619 Boulevard Raspail : Tristan Vidal's Apartment

[The Exodus]

OOC: Look. It's all edited and pretty! BIC:

Tristan Vidal

Tristan opened the white wine Solange picked and put the blush back into the refrigerator. He would take her word about white wine pairing better with Chinese take-out. Tristan was probably the only native Frenchman who wasn’t born with the ability to differentiate between chardonnay and champagne. He poured the wine into two glasses.

"Where are the movies? We need to pick something to watch," Solange said. “Preferably something with gunfire and explosions."

“I hear gunfire and explosions pair well with Chinese food and white wine,” Tristan teased, following her into the living room and handing her one of the glasses.

Admittedly, Tristan knew as much about movies as he did about cooking and wine. He didn’t really like going to movie theatres. The cinematic experience was great, but he inevitably missed calls for work, calls from his friends, calls from Laurence while in the theatre. Tristan preferred having the freedom to pause a movie with the click of a button or to shut it off and go do something else for a while. As such, he had a collection of mostly unopened DVDs that he always swore he’d get around to seeing.

Tristan crouched down in front of the shelf and pulled open the bottom cabinet. There were art films, horror films, action films – most with the plastic still on them. There were also Torben’s “Twilight Zone” DVDs Tristan always forgot to return.

“It’s like Christmas every time I go through this cabinet… Never know what I’m gonna find,” Tristan said. He shook his head and pulled out a couple of movies. He looked at “The Avengers”, which was still in plastic and looked over at Solange. “Did you see this one?”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Solange actually really enjoyed movies. The more action filled, the better. She enjoyed a good drama or romance once in a while, but action movies were where her heart was. She just enjoyed a movie that was fast paced and exciting...and having a few explosions didn't hurt the quality of a movie either. She had to admit that it was probably very stereotypically male to like action movies over dramas but it was just who she was.

“I hear gunfire and explosions pair well with Chinese food and white wine,” Tristan joked with her, making her laugh as he came to help her find where it was he kept his DVDs. She personally had them in a neat little alphabetized stack right by her television. She took a sip of the wine he'd handed her as he crouched to open a cabinet under the television stand.

She was shocked to find there was a pretty good variety but that most seemed to be untouched. There was still plastic around the vast majority of them as if he had bought them but never bothered to watch them. Honestly she couldn't understand that! Why buy it unless you wanted to see it?!

“It’s like Christmas every time I go through this cabinet… Never know what I’m gonna find,” he said as he reached in to grab a couple movies.

"I can imagine," she said. "Tell me, were you planning to watch any of these movies or where you waiting for them appreciate in value so you can sell them?" Her eyes danced with a laugh, smiling at him warmly as she got down next to him, looking at the ones he had pulled out. He handed her an unopened copy of 'The Avengers' and her grin widened even more.

“Did you see this one?” he asked.

"I have," she assured him. "Excellent choice too! Not only does it have explosions and gunfire but also giant spaceships and superheroes." She smiled at him. "I can't wait to see you watching this for the first time! You'll love it."

She began the surprisingly difficult task of working her way through the layers of plastic and stickers that bound the DVD to its little box. She glanced around the apartment as she worked.

"This is pretty great place," she admired. "How long ago did you move in?"

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

It was probably blasphemous that Tristan hadn’t seen “The Avengers”. Everyone else on the planet had been singing its praises a few months back. And he’d definitely meant to see it in theatres, since there was a box full of comics somewhere in Laurence’s apartment labeled “Tristan’s Books”. He hadn’t been a typical nerd. Instead of obsessing over superpowers or the storylines of underdog-triumphs-over-bad-guys, he’d been fascinated by the artistry. The bright colors, the implausible anatomies, the bold lines. To see the images he’d painstakingly traced or free-handed in imitation brought to life…

But, inevitably, work got in the way. By the time Tristan managed to find a pocket of free time, the film was out of theatres and eventually, his interest waned. Solange’s grin rekindled Tristan’s almost-forgotten excitement about the movie. He asked if she’d seen it.

