He hadn’t really expected Indi to spend time with him when he moved here, that wasn’t part of the plan. It had been convenience that brought him to Lanford rather than New York itself, it had nothing to do with her also living here—he might not have told her about the move at all, if he’d had his way, but there was no point in trying to keep it private when she’d just hear it from her dad eventually anyway. It wasn’t that they didn’t get along, so much, just that… they didn’t have anything in common, that he could see, aside from their parents marrying each other.
And he certainly hadn’t expected to be looking at art supplies with her. The comment made him look over, but a slight grin formed as she spoke. “Yeah, I don’t think the whole therapeutic side of things works really great if you’re forced into it,” he offered, quietly amused. “Some pretty famous art’s been made by throwing paint, though…”
She wasn’t doing that now, though, which was nice of her. He’d be getting supplies here a lot, he wanted to keep a good reputation with the staff. He never knew exactly what to expect with Indi, but he didn’t push her on anything, and that seemed to be working out okay so far.
“I hated that time,” she muses softly, squinting to try to figure out the difference between greys but she didn’t have the eye for art. She supposes she didn’t have the eyes for anything but maybe just the gut to trust people or not. She trusted him, enough at least. They were as much of a family as anyone could ever be, even if they hadn’t been around for her darkest times as they fell in to their laps shortly after Indiana’s post-divorce depression started to break apart. But she rarely mentions her marriage, her drug use, her bouts with anger and sadness to them. It wasn’t their problem, it was hers.
But she couldn’t help but to make a dark joke once in a while about white coats and having her shoe laces taken from her. “Some people like it, it was just during my afternoon nap time,” she stands up from where she was crouching to read and turns to stare at Evan, “Yeah, but the best art is done by pissed off people who don’t want to paint. The only thing I remember about that therapy is that she tried to get me to paint because it was ok to be angry, that even Michelangelo's driving force to a lot of his painting was anger and spite.”