Bois de Boulogne

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

Gregory was a good baby, he hardly cried, even at one week old. She seemed to know what he needed before the tears and screaming could start. In fact, she got more sleep than she thought she would.

She spun around on her heel with a hum, just in time to see brown curls come hurling towards her. She felt arms wrap tightly around her and Ashton gently pulled away as to not accidently asphyxiate her son.

"Ashton!! It's been forever!!How have you been," said that familiar voice. It was Reese, the girl from the bathroom. She looked great, much better, less sickly, and didn’t smell so much like vomit.

Ashton started to burble an answer, but Reese, the dear, cut her off. "Do I even really need to ask?! Look at him! He's absolutely perfect!!"

“Yes…”

"When did you have him?!! What did you guys name him?!! Was Lucian just thrilled?!" She paused. "Sorry...one question at a time!"

Ashton laughed. “This is Gregory James.” Ashton said, showing his face to Reese more. “He’s about a week old. What else did you ask? Oh! Lucian. Yes. He’s beyond thrilled, he’s great with him, which I expected. See? He had his eyes and my nose…”

Ashton realized she was gushing, rambling, which wasn’t fair. “How have you been? It’s been so long!” In fact, it had been about four months since she met her that day in the opera restroom. “You look fantastic!”

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

Reese had a small problem when it came to asking questions. Sometimes she just got caught up in the moment and ended up asking a million questions at once much as she did to Ashton now. She just got so excited about seeing her again that everything came spilling out. She paused after a moment, realizing her mistake and asking Ashton to just go one question at a time.

Ashton just gave a good natured laugh. “This is Gregory James.” she said, allowing her get a better view of the tiny, perfect little face. Reese cooed appropriately, gently squeezing the soft little hand. “He’s about a week old. What else did you ask? Oh! Lucian. Yes. He’s beyond thrilled, he’s great with him, which I expected. See? He had his eyes and my nose…”

Reese nodded happily, seeing the resemblance. "I can completely see it!! He's beautiful Ashton!" She beamed up at the other girl. "I'm so happy for you guys!"

“How have you been? It’s been so long!” she declared. “You look fantastic!”

"Thank you! You're very sweet," she said with a bright smile. "I'm doing really well! A lot better than before. I got some...help and got back on my feet. I'm still dancing which honestly is all that really matters to me," she said with a laugh. "And besides having a baby, what have you been up to?! I know I haven't seen you aorund the Opera House at all. Are you managing to stay busy?!"

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

"Thank you! You're very sweet," she said with a bright smile. "I'm doing really well! A lot better than before. I got some...help and got back on my feet. I'm still dancing which honestly is all that really matters to me," Reese said and Ashton was genuinely happy for her. She remembered when dance ate up all her time and energy, when it seemed at times to be the only constant. But then life got in the way. She got engaged, had a baby! Life became a tangible thing, not just an idea. She was beyond happy, but found herself wishing she could still be that naïve, have that slim body again.

"And besides having a baby, what have you been up to?! I know I haven't seen you aorund the Opera House at all. Are you managing to stay busy?!"

Ashton laughed. “Managing? More like excelling! It’s a full time job! Lucian and I are planning on taking Gregory to his first opera when he’s a tad older. Wouldn’t you just love that?” Ashton coed to her son, who merely yawned widely, his own expression of tiredness startling him. Ashton laughed.

“Although,” she said sneakily, “you may or may not see me there sooner than that.” Once she got her body back, her schedule in check, and a reliable sitter for Sundays, she’s be auditioning for the opera ballet troupe. “But that’s only a definite maybe.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

Looking down at Gregory, Reese knew that Ashton had to have her hands quite full caring for the little guy. There had been times after having a baby when her sister Bethany and her sister-in-law Eliza would ask Reese or their mother to help out if only to have a little bit of time to themselves. Of course that usually came at about three weeks and Ashton had a bit of a ways to go if Gregory was a week old. Still, she wondered what Ashton did in order to keep herself sane. Babies were sweet and amazing but you could only handle them for so long before wanting to do something for yourself.

