Vidal Funeral Home and Crematorium

[The Exodus]

Welcome to Vidal Funeral Home! Granted, if you're here, there's a good chance you either a) don't want to be or b) had no real say in the matter. But the staff is here to make this time in your life a little easier and your burden a little bit lighter. --- Tristan Vidal operates a bilingual service (French and English) and often oversees the funeral arrangements of expatriates living (er... dying...) in Paris.

[The Exodus]

OOC: Tristan and Solange, first scene!!! Woohoo!! Torben, eat your heart out. BIC:

Tristan Vidal

“Come on, baby, come on,” Tristan murmured. “Don’t you dare quit on me today.”

The hearse that usually roared to life like a long, black dragon, didn’t even growl a little bit in response. Tristan turned the key in the ignition one more time, praying that the hearse grumble, “I was just joking” before coming back to life. But like the clients resting in Tristan’s work freezer, the hearse was one-hundred percent dead.

“Great. Just great!” Tristan threw his hands into the air and reached to pull the key out of the ignition. But instead of coming loose, it stayed put. Sometimes, when a person dies in state of extreme stress, he or she dies, clenching a weapon or something. And sometimes, when a car dies, it clenches the keys tightly and doesn’t let go.

Tristan’s one and only hearse was dead and there was a service at nine. Tristan worked so closely with the Grim Reaper that he’d hoped the old guy would cut him some slack. But, The Great Equalizer took everybody in their turn, whether they were a king, a hobo, or a Cadillac. Tristan smoothed down his long, flyaway hair and took a deep breath. And then he got out of the car and walked back inside.

“She’s dead,” he announced, hoping to get Solange’s attention. But his secretary didn’t look up. Maybe announcing “She’s dead” in a funeral home didn’t warrant a batted eyelash. Tristan shrugged his coat off and hung it up.

He ran a large hand down his face. His day had begun at three this morning when he had to pick up a 93 year old decedent from her Rue de Rivioli apartment. It continued in the embalming room, contending with insomnia by breaking rigor on a 48 year old male. And now, it was clear that Tristan’s day was far from over.

“Five good years and she just… dies. No warning signs, nothing,” he continued from behind his hand. Then, shaking his head, he walked over to Solange’s desk. He leaned heavily against it, propping his face up on his hands. “The car, Solange, my hearse. She just died on me! The “check oil light” wasn’t even on. And we’ve got the Barbeau funeral in two hours.”

A clear sign that today was Monday.

Or maybe it was Tuesday. Tristan couldn’t remember where one day ended and one began anymore.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange De Grace

Solange sat at her desk, busying herself with some odd paper work. There really wasn't much else for her to do at this point. Everything was ready for the Barbeau funeral was in order. She'd set up the flower arrangements and made sure the slideshow of pictures was ready to go, she'd made sure the plaque was changed on the wall outside the room so that it now read "Barbeau". The body was in place and mourners would be arriving in about two hours. Really there wasn't much to do until then.

“She’s dead,” came the loud announcement as Tristan came back through the door. Solange didn't look up but a tiny smile flickered to her lips. "Of course Genevieve Barbeau is dead...it's why she's here in the first place," she wanted to say but just bit her tongue. She had a feeling that the elderly Madame Barbeau wasn't who he was talking about.

He sauntered over to her desk, hand rubbing his face in frustration. “Five good years and she just… dies. No warning signs, nothing,” he lamented, propping his face in his hands as he leaned against the desk. “The car, Solange, my hearse. She just died on me! The “check oil light” wasn’t even on. And we’ve got the Barbeau funeral in two hours.”

Solange looked at him sharply, pointing a finger in his face as she shook her head. "No! Don't you even act like there was no warning! I've been telling you for weeks now it hasn't sounded right," she told him. "Of course I should have figured you wouldn't ever listen to me..." She sighed heavily, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms.