"I have," she assured him. "Excellent choice too! Not only does it have explosions and gunfire but also giant spaceships and superheroes. I can't wait to see you watching this for the first time! You'll love it."

“Don’t watch me watch the movie…” Tristan grumbled. His grin betrayed him. Truthfully, he didn’t mind as much as he said, since he’d probably be doing the same thing. Stealing surreptitious glances at Solange as she watched the movie. Tristan stood up and crossed the room to put his wine glass down. Then, he made his way into the kitchen to grab both plates of food.

"This is pretty great place," Solange called over to him. "How long ago did you move in?"

“Right after Christmas,” Tristan said. “Really glad you didn’t see my old place. It was…”

Tristan’s last apartment had been in Le Peripherie, just on the cusp of the city. It was a lot of things: cheap, dangerous, and ill-kept. Tristan had once made the mistake of parking his hearse on the curbside. In the morning, his radio and hubcaps were gone. His upstairs neighbors had been a couple about his age, who fought so violently that Tristan called the cops twice. He’d even seen a guy get a knife pulled on him a few blocks away from the apartment complex.

“…Bad,” Tristan finished. “Better than the alternative, though.”

Laurence had been bribing Tristan to get out of the old place since he moved back to Paris eight years ago. Tristan had held out admirably, as far as he was concerned.

I’m saving up for a better place, Tristan said whenever the topic came up.

You can stay with me until you save up enough, Laurence suggested every time.

Tristan cringed outwardly. The only thing more hellish than his old place would have been moving back in with Laurence. Not that Laurence would steal his car radio or knife him. Tristan’s uncle still – sixteen years later – saw Tristan as the kid who snuck out at three in the morning only to be returned in the back seat of a patrol car with paint smeared down his arms and his jeans even more ripped than intended. And Laurence treated Tristan accordingly. Still.

Laurence was displeased with most of Tristan’s life choices: his tagging, his hair, his career, his relationship. And he let Tristan know. Frequently.

Tristan would rather be homeless than be patronized to by Laurence. He’d even fleetingly considered living in the funeral home when the search for a new apartment got desperate. This place had been a godsend.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Personally Solange had only been living on her own for almost a year. She didn't count the time she'd spent living in a dorm at Cambridge. It didn't really qualify as being on your own when you shared your bathroom with every other girl on your floor. But Tristan was actually a few years older than her and had more than likely been on his own before she was even thinking about college. He'd certainly worked his way up to this new apartment. Curious, she asked him how long he'd been here.

“Right after Christmas,” he explained as he brought over the food. “Really glad you didn’t see my old place. It was…” There was a pause as he was obviously thinking back to the previous apartment. “…Bad,” he admitted. “Better than the alternative, though.”

They set the food and wine on the table and she frowned up at him, not liking the idea of him in danger. She was glad he'd gotten out of there when he did. Still she wrapped her arms around him for a moment as if to be assured that he was okay before taking his hand and pulling him to sit on the couch.

"Alternative? What exactly was this back-up plan," she asked. "What could be worse than a really crappy apartment?" In her mind, it didn't really get much worse than that.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Tristan didn’t realize he was frowning until Solange hugged him. It wasn’t just an “I’m thinking” frown, either. It couldn’t have been or else she wouldn’t have bothered. A tiny smile wriggled onto Tristan’s lips and he followed Solange over to the couch and sat down beside her. And for a moment, Tristan was glad the conversation was over.

"Alternative? What exactly was this back-up plan?" Solange asked. Clearly, he’d piqued her interest. Tristan looked over at her and did his best not to sigh or groan or roll his eyes. "What could be worse than a really crappy apartment?"

“Moving back into my old room at my uncle’s,” Tristan said.

