Bois de Boulogne

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri

Samara jogged in the direction of the flying dummy-head. She stopped short of the path when she saw a man about her age holding the missing piece to her ex-sparring partner. He was fit and handsome, but the tattoos on his arm gave her pause. Men with tattoos always did, ever since she was a child. Her father had always told her to be skeptical of strange men; Samara was long grown. Her father had been dead for years and she made her own judgment calls. If she was skittish around all strange men, she wouldn’t have a job, she wouldn’t have friends. But she remembered the suspicious looks he’d cast at young men with so little disrespect for their bodies. The ones with tattoos and piercings who would come into the restaurant and treat the waiters rudely or complain about the spices in their food and the Arabic spoken by other patrons.

But this guy was smiling. And he was holding Samara’s head in his hands. Well, her dummy head. She pushed instinct aside and smiled back at him. After the day she’d been having, she needed a smile from a stranger. Even one with tattoos.

"I'm thinking this belongs to you," said the man, handing her back the head of the dummy. He looked beyond her to the clearing where she’d left the remaining parts of the dummy. Samara cocked an eyebrow and followed his gaze. "Damn...you really did a number on it, didn't you?"

“Thanks. I thought it could take the beating,” she said, looking back at him. “I didn’t hit you with my head, did I?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Nikolai Tarasova

He got a better looked at the woman now as she returned the smile. She had to be around his own age and rather pretty with dark skin. The fact that she had just knocked the head off of a practice dummy also peaked his interest. It was obvious that she could very well take care of herself and that was something he could definitely respect. He also noticed the slight hesitancy in her gaze as she looked at him. He wasn't unused to getting that kind of a reaction from people, really. She seemed to relax a bit as he placed the head in her hands.

“Thanks. I thought it could take the beating,” she replied smoothly before looking back at him. “I didn’t hit you with my head, did I?”

He laughed softly and shook his head. "No. I heard you call out "Heads"...needless to say I wasn't expecting an actual head," he said with dry humor. "Seems your dummy wasn't made to handle harder fighting styles. I'm curious now, though. Wat style were you using?" He folded his arm over his chest, looking at her with curiosity.

This wasn't a bad way to spend the day at all. Talking with a pretty woman about fighting styles in the park was pretty high up on his list as far as 'good days' went.

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri

The nice guy with the tattoos chuckled and shook his head.

"No. I heard you call out "Heads"...needless to say I wasn't expecting an actual head," he said with dry humor. "Seems your dummy wasn't made to handle harder fighting styles. I'm curious now, though. Wat style were you using?"

“Savate,” Samara said.

Her pair of red fighting gloves stood out against the dead grass and patchy snow in the clearing. She nodded towards then and the broken practice dummy. She’d always liked the self-defense nature of the French fighting style. It wasn’t always clean and fair fighting, but it would serve her well if anyone ever tried to pull anything funny on her.

“Why? Do you spar?” she asked.

He had the build for it; his muscles were apparent underneath his shirt. Samara wondered if she could have taken this guy if he’d surprised her in a dark alleyway. And then she remembered the decapitated dummy, whose head she held in her hands. Oh, yeah. She may not have been able to knock him out cold, but she could probably give a guy his size a surprise bloody nose or a painful kick to the groin and scamper off before a fight escalated too far.

But this guy seemed all right. Nice enough to give her back her broken dummy head. And that was probably the most genuinely kind thing anyone had bothered doing for her today.

[blueeyeddevil]

Nikolai Tarasova

Nikolai was a fighter by nature. He had spent his childhood growing up in a Russian orphanage where he had learned very early on to fight for what he wanted and to defend himself. After getting out of the orphanage he had been arrested for robberies and certainly had to fight if he was going to survive prison. After prison the fight to survive had been about gaining money through illegal street fights...Then he'd joined the Mafiya. He had taken the fight to other people then. Even now in his more stable life, he lived and worked in a part of town where a fight at his bar wasn't a uncommon occurrence at all. He fought to protect what was his now.

Needless to say he was quite curious as to what kind of fighting style this woman had used to be able to behead a dummy like that. She gave a gesture towards the red gloves over by the dummy. “Savate,” she informed him. “Why? Do you spar?”