"If you want I can call to see if a mechanic can come out to look at it," she suggested, tucking her hair behind her ear as she tried to figure out the solution. "Either that or call around to see if anyone has a spare hearse which will probably not leave us a lot of options," she said with a hint of sarcasm as she raised a brow at him.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

The second the words were out there, Tristan regretted them. He caught Solange’s gaze and did his best not to shiver at the ice he saw there. Of course she wasn’t about to be sympathetic. She never was. Her index finger flew up and pointed right in between Tristan’s eyes, mere inches from his nose. He went cross-eyed looking at it.

"No!” she snapped. “Don't you even act like there was no warning! I've been telling you for weeks now it hasn't sounded right."

Tristan opened his mouth in protest. The light would have come on if something was wrong. He’d driven her all around Paris for five years and the check oil light had only come on once in all that time. And Tristan had the oil checked.

"Of course I should have figured you wouldn't ever listen to me..." Solange continued.

“Please,” Tristan scoffed. “I’ll start listening to you the day you start listening to me.”

Eight months. That’s how long Solange had worked for Tristan. Eight months. That’s how long Tristan had come into work to hear daily litanies of abuse. “Don’t do this”, “What were you thinking?” that. But, Tristan had promised Jacqui that he’d keep an eye on Solange and give her a job. Tristan didn’t take the promises he made lightly. He closed his mouth and stood up straighter.

"If you want I can call to see if a mechanic can come out to look at it," Solange said—electing as per usual not to listen to Tristan. And if they had more than two hours, he’d proclaim her his savior for her quick thinking. But mechanics were slow. It could be days before they saw the hearse again. "Either that or call around to see if anyone has a spare hearse which will probably not leave us a lot of options."

“No kidding,” Tristan grumbled. The only other people who had hearses would be other funeral directors and even though you wouldn’t think was overly competitive some other morticians were just dying to get ahead.

Now was not the time for puns. He smoothed down the front of his shirt and rested a hand on his diaphragm. In the embalming room, Tristan was a genius at snap-decisions. He could make a girl who’d been dead for a week look like Sleeping Beauty in under an hour, using only commercial grade make up and a paintbrush. What would he have done if his hearse was a particularly tricky client? Well, if he didn’t have the professional make up, he used the commercial stuff and made due.

Tristan sucked in his cheeks before exhaling slowly.

“Call a livery service,” he told her. “See if you can get a limo with extra trunk space.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange De Grace

Aside from minor details (such as keeping his hearse in running order), Solange had to admit that Tristan was good at his job. She supposed it was those details that her grandmother had wanted her around to take care of. Of course, taking care of those details would be a lot easier if he had the good sense to listen to her every once in a while. In the eight months she had been working here, Solange could scarcely recall a single time Tristan had taken her advice.

“Please,” Tristan said derisively. “I’ll start listening to you the day you start listening to me.”

Solange glared at him but otherwise didn't acknowledge his words. She tried to focus on finding a solution to the problem at hand. She suggested she could call a mechanic to come out and take a look, but the skeptical look on Tristan's face made her give him the ultimatum of either that or looking for another hearse which wouldn't leave them with many options.

“No kidding,” he muttered. Solange watched him as he thought, waiting for him to suggest a better idea. At this point there wasn't a lot they could do and he knew it. “Call a livery service. See if you can get a limo with extra trunk space,” he finally said.

Solange looked at him like he'd gone mad. "A limo? You want a limo..." she said as if to clarify. "Tristan, what limo company in their right mind is going to rent a limo to be used as a hearse? And I think the intention will be kind of obvious when they pull up at a funeral parlor." She shook her head and sighed heavily, raising her hands in a surrendering gesture. She moved to start pulling up livery services on her computer and find out the nearest one. "I'll go ahead and call because I can't think of anything better at the moment, but you're dealing with the angry limo driver."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

A limo was just a glorified hearse, right? Tristan smirked. Maybe—for once—Solange’s eyes would light up with admiration and she would be happy to do what he asked. Instead, her shapely brows quirked and her usually cool eyes widened.

And not in a good, I’m-so-impressed-with-you-Tristan sort of way.

She looked as if Tristan had suggested they give up the whole funeral home business for a life in the circus. Was it something he’d said? Did he have something in his teeth? Tristan’s smirk faltered as he licked at his teeth thoughtfully.