He grinned a little. The room itself was largely unchanged from the last time Tristan had lived there at seventeen. Band posters and sketches and print-outs of famous art pieces were tacked to the wall, covering otherwise very nice, crisp wallpaper. Laurence’s white furniture clashed with the black bedspread. There was a now empty terrarium that had once been home to a family of cockroaches, a leopard gecko, and a tarantula in turn. Tristan had crashed there a few times in the years since moving out and it felt as foreign to him now as it did then. Like he’d never really owned anything in that room, like he was just a guest. And there’d been a time or two when Tristan crashed in Laurence’s room while his uncle was out of town. But Tristan didn’t want to think about that either. Although the memory made him want to laugh; that he’d actually convinced someone he owned and lived there. He didn’t belong in Laurence’s apartment. He technically never had. It was filled with new tech gadgets and old furniture. And as grateful as Tristan was that his uncle put a roof over his head in his childhood, there was no need to ram a square peg into a circular hole these days.

“Let me put it this way,” he said. “When I was living at the old place… I was carjacked. Twice. And I would I would rather take my chances living in my car in my old neighborhood than go back to Laurence’s place.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

The title menu of 'The Avengers' was playing now and the heroic music swelled through the apartment. She wasn't paying much attention to it at the moment though, much more curious about this other alternative that made living at his old 'bad' apartment seem better by comparison. Whatever it was had to be something quite awful if he'd elected to stay there.

“Moving back into my old room at my uncle’s,” Tristan explained.

As comfortable as they were around each other, this wasn't something they had ever talked about before. Usually if the subject came up they would switch topics easily and quickly forget about it. She hadn't meant to stumble upon it the way she had but honestly they couldn't avoid talking about their pasts forever.

“Let me put it this way,” Tristan began to clarify. “When I was living at the old place… I was carjacked. Twice. And I would I would rather take my chances living in my car in my old neighborhood than go back to Laurence’s place.”

She glanced up at him in surprise. She had never really met Laurence but she'd heard Tristan talk about him often. He'd never seemed to have any kind of animosity towards his uncle and had to wonder what had made living with him such a terrible thing.

"Really?" she asked, a little shocked. "It always seemed you at least got along with him okay...it was really that bad?!"

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange peered up at Tristan, as if he’d said that he’d rather eat a live mouse than Gwen’s best lobster thermidor. He stared back at Solange with raised brows.

"Really?" she asked. "It always seemed you at least got along with him okay...it was really that bad?!"

“We get along fine,” Tristan said. “When we aren’t living together. Laurence never liked kids and I didn’t exactly endear myself to him when I was one.”

Tristan chuckled as snippets of memory darted through his brain.

“You let the roaches loose? Why?” “They looked sad.”

“Tristan, your eyes are red. Have you been drinking?” “No. Just huffing paint fumes on the side of the road.”

“You need to get a haircut. You know, yesterday, one of my coworkers asked how my niece was doing?” “Oh yeah? How is she?”

“You need to get a job. A real job.” “But I could make three times as much dealing meth out of my bedroom!”

“Were you tagging again?” “No, Laurence. I was working on a school art project and this nice cop gave me a ride home.”

Somehow, Tristan’s sense of humor hadn’t been appreciated under Laurence’s roof. Of course, living with Laurence back then had been preferable to living with his parents or going into the dreaded system. He’d briefly had foster parents, before souring to a sarcastic preteen and teenager. And around them, Tristan had been solemn, quiet and respectful. Something had changed in the year spent waiting around for his social worker to track Laurence down. Or maybe it hadn’t “changed” much at all. Tristan wasn’t a wanted kid. Not by his parents, not by his foster folks, not by Laurence. By the time Laurence got him, Tristan understood that much. He’d seen no reason to play nice if it wouldn’t make a difference. He shook his head, shaking the thought away. He hadn’t been a wanted kid, but there were enough people in his life who wanted him around these days. And one of them was nestled in his arms, which was more than Tristan could have dreamt of twenty years ago when he’d first moved to Paris.

“Laurence thinks I’m sixteen years old. And when I’m with him, I might as well be,” he said.