She asked if Ashton had been staying busy. “Managing? More like excelling! It’s a full time job! Lucian and I are planning on taking Gregory to his first opera when he’s a tad older. Wouldn’t you just love that?” she said happily and Reese giggled at the sudden thought that occured to her.

"I just got this adorable mental picture of Gregory all dressed up in a tiny little tux and monocle," Reese said with another giggle. "And what good parents you are, introducing your son to the arts early on. That's the way to do it!"

“Although, you may or may not see me there sooner than that.” she said in a way that made it sound like a hint. “But that’s only a definite maybe.”

Reese beamed and started clapping excitedly. "Oh Ashton!! That would be amazing!! I know we would love to have you!!" Reese turned to Gregory and tugged at his tiny little foot affectionately. "Of course, I'm sure it would really hard to leave this little guy!! How can anyone resist that sweet face!"

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

"I just got this adorable mental picture of Gregory all dressed up in a tiny little tux and monocle," Reese said, laughing, and Ashton laughed along with her. It sounded like some great Halloween costume Ashton would think up and take him around the town as Parisians tried to figure out just what Halloween was about. Or she and Lucian could take him to one of those lavish masquerade parties, dressed up with them, gurgling and laughing at conversations he had yet to understand.

"And what good parents you are, introducing your son to the arts early on. That's the way to do it!"

It was inevitable, anyway. What with Ashton and Damien being artists and Lucian with his guitar being an appreciator, it was bound to happen. Gregory, from the moment he was conceived, was surrounded by a world of culture and the arts. Ashton was surprised he hadn’t come out playing the tambourine, asking for more cowbell.

"Oh Ashton!! That would be amazing!! I know we would love to have you!! Of course, I'm sure it would really hard to leave this little guy!! How can anyone resist that sweet face!"

“Oh I know!” Ashton said, lifting her infant son up into the air. “I get separation anxiety just being in a different room from him.” She offered a joking laugh, but really, naptime had been difficult for her. She would sit on the couch reading with Lucian and she’d hear a soft little rustle in the other room and Ashton would fly up to get to her son. But Lucian would put a strong, caring hand on her shoulder and lower her back onto the couch. “He’s fine,” he’d say. “Just relax.” Ashton, who had always joked about being able to catch up on sleep she missed while pregnant, would stay awake ad hold her sleeping son, unable to be away from him.

But she missed dancing, too. That had been a part of her for over two decades now. She missed the feel of the floor beneath her pointed feet, the feel of the air as she soared through it in an elongated, elegant leap. She missed the way she looked dancing: slim, delicate. She wanted that back, too. Maybe by the time she had worked off all that baby fat and weaned Gregory off of breast milk, he’d be ready to be separated from mummy, and she’d be ready to be separated from him. “Just give me a few months, and I’ll be back. Right, Gregory?”

Her son, unable to use that voice box that, no doubt, would be glorious one day, simply put some hair into Ashton’s open mouth. She good-naturedly spat it out and chuckled. “I’ll take that as a yes., what do you think?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Reese Cordova

“Oh I know! I get separation anxiety just being in a different room from him.” Ashton declared as she lifted her son in the air. Reese smiled affectionately, enjoying the interaction between mother and baby. She had always found it so beautiful the way her sister and sister in law looked at their babies after giving birth. There just wasn't anything to compare to it. Reese wanted a baby of her own some day but of course that would have to wait until after she retired from the company.

“Just give me a few months, and I’ll be back. Right, Gregory?” she asked the cooing infant who suddenly decided that Ashton's blond hair was going to taste delicious and shoved it in his mother's mouth. She just laughed and spit it out like any mother would do. [b“I’ll take that as a yes., what do you think?”[/b] she asked with a chuckle. For all the craziness babies inspired, they were also such a great source of laughter.