Who am I kidding?There was nothing there; Solange always looked at Tristan that way. Like he’d forgotten his marbles on the playground blacktop fifteen years ago.

"A limo?” she echoed. “You want a limo..."

Tristan nodded. Limos were glorified hearses. They were manufactured by the same companies. The only difference was in the heart-rate of the passengers… Right?

"Tristan, what limo company in their right mind is going to rent a limo to be used as a hearse?”

Tristan opened his mouth, answer in the back of his throat, but Solange cut him off and he choked it down.

“And I think the intention will be kind of obvious when they pull up at a funeral parlor."

“Solange, please…”

She shook her head with a very familiar sigh before holding up her hands like two white flags. And then she turned to her desktop and began typing.

"I'll go ahead and call because I can't think of anything better at the moment, but you're dealing with the angry limo driver."

“You’re amazing,” Tristan told her, earnest gratitude tingeing his voice. Usually when he called Solange “amazing” it was in more sarcastic, less flattering tones. But sometimes, she did what he asked without having to be told twice or she said something that was actually somewhat nice and Tristan thought that he might actually like her a little bit. “Seriously. I don’t tell you often enough, but, you really, really are. Like, I owe you one. I do.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange De Grace

“Solange, please…” Tristan pleaded with her and Solange found herself giving in and beginning the search for the livery services that were nearest to them. It was obvious Tristan was starting to panic and at the moment she didn't really feel like making the situation worse for him. Besides, she couldn't think of a better solution...so with that she told Tristan she would go ahead and call but he better be the one to deal with any angry limo drivers. They were more likely to be afraid of him than her anyway.

“You’re amazing,” he told her and she found herself a bit surprised by the sincerity in his voice. Blue eyes flickered up from the computer screen to meet his gaze. “Seriously. I don’t tell you often enough, but, you really, really are. Like, I owe you one. I do.”

A small smile flickered to her ruby red lips as she glanced away and gave a tiny little shrug of her slender shoulders. "Well it is technically my job..." she said with a tiny laugh. "But just remember the owing me thing whenever the previously mentioned angry limo driver arrives," she said as she grabbed the phone and began to dial the number for the livery service she had pulled up on her screen.

"King's Carriage Limo Service, how can I help you," came the greeting.

"Yes, hello. I was wondering if there is any way I could a limo in the next two hours. It's kind of an emergency..." Solange started out. "I do apologize for the short notice."

"Not at all! We can certainly do that. What kind of a limo did you need," the man on the other end continued.

"Whatever you can send over...the only real requirement is that it have extra space in the trunk. A black limo if you have it," she said looking up at Tristan with another shrug. Black was a nice touch, right?

"Okay..." the man said, starting to sound a little skeptical now with the slightly odd sounding request. "I think we have a black limo or two on the lot...both with plenty of trunk room. Where should I send it to?"

There was a brief pause. "Vidal Funeral Home. The address is..." she began but was quickly cut off.

"A Funeral Home? Is this some kind of practical joke?!" The man was obviously irritated now. "Look here, young lady, I can't afford for you to be wasting my time with prank phone calls.

Solange rested her forehead in her hand, rubbing it lightly. "Sir, I assure this isn't a prank. I work here and we are having an emergency at the moment. If you could just..." She got cut off again.

"Let me speak to your manager!"

With a defeated look that was also half apologetic, Solange handed the phone to Tristan. "He wants to speak to you..." she said softly. She seriously hoped that Tristan could talk some sense into the man. She was fairly certain this was their last hope.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

For the first time that Tristan could remember, Solange smiled at him. Actually smiled. It wasn’t a grimace or a sarcastic grin, but a small, almost shy thing that tugged her lips just a little bit. She was actually very pretty when she smiled. But, of course, the smile didn’t last. It disappeared when Solange shrugged her shoulders and looked away. Tristan cast his eyes down the empty hallway that led to his embalming room. Of course Solange was pretty when she smiled. She was pretty all the time. She was also rude, bossy, and utterly frustrating.

"Well it is technically my job..." she said with a tiny laugh. "But just remember the owing me thing whenever the previously mentioned angry limo driver arrives."