Nikolai thought about it for a moment. His street fighting technique was a mix of several different fighting styles. One of them was savate but he didn't know it quite as well as some of the others. He certainly knew enough, though. He felt confident that he could do a little sparring should the need arise.

"A little," he admitted. "I must say, though, I'd be a little hesitant to spar with you. You know, considering what happened to your last partner." He jerked his head to the side, indicating the decapitated dummy with a wry grin slowly spreading on his face. "And in any case, I'd think introductions would be in order first. I am Nikolai," he said, offering a hand.

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri

The man with tattoos thought for a moment. Samara could see that he was well-muscled, lean and tall. If he didn’t spar, it was a shame. Waste of perfect potential. So when the man with tattoos admitted to sparring a little, Samara’s grin took on a look of relieved excitement; the satisfaction of being right.

"I must say, though, I'd be a little hesitant to spar with you,” he said, with a mischievous grin. “You know, considering what happened to your last partner. And in any case, I'd think introductions would be in order first. I am Nikolai."

He extended a hand, which Samara took – despite the internal protests that sounded like her brothers, telling her not to talk to strangers (especially not strangers who could spar and who had tattoos) – and she shook Nikolai’s hand firmly. He had no reason to be hesitant, this Nikolai. His grip was as firm as – firmer than – hers. In a fight, even a playful sparring session, Samara knew she’d have to fight dirty to win.

“Samara,” she said. Then, maybe looking for a fight, she said, “It’s a pity you’re hesitant to spar with me. You look like a much worthier opponent than this old dummy.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Nikolai Tarasova

He introduced himself as they shook hands and he noted with interest that her surprisingly firm grip. It was obvious she trained hard to fight and more than likely this sparring with the dummy was something she did often. He certainly respected anyone who who learned how to defend themselves, though he was curious how she would match up in a real fight.

“Samara,” she introduced herself. He nodded in understanding , giving a polite smile. Something wicked glinted in her eyes as she spoke again. “It’s a pity you’re hesitant to spar with me. You look like a much worthier opponent than this old dummy.”

Oh, so she wanted a fight, did she? He'd be more than happy to oblige. Truthfully he'd never really fought against a woman before. From what he understood though, they were even more dangerous in many respects. When cornered, a guy could almost always be expected to go on the attack. Women were more unpredictable. They lashed out with everything they had. He would have to be careful if was going to spar with this one.

Nikolai chuckled lowly. "I said I was hesitant...I didn't say I wouldn't do it," he corrected her. "I'm always up for a fight. Ready when you are, devushka."

[The Exodus]

Samara al-Jabiri

The thrill of the taboo surged through Samara. She wasn’t supposed to fight a man – not willingly, anyways. She wasn’t supposed to pick fights, period. But after the day she’d had, she needed this. She needed to feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins, the release sparring always brought. Fighting was a lot like dancing. You picked your partner judiciously; you gave them your all. Like dancing, fighting was physical. You were trying to match your partner, step for step. Each punch, each kick had to be well orchestrated.

And you had to trust your partner not to kill you.

Samara had no good reason to trust this stranger, except that he’d returned her broken dummy’s head. But that was part of the excitement. After the day she’d had, with everyone coddling her, everyone treating her like she could not hold her own, she needed to just trust her gut. She needed to take a risk, just because no one was around to tell her not to. She could feel her pulse ticking in her wrists and in her neck, seconds of anticipation zipping by.

"I said I was hesitant...I didn't say I wouldn't do it," he corrected her. "I'm always up for a fight. Ready when you are, devushka."

The foreign word – a word that Samara had never heard in her life brought a wicked grin to her lips.

“Let’s move it to the clearing,” she said, grinning. “Don’t want to give you a concussion when I knock you onto the cobblestones.”


Common sense said that she shouldn’t rile up a total stranger. But Samara and Nikolai were sparring. It wasn’t a real fight… Right?

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

It had been a little over three weeks since she and Tristan had started dating. Surprisingly there had been very little awkwardness as far as work went. They had agreed to keep their relationship out of the workplace as much as possible. Of course there was still a kiss or two every so often, a shared knowing smile. But for most part, they saved their relationship for after hours and kept their dates free of work. Tristan did have a tendency to answer calls for work on their dates and while she tried not to let it bother her too much, it had started to frustrate her.