"I think he's telling you how long to wait...the number of strands he put in your mouth is how many days till he wants you to go back," she declared with a teasing laugh. She paused for a moment, a hopeful look in her eyes. "Do you think maybe I could hold him," she asked softly. "I know all about babies! I have 10 nieces and nephews between my brother and sister. I was babysitting all the time," she said with a fond smile. "My newest little niece is actually only a couple months older than Gregory."

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Ashton Greene

"I think he's telling you how long to wait...the number of strands he put in your mouth is how many days till he wants you to go back,” Reese suggested.

This exchange was interesting. Here were two women who met once in a bathroom over a secret vomiting session and a make-up touch up. Suddenly, with this baby between them, they became best friends, cooing and awing over him, laughing at his every move. Of course, this adorable sweetness was only one side of the coin. Fortunately for Reese, she didn’t hear the set of lungs on this little boy, no longer than Ashton’s arm. She didn’t have to wake up every few hours to see what he needed. She didn’t have to eat the extra 600 calories a day to breastfeed.

Ashton did. And it was stressful. Stressful, but rewarding. To feel his strong little heartbeat against his shirt as she held him to her, to play with the soft smoothness of his belly, to cuddle him, to look at him, to know he was theirs… That was reward enough.

"Do you think maybe I could hold him? I know all about babies! I have 10 nieces and nephews between my brother and sister. I was babysitting all the time. My newest little niece is actually only a couple months older than Gregory."

Ashton thought about this. No one but her, Lucian, Delilah, Theodore, and Damien had held Gregory. She didn’t even let her father touch him. She was worried and protective. But just now, it was as if Reese had handed in her entire résumé, giving Ashton her credentials as an expert baby-holding.

“Um…” Ashton thought, looking at her baby, smiling a moment at him before looking back up. “Sure. Just… you know, be careful.”

As Ashton handed him over, there was a small little hole left in her soul, a quickening of her pulse, a small bit of dread that poisoned her veins. She trusted Reese, but being without her baby was always hard. She watched as Reese held this fragile little human. Ashton snapped a picture with her phone (finally new and had camera capability thanks to Lucian), and smiled down at the result. She’d send it to Reese sometime so she, too, could have a piece of Gregory with her until they saw each other again.

[plantnerd92]

OOC: For Deanna and Santiago! BIC:

Rose Lee Peace

Xavier had the day off, and was home taking care of the kids while Rose went out to run an errand. It was nice to get out of the house for once, and have a moment to herself. Rose loved her family, but sometimes, she needed to have a moment to think instead of constantly having her attention divided between her kids, Xavier, the students she gave music lessons to, and her normal responsibilities of taking care of things around the house. She loved it, but it really wore her out sometimes.

On her way to get groceries, Rose decided to take a walk in the park for a moment to meditate and unwind for a bit, because her mind was whirring at a million miles per minute with everything she needed to do, and it was going to send her into a mental breakdown if she didn't.

Kicking a pine cone out of her path, Rose went to sit down on a bench and rubbed her temples, closing her eyes, and muttering in Spanish. How long had it been since Rose had last spoken in her mother's language? Well, she had been teaching Spanish to Cally Her little girl was extremely intelligent, and caught on very quickly. Soon enough, she'd be speaking four languages, learning French from Xavier, and sign language with her parents so they could all communicate with her baby brother.

Rose sighed and sank further into the bench, willing herself to stop thinking for a while.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago was a runner. He’d been a gangster, a designer, a stage manager, a body guard, a boyfriend, an ex, a private detective, a friend, a rival all, but there was one constant. Running. Whether he meant figuratively running from things—danger, commitment, whatever—or literally pounding the pavement with his strong legs for hours, running was the only way to outrun his mind. If he was moving, Santiago wasn’t thinking. If he wasn’t thinking, he couldn’t have regrets. He couldn’t wax elegance on the (lack of) meaning of his own existence. Instead, all he could do was move forward.

He could feel blood surging inside of him. It pumped his heart, which beat steadily—if furiously—against his ribcage. He could feel his muscles stretch and contract each time he moved. He could hear snippets of Paris around him, just barely louder than his pulse in his ears.