They either bickered or ignored each other if you left Laurence and Tristan alone together for more than two hours. It was why they did a weekly dinner together and nothing more these days, except the occasional coffee meeting to discuss Esther’s latest escapades or to celebrate the holidays. Holidays were the worst. But everyone hated the holidays with their families. That was a given. The previews were rolling; Tristan ignored them and looked at Solange. He didn’t know how to explain without confessing to being the world’s most ungrateful sixteen year old, once upon a time. All the headaches Laurence had endured on his behalf. Or without making it sound like Laurence had been some sort of neglectful guardian, which wasn’t the case. Or without telling her that these days, Laurence’s chief concern was that they were together. Something about workplace ethics that Tristan apparently lacked.

“It’s… complicated, but we weren’t each other’s first choice for family. Doesn’t mean I don’t love him. But hell will freeze before I move back in with my uncle Laurence. ” Tristan paused. “You think I’m bitter or ungrateful or something. I swear… I’m not.”

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Solange didn't have any relatives left, really. Her mother was gone, she had no idea who her father was, her grandparents had passed and her mom had been an only child. She'd never had an aunt or uncle, let alone been raised by one. She could presume to know how Tristan felt regarding his uncle, but he'd always spoken of him with respect at the very least.

“We get along fine,” he assured her. “When we aren’t living together. Laurence never liked kids and I didn’t exactly endear myself to him when I was one.”

She found herself wondering what Tristan had been like when he was a kid. She had always sort imagined him as this bookish, quiet kid, but from the way he talked he must have had a little rebellious streak of his own. It was probably what had made him butt heads with his uncle over the years.

“Laurence thinks I’m sixteen years old. And when I’m with him, I might as well be,” he continued and she nodded in understanding. He seemed to think about something for a moment. “It’s… complicated, but we weren’t each other’s first choice for family. Doesn’t mean I don’t love him. But hell will freeze before I move back in with my uncle Laurence. ” There was another pause before he spoke again. “You think I’m bitter or ungrateful or something. I swear… I’m not.”

She shook her head, placing a hand on his arm, grateful he'd shared as much as he had with her. She wouldn't push for more if he didn't want to tell her. Perhaps she could share a little about herself so it wouldn't seem so one sided.

"No, I don't think that at all," she promised. She turned her gaze to the entwined hands, studying them as she looked down, a little ashamed. "It just made me think about how ungrateful I was growing up. Honestly, I put my grandparents through hell."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange placed a hand on Tristan’s arm. Slowly, it slid downwards until their fingers intertwined. Tristan stared stupidly at them. He had been a sarcastic little sh*t as a teenager. And sometimes, he still was. The only difference between then and now was the intent behind his words. When Tristan had been fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, he had still been an angry and agitated young man. He wasn’t old yet – wouldn’t be for a long time – but the years had mellowed him out. And instead of stripping him of his sarcasm, time had polished it so that Tristan could bring out his sense of humor in polite company. Too bad Laurence didn’t understand that. Too bad it made him sound like a total pr*ck. Too bad he had been a total pr*ck until relatively recently.

"No, I don't think that at all," Solange said. Tristan looked over at her. She wasn’t looking at him, but had cast her gaze where his had been moments before: one their hands. Tristan didn’t follow her. Instead, he cocked his head and tried to get a read on Solange. "It just made me think about how ungrateful I was growing up. Honestly, I put my grandparents through hell."

“You were a troublemaker? I never would have guessed,” Tristan teased.

Once, Jacqui had shown Tristan a picture of Solange. It had been from either her final year of school in Paris or her first year of school at Cambridge. Tristan couldn’t remember, only that the photograph had been “a few years old” at the time. That had been two years ago. The Solange in that picture had been very different from the one holding his hand now. Thick, black makeup lined her eyes. Her clothes wouldn’t have looked out of place at a rock concert or in the group of kids Tristan had called “friends” during his teenage years and during mortuary school. And though Tristan wouldn’t say it, that Solange had been Tristan’s proverbial “type” once upon a time. Hell, she was his type now, if there was such a thing as a “type”. After all, the one thing that hadn’t really changed from then until now was the look Solange leveled at the camera. It was one Tristan was used to seeing when he walked into work late or when he pushed her buttons a little too hard or even when he made a flirtatious pass at her: Go ahead. I dare you.