But it hadn't happened on this date, for which she was grateful. He'd had his phone off for the movie they'd gone to see. Now they walked through the Bois, on their way to find some place to eat for dinner. It was a cold night, a few light flakes drifting down. She huddled a little closer to Tristan, holding his hand as they walked along. They were discussing "Les Miserables" which was what they had gone to see that evening. Tristan seemed to have a problem with fact that Javert's obsession with Valjean had stemmed from having stolen a loaf of bread.

She laughed and shook her head. "I don't think that's what it was," she tried to explain. "I think it had more to do with the fact he tried to escape. Otherwise it would be..."

She was cut off by the sound of his phone ringing and she couldn't help the frown that found its way to her face.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

If anyone asked, Tristan had gone to see “Les Miserables” to please Solange. In school, he’d had a sort of vendetta against the Victor Hugo novel, which was required reading when he was sixteen. Instead of presenting a normal book report, Tristan had attempted to recreate the slaughter of the revolutionaries on poster board. His teacher only allowed him to get through the first three lines of his report before stopping him and saying, “You didn’t actually read, did you?” He had read it, selectively anyways, by picking random numbers and flipping to pages as he pleased. And until going to see the film version with his girlfriend tonight, Tristan had been under the impression that “Les Miserables” was about a man named Javert Valjean who took out his revenge fantasies on a bunch of college-aged revolutionaries.

It was not nearly as gory a film as he’d expected. The singing had also been a surprise. Both things were all right in Tristan’s book. He could accept that “Les Miserables” was about the tragic and interwoven lives of poor and middle class people during the 1800s.

He just could not accept that Javert Valjean was not a man suffering from Jekyll-and-Hyde syndrome, but was instead two men: one a policeman and the other an ex-con, who’d been arrested for stealing a loaf of bread. The way the film spun things, it sounded like the entire rebellion had started because Jean Valjean stole a loaf of bread and Inspector Javert couldn’t get over it and leave the poor guy alone.

Solange had been laughing at his interpretation of the film and trying to put things in perspective for him.

"I don't think that's what it was," she told him. "I think it had more to do with the fact he tried to escape. Otherwise it would be..."

The whistling tune of “Bolero” filled the air and Tristan sighed. He’d turned off his phone during the movie, but now that they were out of the theatre, turnabout was fair play. Tristan never left his phone off, ever, and had only done so tonight because he didn’t want to get them evicted from the theatre. He smiled guiltily and reached into the pocket of his coat. One glance at the caller ID told him it was the morgue.

“Hold that thought,” he said to Solange before pressing “talk”.

Ever since becoming a funeral director, Tristan hadn’t known the meaning of a “quiet night”. His cell phone rang at crazy hours, demanding his time and attention. He’d been interrupted while sleeping, eating out with friends, while driving. Dates were the worst, though. The morgue had interrupted plenty of first dates – ensuring that there would be no second date to follow. The morgue had interrupted countless kisses, caresses, and pillow-talk sessions; perhaps leading the eventual demise of any relationship Tristan had entered into.

Because until meeting Solange, Tristan had never known anyone who understood the necessary evil of these calls. Late night body pick-ups paid for dates like this; they ensured Tristan had a place to live, a steady income. If he ignored one call, then he would ignore two, or ten, or twenty. And sooner or later, he’d be out of a job. And so would Solange, for that matter. She hadn’t complained in the past when his phone went off and surely she understood how hard it had been to shut the phone down for the nearly three hours they’d been in the movie. Thank God Solange was so understanding. He’d make it up to her as soon as he could.

“Hello, Tristan Vidal speaking,” Tristan said into the receiver. “What can I do for you?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Now Solange liked to think she was a reasonable person. She certainly understood that he needed to take the calls he got from the morgue. It was part of the job. In fact the first couple of times it happened, she hadn't even blinked. But then it happened a third time...and a fourth. She was a reasonable woman but she had her limits! There were only so many times she could handle him taking work calls while they were on a date before started to feel more than a little put out. A brief thought crossed her mind, wondering if he'd done this was other girlfriends before her or if thought she'd be more understanding because they worked together.

"Hold that thought," he told her as he answered the phone, leaving her staring at him open mouthed in shock. He hadn't even let her finish her sentence?! "Hello, Tristan Vidal speaking. What can I do for you?"