“Maman!” a little girl was shouting. He could hear a woman’s laugh behind him and that was over. The next thing he could distinctly hear were English tourists fussing over a map.

“No, Reginald, look, we’re on the wrong side of the River. I told you--!”

And then he was beyond them, too. The next distinct sound he could hear was Lola, who had until now, been running ahead of him. She was barking her deep, arresting bark. Santiago slowed to a jog and the sounds of Lola’s woofs were joined by the sound of his own footsteps slowing as he reached her side. Her lean, large body was taut, erect as she stared at a bench with a lone woman.

“Lola loquita,” Santiago said. Smoothing down her raised hackles with a sweat-damp hand. “What’s gotten in you? Tired already?”

Santiago never thought he’d ever be the sort to talk to dogs. He wondered if this was a descent into madness. As if he wasn’t already crazy.

“C’mon,” he said, turning back to the path. “Gotta keep moving.”

But instead of following her master, the Rhodesian Ridgeback bolted towards the bench.

“¡Qué demonios! ¡Lola! ¡Ven aquí!”

It started out as swearing under his breath, but as Santiago took off after the dog, it became a bellowed command. What good was a guard dog who didn’t listen?

“Sorry,” he said, not looking up and not with any particular emotion behind the word. “Forgot the leash at home.”

A lie. Santiago didn’t believe in leashes. It was the same thing as a chain or shackles in his book. Handcuffs. He could still remember the shallow cuts around his wrists from trying to break free from a pair half a dozen years ago. They hurt now, thinking about leashes and collars. He tugged on the scruff of Lola’s neck.

“She doesn’t bite.”

Still another lie. But Lola hadn’t bitten yet and it didn’t matter that he was training her to one day. She wasn’t some pit-fighting dog. Guard dog. Big difference.

“Again, sorry,” he said. “C’mon, Lola. Let’s go.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

As the synthesizer and saxophone of Spandau Ballet threatened to pop Kenneth’s eardrums, he dragged his satchel behind him, feeling each piece of gravel make its mark on the fabric. A bench would be nice. If heaven ever came to earth, it would be in the form of a hard wood bench facing the sun that Kenneth could sit on and study. With four comparative essays to write, the novels began to blur together like a chalk mural in a thunderstorm, and with a nearly impenetrable language barrier separating him from his professors, he had better get in all the studying he could.

And the Bois, though a never ending labyrinth only navigable by native Parisians, managed to answer his prayers as he slowly approached his idea of Eden. With a sigh, he eased himself onto the bench, relishing in the arbitrary comfort it provided. Peeling open his Dickens anthology, he absently clicked his highlighter, on the hunt for textual evidence and context for his paper. He hated writing in books, annotating. Sharing your thoughts on books was for diaries and books clubs. Books, with their crisp, but well-thumbed paper, hard, protective cover, and endless supply of emotion were temples for readers, safe havens for classy pleasure-seekers. Defacing a book was akin to defacing your own body or spraying graffiti on a church door—sinful, shameful, intrusive. It broke a secret bond between reader and author. Emotion should be inscribed on the marginalia of a heart, not of page. How else can future generations form their own opinions, have a fulfilling experience with a book without the distraction of notes scribbled between lines?

Kenneth shook away his irritation and turned up his music. He just needed to graduate. And then his days of annotation would be over and done and lost in the winding paper trail of theses and notes. And on a day like this, a day so calm and gently warm, graduation didn’t seem so daunting, so far away. And Kenneth could take a moment to set down Dickens and breath.

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

Tom loved being lost. Most men would get agitated, refuse to ask for directions, and grunt every time some well-meaning nag suggested they stop and look at the map. Not Tom. Tom refused to let little things like getting lost ruin his mood. Besides, it wasn’t getting lost. It was a detour. An adventure.

Toni had kicked him out of her classroom this morning.

“I’m sick of you putting your spin on Shakespeare every time I try to teach my class something,” Toni snapped, while unpacking her satchel.