“Yeah, of course,” Tristan mumbled.

She could have said anything in that moment and Tristan would have agreed to it. He almost preferred this smiling, nice-ish version of Solange to the one he usually saw. But Tristan couldn’t shake a weird, buzzing feeling in his ears that told him that it wasn’t going to hold out forever. Soon enough, the pretty, smiling secretary sitting in front of him would be replaced by the same woman who moments ago had jabbed her finger in his face. He still didn’t get why Torben was so fascinated by their relationship. If you could call it a relationship. It was mostly hurled sarcasms, quick eye-rolls, and weird, cooperative moments like this sandwiched in between funeral services. And yet, every time Tristan saw Torben – and sometimes when he saw Gwen, too, come to think of it – the question “How are things with Solange?” worked its way into conversation. Tristan didn’t get why Torben didn’t just ask her over for tea or something if he was so curious. It wasn’t like Gwen would mind.

"He wants to speak to you..." Solange said.

“Who does?” Tristan asked, whipping his head back around almost too fast in order to look at her. Solange was holding the phone and for a moment, she looked as if she was about to apologize. For what, Tristan couldn’t guess. Solange didn’t apologize to him. She probably didn’t apologize to anybody.

And then it dawned on him. She’d said something about an angry limo driver. Clearly, Solange had gotten through to the livery service much faster than anyone Tristan had ever seen before.

“Oh! Right,” he said, taking the phone from her. This time, it was his turn to look sorry. He then rolled his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height as if the person on the other line could see him and be intimidated by a man in a suit who stood over six feet tall.

“Vidal Funeral Home, Tristan Vidal speaking,” he said. “What seems to be the issue?”

“Monsieur Vidal,” the man on the other line said. He had a tight, assistant-principal voice that Tristan really didn’t like the sound of. “This is Marcel at King’s Carriage Limousine Service. How are you this morning?”

“I’ve had better days, Marcel. How are you?” Tristan asked. He looked at Solange hopelessly.

“This isn’t about me,” Marcel-from-the-limo-service said. “Am I right in believing that you want to use one of our limousines as a hearse?”

“Um… Yes, sir, you are,” Tristan said. With his free hand, he rubbed the back of his neck.

“You want to use one of our limousines to transport a dead body?” Marcel-from-the-limo-service said. His voice rose up about half an octave. He wasn’t going to say “yes” if Tristan said “yes”, that was for sure. Tristan had to do some thinking and he had to do it fast.

“No! No, not all,” he said, chuckling weakly. “Is that what my secretary told you? That we needed to transport a dead body?”

“She told me that you were a funeral home, monsieur,” Marcel said. “And you just said that you were looking to rent a limousine as a hearse.”

“Right. Yes. I know that,” Tristan said. “And we are. We just… We aren’t transporting a body with it.”

“Come again?”

Tristan wasn’t a bad liar, per se. He’d once been very good at it. As a kid, he’d lied a million times. I’ll be back by ten. No, there won’t be any drinking at the party. I wasn’t tagging that building. It was a school project!

But in the last few years, or, more accurately, the last few months, Tristan had toned it down. A lot. Well, a bit. I mean, everybody lies sometimes, right? He took a deep breath.

“We’re transporting an empty casket for burial, actually,” he lied. “There’s no body. Or at least, the police never found one. It’s like a closure ceremony. You know, for the family. We just need to transport an empty casket to the gravesite. And I promise you, all of our caskets are sanitized by the manufacturer and well preserved by my staff.”

“My staff” being himself and sometimes Solange when he could convince her that polishing a mahogany box for dead people was in her job description. At least that part was true, that the caskets were sanitary. And the body was, too, so—really—it wasn’t a particularly harmful lie.

“Usually, we’d use a traditional hearse. But as you can see, this isn’t exactly a traditional ceremony. We want the family to have the absolute best, most beautiful ceremony, since they won’t ever get a proper chance to say goodbye.”

And then Tristan held his breath.

He held his breath for so long that he could feel the blood rush to his forehead.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Marcel-from-the-limo-service said. It was better than a “no”.