She’d surprised him a year ago, walking into the funeral home, dressed in somber business casual clothes and conservative heels. Tristan had expected her to be a sullen nineteen-or-twenty-year-old. Instead, she’d been a grieving and grown woman, with a razor wit and intellect that left Tristan scratching his head. And of course other attributes that left his speechless. But her eyes were the same as in that picture and Tristan could only guess what kind of trip it must have been, trying to raise Solange. Solange may have hellcat then, but no one had declawed her since. Something Tristan admired about her as much as he found it intimidating. He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb.


“It’s a weird road… “ Tristan said softly. “’Cause they aren’t your parents, but they’re all you’ve got. And they’re like… not exactly looking to raise a kid, but they do it anyways… And your grandparents raised a hell of a woman.”


The movie was starting, but Tristan didn’t notice. He repositioned himself on the couch so that he was facing Solange directly. He looked at her and though he believed exactly what he said – she really was a hell of a woman – it struck him suddenly how little he knew about her life before they’d met. A certain kind of hunger growled in the back of his mind; it embarrassed him more than if his stomach had rumbled. How had he known Solange for nearly a year and never had this conversation with her? He’d been curious – fleetingly curious – about the young woman in Jacqui’s photograph two years ago. He was curious still about Solange as he knew her. Reconciling the two had never really occurred to him. Instead, he’d settled for cognitive dissonance and contented himself with not asking questions. He was so used to not prying. Not at work, not in relationships. And now Tristan was kicking himself for never asking “why” or “how”. He wanted to gently peel back Solange’s layers, learn more about her. Things he should have known about his girlfriend. Tristan was tempted to play a game of “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours” with Solange. They’d done it once before – a long, long time ago in a crowded nightclub – but this was different. Just as intimate, much more tender. A gentle, probing curiosity instead of a flippant and bitter game to pass the time.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

To say she had put her grandmother through hell was actually a bit of an understatement. She had been forced to watch her only daughter go into a destructive death spiral that ended with with her dead of an overdose alone in a hotel room hundreds of miles from home. Then after losing her husband, she had watched almost a horrible repeat of what had happened with Lea happen to Solange. Solange had been angry, selfish to have done that to her grandmother who had given up and lost so much already. Solange doubted she would be able to ever forgive herself for that.

“You were a troublemaker? I never would have guessed,” Tristan teased her lightly.

She knew it he was only joking around, but she had wonder if he knew how much of a troublemaker she had actually been. She doubted her grandmother had told him anything about her cocaine use or the bad crowds she had hung around after her grandfather had passed away. She wondered if she were to tell him now if that would change what he thought about her...if she'd still be the same girl he'd wanted a relationship with.

“It’s a weird road… “ Tristan said quietly, his thumb stroking her hand. “’Cause they aren’t your parents, but they’re all you’ve got. And they’re like… not exactly looking to raise a kid, but they do it anyways… And your grandparents raised a hell of a woman.”

She gave a small smile at his declaration as she rested her head on his shoulder. If anyone understood what it was like to be raised by other people it would be Tristan. She found herself grateful to have that kind of understanding with him. It wasn't something she was going to have to hide or try to explain.

In the background, Loki was busy escaping with Hawkeye and Selvig but she wasn't really paying attention at the moment. She glanced up Tristan, curious about her boyfriend's past. She was well aware that they had avoided this topic for a very important reason. Whatever they did, they needed to approach it with caution, but wanted to this part of him. It might not have been the kind of thing that friends discussed but they were more than that now.