Again she might have understood if was Gwendoline or something, but from the way he spoke it was most definitely a call from the morgue. Solange found herself fuming the entire time he was on the phone but she didn't want to be that harpy girlfriend who was screeching in the back ground so she did her best to hold her tongue. She just hoped she could be as civil when he got off the phone. At the very least she managed to wait until after he'd hung up before looking at him with arms crossed, brow slightly furrowed.

"Seriously? You couldn't have waited to call them back until after we'd had dinner," she asked in a clipped tone. "We are suppose to be on a date Tristan!" There was a slight note of hurt the crept into her tone now though she tried to hide it. Honestly him answering the phone while they were together made her feel a little like he cared more about work than he did about her.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Waiting in the local morgue was a fifty-seven year old man in need of a ride to the funeral home. Single car accident; high blood alcohol levels. Tristan listened to the description and found that the usually interesting and lurid details made him a little uneasy. He looked over at Solange, wondering if she’d be willing to swing by the hospital with him before or after dinner so they could get this guy in the freezer for tomorrow. But he was probably the only person he knew who could eat right before or right after transporting a corpse and not get sick. There was actually nothing romantic about moving corpses together.

“Right,” Tristan said, a little dejectedly on the phone. “Of course I’ll be there. Just give me… like… two hours or something. I’ve got a few things to do before I can come down.”

The morgue attendant didn’t sound particularly thrilled that it would be two hours before Tristan could get the body out of the morgue, but, it seemed fair to Tristan. He wouldn’t super-inconvenience anyone and he still had time to enjoy dinner with Solange. He pocketed the cell phone and smiled over at her. But he was met with crossed arms and furrowed brows.

"Seriously? You couldn't have waited to call them back until after we'd had dinner," Solange said. Her voice was tight; as tight as it had been months ago, before they were even friends, let alone girlfriend and boyfriend. Tristan narrowed his eyes. What was her problem? "We are supposed to be on a date, Tristan!"

“And we are,” Tristan said, he put a hand on either of Solange’s shoulders and rubbed them lightly. “We’ve got two hours for dinner, still, which is more than enough time.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

It had been a while since the last time they'd fought. They hadn't argued in the entire time that they'd been dating. At just a little over three weeks it probably wouldn't seem like that big of a deal to most couples, but to them that was a huge step forward. She hadn't really wanted to break that streak but she couldn't help it. She had tried to be okay with him answering the phone on their date, but the anger and hurt still found their found their way in and caused her to go off on him, reminding that they were suppose to be on a date.

"And we are," he told her, placing his hands on her shoulders and rubbing them in an obvious attempt to calm her down. But she shook her head. A date was suppose to be just the two of them! It was not supposed to be the two of them and the local coroner! "We've got two hours for dinner, still, which is more than enough time," he tried to explain but this just made her even more angry with him. He was completely missing the point of why she was mad in the first place!

"That is not the point Tristan," she said furiously. "The point is, I don't want to have be vying for your attention over the morgue! What happened to our agreement that we were going to keep our work life and our relationship separate? I would think part of that includes not taking work calls while we are on a date together!" She was trying her best to keep her voice level but was struggling with it.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Instead of calming down and smiling at him, Solange just shook her head.

"That is not the point Tristan," she said furiously. "The point is, I don't want to have be vying for your attention over the morgue! What happened to our agreement that we were going to keep our work life and our relationship separate? I would think part of that includes not taking work calls while we are on a date together!"

“What do you want me to do?” Tristan snapped, wincing at the loudness of his own voice. He hated raising his voice; hated being yelled at. But if Solange was going to yell at him, there was no way he was just going to lie down and let her holler. “Do you want me to call back and tell them I can’t go? Because I can do that. Just know that if I do that too many times, they’ll stop calling. For good. And when they stop calling, you and I are both going to be hunting for new jobs.”

Tristan sighed and raked both hands through his hair. He bowed his head and stared at his feet, thoughts racing through his brain. If he cancelled on the morgue too many times, their credibility would be shot. If their credibility was shot, they wouldn’t be able to keep the funeral home open. If they had to close, Tristan would have to file for bankruptcy. If he filed for bankruptcy, what would he do for a living? What would Solange do? She’d be fine, but Tristan wasn’t nearly as marketable as Solange, with her actually useful college degree and her amazing organizational skills. She’d move on to better things, both professionally and personally. As unromantic as transporting bodies for the morgue was, the absolute nadir of romance had to be poverty and instability. What reason would she stay with him, if they lost the funeral home? He’d be too broken-up to be of any interest, any use. To her, to anybody. How did he explain to her that work wasn’t just “work”? It was a way of life.