“Thank you so much, monsieur,” Tristan said. “And, please… Remember that this is an urgent matter. The service is in two hours.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Marcel said again, this time, more softly. “I’ll call this number back in twenty minutes.”

And then he hung up. Tristan let out his long-held breath and slumped down, back to his more comfortable height. He panted a little bit and wrapped one arm around his stomach. He put the phone down with his opposite hand and gripped the counter. Tristan stood for a long, quiet moment, doubled over as if someone had punched him in the gut.

“I just lied to the limo company,” he said. And then realization set in. “sh*t. I just lied to the limo company! And they bought it! We might have a hearse for the first service of the day, after all.”

Tristan started to laugh and he looked up at Solange, eager for her approval.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

This was not going to end well. There was no way this guy was going to rent them a limo to be able to use as a hearse! She was going to have to explain to the Barbeau family why they wouldn't be able to transport their grandmother/mother/aunt/sister to whatever cemetery for burial. She had a degree from Cambridge and she was actually going to have to say the words "I'm sorry, but our hearse isn't working. We can bring her to the cemetery another day..." This was so not her day.

Solange had buried her face in her hands when Tristan took the phone and couldn't bring herself to look up...at least until she suddenly heard Tristan suddenly talking about her. “No! No, not all! Is that what my secretary told you? That we needed to transport a dead body?” he asked, sounding incredulous. Her blue eyes narrowed curiously, trying to figure out what he was up to.

“Right. Yes. I know that,” Tristan continued. “And we are. We just… We aren’t transporting a body with it.” There was a brief pause now. “We’re transporting an empty casket for burial, actually,” he lied. “There’s no body. Or at least, the police never found one. It’s like a closure ceremony. You know, for the family. We just need to transport an empty casket to the gravesite. And I promise you, all of our caskets are sanitized by the manufacturer and well preserved by my staff. Usually, we’d use a traditional hearse. But as you can see, this isn’t exactly a traditional ceremony. We want the family to have the absolute best, most beautiful ceremony, since they won’t ever get a proper chance to say goodbye.”

Solange's eyes widened in shock and her jaw literally dropped. It was a complete and total lie and she and he knew it! She was half torn between feeling guilty enough to get on the other line and telling him it was all a lie and hoping it worked just to have an answer to the problem.

In the end she stayed silent. A moment later Tristan finally let out the breath he'd been holding and she allowed herself to the same, unaware she had been doing the same. “Thank you so much, monsieur,” Tristan said. “And, please… Remember that this is an urgent matter. The service is in two hours.”

He finally hung up, looking as winded as if he'd just had a boxing match or something. “I just lied to the limo company,” he blurted out as it set in. “sh*t. I just lied to the limo company! And they bought it! We might have a hearse for the first service of the day, after all.” And then he started laughing

Solange let out a quick, sharp peel of laughter that was at the same time relieved and something akin to the sound a child make when they are up to no good and they know it. Her hand flew to cover her painted red lips, her eyes still wide as she looked at him. "Are you serious?!" she asked breathily. "That was amazing. You might have just solved the problem...not to say I condone the lying! But I can't believe it. You might have a hearse for Madame Barbeau."

A moment later, Solange quickly cleared her throat and composed herself, straightening her hair as if her moment of relief had given her fly-aways. "No more lying though," she said, trying to sound commanding like her grandmother had. "Promise me next time something like this happens, heaven forbid, that we'll find a solution without resorting to trickery."

She looked at him firmly again, waiting for his answer.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

When Solange yipped with laughter, it felt good. For once, Tristan managed to enjoy himself in her company and vice versa. She wasn’t laughing at him, but with him. And then, suddenly, she covered her mouth and stopped laughing. When she covered her mouth, Tristan couldn’t tell if she was still smiling or if she was frowning at him from behind her fingers.

"Are you serious?! That was amazing. You might have just solved the problem... Solange said. Then, hastily, she added, “Not to say I condone the lying!”

Tristan stood a little taller and his smile tilted off to the side. He’d impressed Solange. That was a first. It didn’t matter that he’d lied and she didn’t like that part of it. What mattered was that she had called him amazing. And while he seldom complimented her, she never complimented him.