"Your uncle didn't do a bad job himself. I think you're pretty amazing," she said with a smile. "I'm curious though. If your uncle didn't even like children how did you end up living with him of all people?" She paused and glanced away, a little afraid she'd asked too much of him. "Of course, you don't have to tell me if you're not ready. I don't want to push you at all."

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Solange nestled against Tristan’s shoulder, a small smile on her lips. Tristan smiled and draped his arm over her shoulders.

"Your uncle didn't do a bad job himself,” Solange said. “I think you're pretty amazing."

Usually, Tristan would have brushed off that kind of talk with a sarcastic, “Well, God, I hope you do” or “Thanks, I try”. But it felt wrong. Solange’s words resonated in Tristan’s chest. Amazing. It wasn’t something he was used to being called, yet he actually believed Solange when she said it.

"I'm curious though. If your uncle didn't even like children how did you end up living with him of all people?"

Tristan inhaled sharply. Solange must have felt him tense up because she started backpedaling.

"Of course, you don't have to tell me if you're not ready. I don't want to push you at all."

“It’s fine,” Tristan assured her.

He didn’t sound “fine” per se, but he wasn’t angry. No one asked him why he lived with his uncle, even though it was an elephant-in-the-room type question. Tristan didn’t have an answer. His standard reply was usually to deadpan and say, “Bad luck. Good thing neither of us play poker” and to move on. Solange deserved better than the standard reply.

But the truth wasn’t exactly “better” than Tristan’s old standby. The truth had him examining his right hand, which his father had held to the stove top as a means of “punishment”. More than two decades later, the skin had healed. It looked like normal wear and tear; it didn’t feel like it. Along Tristan’s right palm, there was a crescent of numbness. He rubbed the half-moon with his thumb and frowned. He hadn’t told anybody about his childhood in Marseilles, except his uncle and several child psychologists. Not any of his exes, not any of his friends. Even when his mother turned up at the funeral home while Gwen was there, Tristan hadn’t explained just what kind of “messed up” his family was.

But Solange grew up with her grandparents. Kids didn’t end up living with grandma and grandpa because mom and dad were utterly fantastic parents. If anyone Tristan knew might understand what it was to be an unwanted kid, to have a f*cked up family tree, it was probably Solange. Because either one of two things were true: either her parents were dead or they’d been just as bad as Tristan’s. Or both.

He looked over at her. A wave of something nearly knocked all the breath from his lungs when Tristan met Solange’s gaze. It wasn’t pity. Tristan pitied his clients. It was stronger than that and Tristan didn’t have a word for it. Solange understood him better than anyone else. Better, even, than Gwen or Torben or Laurence. And this was just one more thing she would understand. He wished that she couldn’t understand what it was to be unwanted and shuffled around. But he was selfishly thankful that she did, since what he was about to say – if he could find the words – was hard enough to explain. When he could find a way to breathe again, find a way to keep his eyes from stinging, Tristan cleared his throat.

“My uncle doesn’t like kids. But he’s not a bad guy. He didn’t yell or throw things or hit me. Which is more than I can say for my father. He smacked my mother around. And me, when I was old enough. He had this this thing about burning that just… You’d think a six year old with second degree burns might send up red flags, y’know? It took him breaking my f*cking arm before anyone even…! I mean, it’s fine now. I’m fine. I got to go live with my uncle and be his problem for a couple years. So. Happily ever after.”

As he spoke, Tristan’s voice remained quiet. It grew markedly more bitter and the vitriol in his voice scared him. Maybe this was the kind of thing you weren’t supposed to let fester. Maybe he should have kept some of those shrinks’ numbers or something. But “maybe” didn’t matter. He’d just told Solange the one thing he’d never told anyone and if there was a way to ruin a romantic evening, it was to start off a conversation with “my father used to smack my mother and me around”. Tristan sighed. He covered his face with his right hand and wondered if there was any way to come back from this kind of confession. Nobody in their right mind stuck around to deal with this kind of baggage. At least, not in Tristan’s experience. Because the only thing less attractive than being a funeral director was being a funeral director with daddy issues. Solange had every right to run – fast and far—if she wanted to. Tristan wouldn’t blame her. He wasn’t a wreck of a person, but Tristan wasn’t as “amazing” as Solange thought he was, either. There was a reason they didn’t do these heavy, emotional talks often.