“Oh, c’mon T.” Tom leaned on the podium. “I’m jus’ trying to help.”

“Yes, well.” Toni looked up at him very seriously. “Would you tell Sir Ian Mckellan it was “wrong” to set Richard the Third in an alternate, dystopian WWII England because it “wasn’t in the original body of work”?”

“I did try,” Tom mused. “But his agent stopped taking me calls.”

“Get out,” Toni said, thunking down a manuscript in a most unrespectful way. “Get out of my classroom, get out of my school, and if you show up back here today, you can get the hell out of my apartment, too. Okay?”

“Antonia—“

“Got it?”

As he slunk out of her classroom, he distinctly heard her mutter “wanker” under her breath. That was how he ended up here. He had nicked her copy of “Richard the Third” on his way out and she hadn’t even noticed. Tom planned to read it when he found a nice spot of shade or a bench that didn’t have gum and bird shite all over it. Easier said than done. Never mind the one bench he did find that was shite- and gum-free, apparently “belonged” to a crazy man with wide brown eyes, a budding unibrow, and crazy dark hair. The guy had given Tom three buttons and a conspiratorial smile before saying, “These will help you if they catch you.”

Whatever that meant.

So now Tom had a stolen copy of Richard III (“Borrowed,” he reminded himself. He’d put it on the dining table before Toni got home so it would look like she’d forgotten it this morning), three buttons, and an ungodly amount of free time. It was glorious.

A bench came into sight with only one other occupant. The redheaded boy reminded Tom instantly of Amy and his heart gave a little clutch. F*ck what Toni said about surrogacy not making him Amy’s father. He’d helped make her. He’d given her away to Grace and Daphne. He still popped in to check on her, take her out for an ice cream, ask her about school. That was being a better da than his had been, that was for certain. He suddenly had the urge to write Amy a postcard and to beg Grace to send her out for a weekend. Like that would happen. Hell would freeze over before Daphne would let her daughter go overseas with her birthfather, unchaperoned. She’d take off work and then there’d be a whole mess of women in Toni’s apartment and Toni would be even angrier than she already was. It didn’t matter that she loved Grace and Daphne and Amy. It would be a principle thing. It would be a “Who the f*ck lets their loafer ex-boyfriend sleep on their couch and bring his whole crazy extended family? No offense, Daphne, dear. Amy.” What fun that would be.

So it was, thinking of Amy and realizing it’d be ages since he saw her or anyone from home again, that Tom sat down beside the redheaded boy. He thumbed through Richard the Third, and to his dismay, Toni had marked all in it. He hated it when she did that. Mucking up all the pages with blocking and “notes”. Whatever that meant. Yeah, it was a play, but it was a work of art. You didn’t change the way the scenes were set by the Bard.

And you certainly didn’t set them in post-apocalyptic WWII England. God. Some people.

Tom looked over at the boy, who was also writing in a book. Dickens. It was emblazoned on the cover. Tom shook his head and for once, his jaunty smile faded.

“Bloody hell!” he said, rather loudly so that several people looked their way. “What do you think you’re doing to that poor book?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

Pip ran from the vagabond criminal to the tune of ‘Only When You Leave’, a surprisingly fitting song that provided an epic soundtrack for Great Expectations. It was interesting how Dickens’ words matched the rhythms of Spandau Ballet as if it was planned. Or maybe it was Kenneth’s imagination. Whatever it was, it had him locked away in his own little world of beautiful music and writing and glaring orange highlighters as he willed himself to deface a book he loved. It was like mutilating his unsuspecting lover as he slept. He felt the need to apologize, to kiss the book, to clean away the colorful marks and scribbled notes.

“Bloody hell!” Kenneth jumped, yanking the headphones off his ears with an almost violent force as he looked around, disoriented, for the source of this exclaim.

And there, beside him on the bench was a man. A tall, red haired man who looked, appalled, at him. “What do you think you’re doing to that poor book?”