“But I can't believe it. You might have a hearse for Madame Barbeau," said Solange.

Tristan, already leaning on the desk, propped himself up against it, more casually. If he had been walking right now, he would have been strutting. And then Solange cleared her throat and began messing with her hair. Tristan, in turn, slouched back down and rubbed the back of his neck again. Business as usual.

"No more lying though," Solange said. Her voice was its usual, haughty self. Tristan rolled his eyes. Yes, business as usual. "Promise me next time something like this happens, heaven forbid, that we'll find a solution without resorting to trickery."

“Yeah, sure,” Tristan said, doubtful that he meant it. He’d do anything to keep his funeral home running. And little white lies didn’t actually hurt anyone. “I better go change clothes so I can take a look under the hood of the hearse. See what the problem is, while we’ve got the time.”

Of course, Tristan knew next to nothing about cars. He just didn’t want to stick around by Solange’s desk if she was going to start bossing him around again.

“When Marcel from King’s Carriage calls back, come get me,” he said, walking down the hallway that led to his office. He was bound to have a couple spare t-shirts or sweaters in there. He practically lived at the funeral home as it was.

[The Exodus]

OOC: New Solange/Tristan ... Tristange? *shrug* New fun scene! BIC:

Tristan Vidal

Tristan felt like something was eating his brain from the inside. His eyes were dry and red and itchy; his stomach roiled at the usually familiar smell of freshly brewed coffee and formaldehyde. He wanted nothing more than to curl up under his desk in his office and sleep through the Lestrade funeral. Instead, he had to stand outside of the viewing room for the duration of the service, directing people to the guest book, handing out Kleenex to mourners, and trying to avoid Solange.

Last night, he’d run into her at a bar. And despite every cliché that promised that a drunk boss and drunk secretary led to shenanigans in the office, nothing had happened between them. If by “nothing” you meant that Solange had called Tristan her boyfriend to ward off a creep at the bar, they ended up dancing together and spilling their guts, and then Tristan made it a goal to get drunk.

No. Not a “goal”. Tristan had tried to get a gold medal in alcohol consumption. He’d switched from martinis to whisky shots when he and Solange parted ways, even though he was at heart a beer or wine drinker. And he hadn’t just pounded back one or two whisky shots. He kept them coming until he lost count and had to sleep in the back seat of his hearse in the parking garage. Next time he wanted to go out drinking, he would take a cab. Because he now had no guarantees that he wouldn’t run into Solange on the clubbing scene and this was all her fault.

Not strictly speaking true. Tristan might have gotten that drunk or this hungover without her, since he’d been really shaken and sad when going to Batofar in the first place. But Solange hadn’t helped. They’d had a really weird heart-to-heart and she’d touched him, called him pet names, to make it look like they really were together and instead of being able to laugh it off, Tristan had found himself mushy and a little turned on. Which was not okay, for the record. Because nothing had happened and nothing would happen and now that he was hungover and could see things in the light of day, Tristan knew better than thinking last night meant anything to Solange. If anything, they’d parted ways as friends. Which was fine. Tristan had just needed the drinks to kill his racing thoughts last night; he wasn’t disappointed or sad. Not really. Just confused. And the drinking had been meant to help ease the confusion. And maybe lift his spirits a little.

And now he was hungover and utterly miserable. He wanted to tell a squalling daughter to shut up. That her father had been eighty-five years old and if she was blindsided by his death, that she had unrealistic expectations of human longevity. He wanted to put up a sign that pointed to the bathrooms so people would stop asking him where it was.

And now he wanted to murder the organist who was playing the Kyrie Elyseion very poorly in the viewing room. The organist was sharp, which only served to make Tristan’s head pound.

His only consolation in all this was that Solange looked as awful as he felt. He’d paid for her drinks and the price was no object. But she had matched him drink for drink for a while; not the whole night, though. She’d be dead if she’d tried. And as much as this was her fault, Tristan didn’t wish her dead.