And until now, it hadn’t just been a “way” of life. It had been life. Tristan’s life revolved around death – the deaths of others – and taking care of people he’d never have to see again. He hadn’t had much of a life himself. Not a social life, certainly not a love life. This was uncharted territory. Things had been going so well and now Solange was yelling at him for doing his job; the job that had been the reason they met in the first place. What did Solange want from him? Did she have to yell?

Tristan’s pulse thudded in his ears. He was acutely aware of each breath he drew and of the sounds of people walking through the park, feet crunching against the cobbled stones. He squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his hands to the side. He started to relax. Then, slowly, he looked up at Solange. He must have looked like such a freak to her right now. He blinked furiously and exhaled for a long time.

“I’m trying,” he said firmly, but quietly. “What else am I supposed to do, Solange?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Really she didn't think it was too much to expect to want her boyfriend to forget about work for a few hours while they went on a date. She didn't care that he answered the call from the morgue, it was a matter of when he answered it. She was certain that it could have waited until after the date had ended. It wasn't like the morgue was going to hand the body over to some other funeral home! They had a contract to upkeep or otherwise, the family of the deceased had chosen their funeral home specifically. Either way, the body wasn't going anywhere! It could have waited till the end of the night to be discussed.

"What do you want me to do?" Tristan snapped at her and she flinched slightly at his raised voice. She had never really known Tristan to yell before. "Do you want me to call back and tell them I can't go? Because I can do that. Just know that if I do that too many times, they'll stop calling. For good. And when they stop calling, you and I are both going to be hunting for new jobs."

There he went again, putting words in her mouth! She hadn't told him not to go! "I know that! And that's not what I'm saying at all and you know it," she accused him. "I'm not telling you not to do your job!I just want you to actually be with me when we're together instead of half of your mind still being on work." She found herself swallowing hard, looking away as her eyes began to sting. All of this yelling was getting to her.

Tristan gave a long sigh, his hands flopping to his side defeatedly. "I'm trying," he told her firmly. "What else am I supposed to do, Solange?"

Angry tears filled her eyes as she looked at him. "You aren't suppose to let work win out over me," she said softly. She gave a sigh and turned away. "I'm not hungry anymore. I'll catch a cab home. Go get the body. I'll call you later." Then she turned around and left.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Large, glistening tears sprang to Solange’s eyes and Tristan knew instantly that somehow, he’d put those there. He felt like he was going to vomit; his stomach twisted up so tightly. He’d yelled back. Why had he yelled back? Tristan never yelled; he couldn’t stand the sound of it. Couldn’t stand what always followed yelling.

Couldn’t stand the sight of Solange crying because of him.

He’d seen her cry before, but not because of him. He wasn’t supposed to make her cry. He was supposed to make her laugh despite being sad; supposed to be there for her when she needed him. How was he supposed to do any of that?

"You aren't supposed to let work win out over me," she said quietly.

“Solange—“

"I'm not hungry anymore,” she said, turning away. “I'll catch a cab home. Go get the body. I'll call you later."

Tristan watched her go. Like a total idiot, he stood in the middle of the pathway, watching. He didn’t bellow after her like some stupid Marlon Brando type; he didn’t trot after her apologetically like a spurned spaniel. Instead, dumbfounded, he watched until she was out of sight. Her dark, wavy hair shone in the setting sunlight. But when Solange rounded a corner, she was gone. Tristan stared at the spot she’d just been in for a moment longer. Then, shakily, he walked over to a bench and sat down. He put his head in his hands; to his surprise, his cheeks were wet and warm. Recoiling, Tristan rubbed his hands on his jeans.

At least she said she’ll call, he thought bitterly. Don’t be an idiot. Everybody fights sometimes. She’ll come around.

But when Tristan reached for his phone to call the morgue back, he couldn’t bring himself to press “redial”. Maybe Solange had been right, after all.

OOC: Finished! BIC: