other two depicted are smiling, but the third man -- Jean-Claude -- is solemn. A darkness to their light.

Jean-Claude does not know why Belle decided to send this painting to him. He has not gathered the courage in himself to ask, just yet. Neither has he gathered the courage to do anything with it but hang the piece on his wall. It is a reminder of what feels now as if a different life. He should have known, as the portrait artist had done, that he would bring a darkness in their lives. These two people he had cherished the most in all the world. Julianna. Asher. How happy they had been...

He pushes himself back from the desk with a sigh, feeling their gazes heavy upon himself. He will get no work done on this night. Perhaps he should take a turn about the floor of the club instead. Though he doubts that will do much to lighten his mood.

[ooc: feel free to visit him being maudlin in his office, or as he mopes around on the floor, or perhaps once he has found himself a corner of the bar and a glass of wine to nurse as well! c: ]

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[baisant]

There are many visitors that Jean-Claude would be more than happy to turn away at the door, but luckily for Eames he is not one of them. Instead, a minute later the woman returns to let him know that Jean-Claude will receive him in his office. Ever the flair for dramatics, Jean-Claude has, and even in his most melancholy state there proves to be no exceptions.

He sits behind his large lacquered desk and waits for the woman to lead Eames through. Working through his account book with genuine fountain pen, yes, fountain pen, up until the moment Eames is let in, as though he is surprised to see him there despite the fact that his presence had been announced already.

"Mon ami," he says, his smile spreading wide both at Eames himself and at the paper bag in his hand. He gestures for the door to be shut behind him as the woman lets herself out, before sitting back in his chair to regard the other man, taking in the image of him. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

[falsify]

A smile on his face in return, Eames moves over to where Jean-Claude sits and leans a hip on his desk, setting the bottle and the bag down somewhere with enough space he won't disturb the man's work.

(He elects not to comment on the painting, not yet anyway, though the broody vampire depicted seems a little at odds with the image Jean-Claude tries to project.)

"We've both been busy," Eames drawls in French that sounds as natural from him as English does, (accent just slightly Southern,) and gestures broadly with his hand, "but that's no excuse for not coming by to thank you for your help."

[baisant]

Jean-Claude glances up at the other man, somewhat surprised by how forward Eames is being with him, all things considered, though of course he is not displeased by the circumstances.

Of course, once Eames starts with the French, all bets are off. Jean-Claude's lips part slightly in a soft 'oh' of surprise, before a broad, pleased smile spreads its way across his face in return. He tilts his head at the other man coquettishly, leaning in to him slightly as he replies, "No, no it is not." And then, because he cannot help himself, "You have been holding out on me."

[falsify]

"A man has to keep a little to himself," Eames winks, playful in his way. He's always forward when he can afford to be, much prefers it to playing coy when he and someone else are of a mind.

Still smiling, reaching out with a hand to play idly with a button on Jean-Claude's shirt, Eames licks his lips before he speaks, "I bought lunch." He pulls back to gesture to the paper bag, "I realised halfway through ordering that I don't know what you like, so I bought the whole tapas menu."

[baisant]

Jean-Claude smiles at the other man's words. He does not have the heart to tell him that one human meal is the same as any other to him anymore, especially considering the fact that Eames has gone out of his way to bring him the food in the first place.

So instead he leans forward towards the other and offers him, in a voice that is low and intimate and suggests he is not just talking about the tapas or the alcohol in the slightest, "You will spoil me with such attentions, mon ami."

[falsify]

It's hard to know with vampires, some of them still manage to be very picky eaters after centuries. But Jean-Claude seems to appreciate the gesture at the very least, and that's good enough for Eames.

"What can I say? Sometimes it's nice to show a little appreciation to a friend."

He's clearly not talking about the food either.

[baisant]

Jean-Claude lets out a laugh that is low and as smooth as silk before he rises to fetch a pair of tumblers out of a small cabinet behind his desk. Leaning into the other man's space as he sets them on the desk beside him before straightening and raising an inquisitive eyebrow at him, as if to say, 'Well?' Eames is the one who came here with the gifts after all. Jean-Claude does not expect to make the first move himself. That would not be much of an appreciation, now would it?

[falsify]

Eames' lips curl in a wry smile and he takes up the bottle of wine, the glasses that Jean-Claude placed float out between them and he pours them both a liberal helping — it's not like either of them is going to get drunk on this bottle — and puts the bottle aside.

Taking the glasses from their free-floating, he hands one to Jean-Claude and takes a sip from his own, a light hum at the taste. It's not bad.

"So," he switches back to French, voice smooth and low, "how have you been?"