He kind of wished he was dead, though. The Kyrie’s melisma was painful to hear. It stopped finally. He reached up and rubbed his temples. And then he heard footsteps underneath the organ. The clicking of high heels mixed with the organ was just one noise to many. Tristan held out a halting hand. And then he saw that it was Solange.

“Are you wearing tap shoes?” he hissed. “Please tell me –“

But Tristan didn’t get to ask Solange if she had another pair of shoes or if she was wearing ear plugs. The organist started playing “The Lord is My Shepherd”. And this time, they were flat.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Had the lights in the funeral parlor always been this bright?! She sincerely thought not. But the splitting headache she had was not being helped by the florescent lighting coming from above. It had been all she could do to roll out of bed and into the shower this morning. The hot steam had helped to clear her mind enough, but it had done nothing to ease her headache. She'd already been running late and threw on the first clothes she could find while shoving her still wet hair into a bun and ran out the door, grabbing the high heels that were by the door on her way out.

She got to work and saw that Tristan was in just as bad a shape, if not worse than her. She had told him she'd blame if she woke up with a hangover and boy did she. She would never have gotten so drunk if he hadn't been so damn generous and given her use over his open tab. She had been doing her best to drown the Caleb that was swimming in her head and probably wouldn't have made it home if one of her friends hadn't cut her off and driven her home.

Now she was paying dearly. Each time the phone rang she covered her ears and rushed to answer before the next ring came. She had dragged the waste basket over by her desk so she'd have somewhere to hurl when the need inevitably hit. And now the service was starting with a badly played on an organ of all things. God had to be punishing her for something...

She got up, hoping to go and close the blinds as the sunlight seemed to directed right at her desk and right into her face. She covered her eyes and stumbled around blindly for a moment until shoulder hit directly into an outstretched hand. She lowered her hand to see Tristan's bloodshot eyes staring back at her.

“Are you wearing tap shoes?” he hissed at her. “Please tell me –“

He promptly was cut off by the organist that was now trying to play what sounded vaguely like "The Lord is My Shepard". Solange groaned softly and covered her ears now. Her own bloodshot blue eyes looked up at him desperately, all but begging him to make the noise stop somehow. He had control over the service, right?!

"Tristan, please tell me that there is some cord in there that I can 'accidentally' trip over that will put an end to this," she spat, point accusingly at the door where the service was being held. Slipping out of her high heels she stomped over to the window and shoved the blinds closed, softening the lighting just a bit which made her shoulders sag somewhat in relief. For a long moment she just stood there, one hand over her eyes, the other over her stomach. Finally she let out a long sigh.

"Is this the only service today? Please say yes."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan and Solange made bleary eye contact when the organist began to murder all of the Lord’s sheep. One by one, their dying bleats filled the funeral parlor. Or, at least, that’s what it sounded like. Dying sheep.

Which was not the sound Tristan wanted to hear right now.

"Tristan, please tell me that there is some cord in there that I can 'accidentally' trip over that will put an end to this," Solange said venomously.

Tristan looked at her hopelessly. If only it were that simple. It wasn’t an electric organ; it was an organ-organ. Which Tristan couldn’t remember the technical term for… How much had he drunk last night? Usually, he knew music words.

One small blessing was that Solange took off her click-y shoes. He could hear the muffled sound of her bare feet, still, but it was better. Tristan was convinced he could hear everything right now. Neural overstimulation or something. Science words, he usually knew, too. But right now, he couldn’t be made to think any harder than he was already. And it was really hard work to think about not taking out his hangover on people who were having worse days than he was.

Also, it was hard work to keep standing upright. Tristan was still dizzy – maybe even still a little drunk – from the night before.

And then the hallway went gloriously dark. Tristan looked over to see that Solange had shut the blinds. She still stood near the window, partially blocking way few rays of sunlight dared to sneak in. She shadowed her eyes with one hand and grasped her stomach with the other. Tristan had already passed the sick-to-his-stomach portion of the morning, in the embalming room. The rainbow of smells that didn’t usually bug him had nearly knocked him to the floor. You couldn’t pay him to go back in there right now. The only thing that had helped was getting as far away from anything that smelled chemical or bodily. Including himself. He’d spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom trying to scrub the scent of latex from his hands.