“I’m sorry. Just… Sorry. I don’t talk about that. Ever,” he said, sliding his hand down so that he could see Solange again. “I’d much rather hear about you and your teenage rebellious streak than talk about why I lived with my uncle.”

He could use an anecdote or two about sneaking out and living it up. Or, really, anything to distract him from the anxiety creeping into his veins.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

Honestly, she wasn't sure what she had been thinking. They'd only been going out for two months! They'd only established that they were friends just a short while before that. She had no right to think she could just ask something like that when it was clearly something he preferred not to talk about. She could feel the tension rolling off him and hurried to try and rectify the situation, assuring him that he was under no obligation to answer if he didn't want to.

“It’s fine,” he told her, though his voice didn't exactly match his words. She remained very quiet, watching as he traced something on his hand before finally he spoke.

“My uncle doesn't like kids. But he’s not a bad guy. He didn't yell or throw things or hit me. Which is more than I can say for my father. He smacked my mother around. And me, when I was old enough. He had this this thing about burning that just… You’d think a six year old with second degree burns might send up red flags, y’know? It took him breaking my f*cking arm before anyone even…! I mean, it’s fine now. I’m fine. I got to go live with my uncle and be his problem for a couple years. So. Happily ever after.”

Honestly, she'd only ever heard him swear under his breath or when he hurt himself. And she'd never heard this kind of resentment in him before. It was a little scary, but honestly she couldn't blame him. She resented his father too and she'd never even met the man. How could anyone do that to a six year old?! Her heart broke for what he'd been through as a child, but she knew he didn't want her pity. She was amazed that he'd managed to grow up into the kind, funny, good hearted man sitting beside her now.

He reached up to cover his face and unsure of what to say to make things better, she settled giving the hand still in her grasp a comforting squeeze, letting her fingers thread through his. Slowly he brought his hand down and slowly looked at her.

“I’m sorry. Just… Sorry. I don’t talk about that. Ever,” he explained and she nodded in understanding. “I’d much rather hear about you and your teenage rebellious streak than talk about why I lived with my uncle.”

Her face fell a little and she averted her blue eyes away for a moment, probably looking like a guilty little kid. He'd been willing to share with her and it was only fair that she be willing to share with him as well. Still, she was afraid of what he'd think of her now. She certainly wouldn't seem like the same Solange he'd hired and definitely not the same one he'd wanted to date.

"Rebellious actually seems like too nice of a word for what I did," she admitted. "My grandfather died when I was 17. After that I just got really angry with the world. I ended falling in with some not-so-great people. I dressed differently, completely ignored school, started yelling at my grandmother..." She sighed and shook her head. "I started doing cocaine and going bad places to get it. It was torture for my grandmother because it was like watching my mother on repeat. She was terrified I was going to end up dead of an overdose just like her. I cleaned up my act when I realized what it was doing to her but also...I didn't want to be my mother. I didn't want to end up dead or with a baby I was just going to shove onto the first people who'd take it..."

Tears stung her eyes and she drew in a rattling breath as she wiped them away. "I don't talk about that ever, either," she admitted. Caleb just wouldn't have understood and the other goth boyfriends would have just shoved more cocaine at her. Not even Devi knew why she had stopped hanging out with that crowd. "Honestly, you're the only person I've told," she said softly.

[The Exodus]

Tristan Vidal

Once the words were out there, there was no taking them back. Tristan instantly regretted telling Solange about his father. With his luck, she wouldn’t think he was the same man she’d called “amazing” ten minutes ago. If anything, she probably thought he was less of a man, less of a person. Damaged, broken beyond repair. And it wasn’t like that at all. Not really. He should have just said, “I don’t want to talk about it” and watched the movie, like a normal guy. But Tristan wasn’t normal. Even if he wasn’t royally screwed up, he was the type of guy who said the wrong thing at the wrong time. And it was wrong to tell Solange about his father only two months into their relationship. At least he hadn’t gotten into last month’s fiasco with Gwen and his mother. Tristan didn’t think Solange would have been able to look him in the eye if he had.