Kenneth looked down, ashamed. “I know,” he said, his voice low and concerned, “It’s absolutely dreadful, isn’t it? To write on a book as if it can’t feel it? But if one wants an A in the class, one must make sacrifices, right?” In his head, he cursed his teacher as the muffled sound of 80’s rock pushed its feeble way through the speakers of his headphones. “Of course it would have to be Dickens, you know? Teachers always make you turn on your favorites.”

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

The boy looked at Tom grimly and—bloody hell—he looked like Amy. It made Tom’s skin crawl, those bright, innocent eyes looking at him. He wondered if the boy, like Amy, would roll those crystalline globes at him, sigh, and tell him to stop embarrassing him ‘puh-leeze’. Instead, the boy cast his eyes downward, as if shamed.

“I know,” said the boy. His voice was mournful, as if he were talking about the dearly departed, and not a thing at all. Tom inclined his head at the kid. “It’s absolutely dreadful, isn’t it? To write on a book as if it can’t feel it? But if one wants an A in the class, one must make sacrifices, right?”

Tom wouldn’t know. Thank God he’d left school when he did, before teachers and administrators and professors made him mark up some poor book ‘for his own benefit’. Tom never understood how note-taking was meant to benefit him—or the book. It was just vandalism. Glorified vandalism.

“Of course,” the boy continued sourly. “it would have to be Dickens, you know? Teachers always make you turn on your favorites.”

“Tell me about it,” Tom said, waving Toni’s copy of Richard III at the boy. “I rescued poor Ricky from a teacher this morning, before she had a chance to further deform him.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Kenneth Dahl

There were times when Kenneth reveled in his shyness. Sometimes, it enabled him to work harder and cut out distractions like light through shutters. But other times, he sloughed it off like a snake skin and reached out for companionship. Usually, he was proved wrong in doing so as he tripped over his words and his face turned a colour red that paled his hair in comparison. But today, he applauded himself for the hard work it took to pierce that timid eggshell exterior; he was enjoying this conversation. It was unusual, but passionate. In fact, it moved him to turn off his music, something his mother couldn’t even make him do.

“Tell me about it,” the man said, waving about a well-thumbed William Shakespeare, revealing graphite graffiti and heinous highlighter. Kenneth’s eyes widened. People really did that? “I rescued poor Ricky from a teacher this morning, before she had a chance to further deform him.”

“Jesus,” Kenneth breathed. “A hump and a bum arm should be enough, don’t you think? Without the scribbles and highlighter?” Kenneth offered a small smile. “Who would do that?”

A student perhaps, who was clutching at straws to memorize lines? An essayist who fought to disprove the existence of Shakespeare, a proud, underground member of the Shakespearacy? Some sick member of an alternate society, a la Fahrenheit 451? Kenneth’s mind was truly boggled.

[The Exodus]

Tom Flannery

The boy’s eyes went saucer-wide and Tom smiled grimly. That’s right, kiddo. It’s inhumane.

“Jesus,” the boy murmured. “A hump and a bum arm should be enough, don’t you think? Without the scribbles and highlighter? Who would do that?”

“My ex,” Tom said, shaking his head. “’s why we didn’t last.”

One of several reasons, actually.

“She’s an actress,” he said with a dramatic toss of his head and a pose, imitating twenty-four year old Toni when they’d met and she’d taken herself far too seriously. She still did, Tom thought. Because only an actress who took herself way too seriously pursued a doctorate in theatre. Toni wanted to ‘hone’ her craft. Really, Tom was starting to think she locked herself up in academia to avoid honing her craft. Didn’t she want to perform anymore? Instead of defacing Shakespeare with no foreseeable reason? It wasn’t like Toni would ever use the notes she’d scrawled in the margins if she chained herself down to the University. And, honestly? Tom couldn’t think of any French Shakespeare troupes she could join. Pity. She’d been good last time Tom had seen her. Beatrice in “Much Ado About Nothing”. Back in the day. Good times.

“She spends a lot of time trying to convince me that only the sonnets are literature,” he continued. “And that the plays are theatre. I mean, they are, but she acts like they can’t be books, too.”