"Is this the only service today?” Solange asked. “Please say yes."

“I wish,” Tristan said glumly. “There’s another one at two and a wake at five.”

He had no idea how he was going to survive either of them; how Solange would survive them. How they wouldn’t attack anything and everyone who made a sound. He leaned against the hall table that held the guest book and a vase of lilies. He couldn’t really stay upright and now that it was just him and Solange in the hallway, he didn’t have to pretend he could.

“This is never happening again,” he said. “From now on, only one of us is allowed to be this hung-over at a time.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Solange tried to focus for a moment on taking long deep breathes in through her nose in order to calm her stomach somewhat. As long as she stood there, perfectly still, at least the dizziness wasn't so bad. But when she tried to move it sent the world whirling again. This put her in a predicament as she desperately needed to get back to her desk and sit down as standing up wasn't doing her many favors either. Slowly she began to inch her way back in the direction of her desk, gratefully finding her way before sinking back into the chair.

Her only solace was the flickering hope that perhaps this would be the only service for the day and after that they could go home. She was desperately looking forward to getting home, downing some aspirin, and just curling up in her bed and sleeping till noon the next day. Of course, Tristan put an end to the brief fantasy.

“I wish,” Tristan said regretfully. “There’s another one at two and a wake at five.”

Solange might have burst into tears if she didn't think it would just make her head feel even worse than it already did. She watched as Tristan leaned heavily against the decorative table where the guestbook was, no longer bothering to stand straight since he no longer had to try and keep up appearances for the sake of the grieving family inside.

“This is never happening again,” he declared. “From now on, only one of us is allowed to be this hung-over at a time.”

"It's going to be you every time because I for one am never drinking again," she declared, herself. She leaned her head back against the chair and threw her arm over her eyes, moaning softly. "Okay, we cannot keep this up all day. We have to come up with some kind of solution to make this go away," she said, pointing at her aching head. "Got any suggestions? You are the boss, after all..." She peered out from beneath her arm to glance at Tristan, hoping he might have some sort of plan to get them back on their feet.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan could not remember the last time he’d been this hung over. Maybe he’d never been this hung over and he was learning several years too late that alcohol really was a poison. He watched as Solange inched her way to her desk. She looked about as unsteady on her feet as he felt. And if Tristan wasn’t worried that the physical distance between them would lead to unintentional shouting, he would have been content to stay frozen, bent over the table. Instead, he was forced to follow her, leaning against the wall as he moved, just in case he stumbled. Once he stood opposite Solange’s desk, he leaned on it and told her that this was absolutely never happening again. That only one of them could be this hung over at a time.

"It's going to be you every time because I for one am never drinking again," Solange told him.

Tristan grunted. She was probably right, too. It would be a few months, maybe, but Tristan would inevitably find himself in a bar pounding back drinks sooner or later. Work would get under his skin or Solange would say something, do something that made his head spin and he wouldn’t know how else to cope.

He could always just paint. Why hadn’t he done that last night in the first place?

A soft moan got his attention. Solange had flung her arm over her eyes and leaned back. It looked so damsel-in-distress that Tristan couldn’t help but smile a little. He wondered if that was how he looked to her right now, all woe-is-me and whatever. God, this was messed up.

"Okay, we cannot keep this up all day,” Solange said matter-of-factly. We have to come up with some kind of solution to make this go away," she said, pointing at her aching head. "Got any suggestions? You are the boss, after all..."

Tristan thought for a moment. Solange was giving him permission to actually be the boss, to fix things. Sometimes, he forgot that he was the boss. And sometimes, he wanted to earn it. He remembered impressing her during the Great Hearse Debacle, that kind of pick-me-up would do him more good than any hair of the dog would. So he’d better get this right and remember hang-over cures that had actually proved trustworthy.

“Bacon,” he said suddenly. Something about the fatty acids supposedly did a brain good during a hangover. “Or… I dunno. Electro-ade?” Sh*t… What is it actually called…? “Y’know, sports drinks or whatever. To pump good stuff into your bloodstream. Electrolytes. A hang-over is just glorified dehydration and mild alcohol poisoning.”