But she held his hand still. She didn’t look at him like he was anything less than the Tristan Vidal she’d been talking to moments before. Tristan’s heart bunched up in his chest. All he wanted to do right now was stroke Solange’s hair, kiss her, thank her for not thinking of him as some pathetic victim. Show her that he really was all right.

But instead, he was too embarrassed to do that. He tried to change the subject to what he hoped would be a lighthearted story of teenage rebellion; of sneaking out and goofing off. But instead, Solange’s face fell.

"Rebellious actually seems like too nice of a word for what I did," she said at long last. "My grandfather died when I was 17. After that I just got really angry with the world. I ended falling in with some not-so-great people. I dressed differently, completely ignored school, started yelling at my grandmother..." She sighed and shook her head. "I started doing cocaine and going bad places to get it. It was torture for my grandmother because it was like watching my mother on repeat. She was terrified I was going to end up dead of an overdose just like her. I cleaned up my act when I realized what it was doing to her but also...I didn't want to be my mother. I didn't want to end up dead or with a baby I was just going to shove onto the first people who'd take it..."

Tristan could feel the pair of them slipping into an even darker place than before. And yet, as Solange spoke, he knew he couldn’t blame her. He couldn’t judge her. Her mother had been an addict, had given her up, and just when things seemed to look up, her grandfather had been taken from her. Grief did things to people; it destroyed them, pushed them too far. But Solange had come back from the brink and that was admirable. More than admirable that was… Tristan didn’t know what that was. But it was more than just “something”. She’d walked away from everything clean and successful and lively; not morose and in constant states of relapse. He looked at her, blue eyes soft and steady, not sure what to say or do. Solange was crying and, though Tristan had seen her cry once before, this was much more intimate. More heartbreaking, too because Solange was Solange was Solange. And Tristan could only imagine what kind of hell she’d put herself through. She was so regretful about what she’d done to her grandmother, but Tristan found himself wondering if Jacqui had held Solange during withdrawal, if anyone had held her and cared for her or if she’d made the climb back up to sobriety solo. He wondered how she’d kept herself together when Jacqui had passed last year. One hell of a woman seemed like an understatement.

"I don't talk about that ever, either," she admitted when she’d wiped away her tears. "Honestly, you're the only person I've told.”

Tristan reached up and cupped Solange’s chin in his hand.

“I’m… honored,” he said, knowing that word wasn’t exactly the one he wanted, but that “flattered” sounded too flip. “That you trust me enough to tell me. You didn’t have to. Thank you.”

He went quiet. His brain echoed with the same thought over and over: What a pair we make.

[blueeyeddevil]

Solange de Grace

She hated talking about her past. She didn't want to think about the fights she'd had with her grandmother. Didn't want to think the time she just couldn't remember due to drug use. Didn't want to think about going through withdrawal alone in her room because she'd refuse to let her grandmother see that struggle and have her suffer even more. But somehow she wanted Tristan to know. She didn't feel like she had to hide that part of herself from him and it was freeing to share that with him.

The tears flowed down her face as she admitted she'd never told anyone else but him about her troubled past. Still she had a hard time looking him in the eye till finally he tilted her chin to meet his gaze.

“I’m… honored,” he told her, making her smile a little. “That you trust me enough to tell me. You didn’t have to. Thank you.”

She sighed and nodded. She brushed his hair back behind his ear as she met his blue eyes with a small, watery sort of smile.

"I'm glad you told me too...thank you," she said before pausing a moment, shaking her head. "We might be messed up but at least we're messed up together, right?"

She leaned forward, resting her head to his, leaning close and kissing his lips.

The Avengers had been forgotten for the moment.