Her cravings were, so far, mild. Food aversion happened early on, one of the things that made it difficult for Sophia to leave the house or make plans, but it seemed to abate by the second trimester. And the cravings she did have were far from strange. Occasionally, it was a lemon slice or two, maybe with a sprinkle of salt. Mostly fruit as a whole.
She was happy with that. The more she read, the more she disliked the word ‘pica’.
Pregnancy was weird that way.
Which was exactly her excuse when she added potato chips (specifically an American brand), dark chocolate, and marshmallows, and beets to Eugene’s grocery list and Vincent looked at her like she had three heads.
She exercised within reason, she ate what she was allowed to and gave up coffee in its entirety for the being growing inside of her. The latter was the worst struggle of all, because withdrawal made her more nauseous and she couldn’t take anything for the migraines. Vincent agreed to give up coffee but the look she gave him when he returned with Raphael the previous month made him think prison seemed like a better idea than an interview for the rest of the day.
He was trying.
And that was why he sighed, wrenched the list from Eugene, shoved his sunglasses on his face, and took it upon himself to figure out his wife’s ridiculous cravings.
His texts were hilarious, she had to admit. Pictures of the shelves. Fury that places didn't sell a potato chip that his wife didn't want. Struggling to locate grocery stores in one of the biggest cities in the world.
Eugene had better eyes for brands than his employer, everyone in the house knew that. Even her pregnancy brain wasn’t as blinding as Vincent’s inability to spot what was directly in front of him (and she was prone to entering a room and forgetting what she was doing there.)
It took three stores, very specific questions about the kind of chocolate she wanted, and explaining what the ever-loving devil marshmallows were, but Vincent returned victorious nonetheless.
She was disappointed about the beets but she would make do, she said. She wanted the salty and sweet anyway; the beets were just so she didn’t feel awful about the junk she wanted to shove in her mouth. Vincent retreated back to whatever duties he had put off to run the errand and she was left in the kitchen to her own devices.
Perfect.
Chocolate was melted, chips were dipped and then sprinkled with tiny marshmallows. She set them out to cool. It was so hard finding potato chips that matched exactly the ones she could get back home and these...these were exactly what she’d been thinking about ever since she finished her morning routine.
Salty, sweet, chocolatey...she probably just needed the salt, if she considered. But it was the only strange and decadent craving she had thus far. Indulging once wasn’t going to hurt anyone.
She popped a chip into her mouth and dear god, she didn’t know she missed the taste of potato chips that badly. The dark chocolate was balanced and brought out the salt even further while adding a bitter edge to the marshmallows.
Vincent returned and looked mildly concerned at the combination of things on the kitchen island.
“I thought...wouldn’t...those be...separate?” He gestured by bringing his hands together and then swiping them apart. “That...why, mon amour? This is sacrilegious to that chocolate.”
Sophia thought he sounded distraught, as if she made bread the wrong way.
“Eating them separately wouldn’t do the trick. I tried.”
She nudged the tray towards him and he stepped back, a little horrified.
“It’s only chips, chocolate, and marshmallows, Vincent. Salty, sweet, and a little bitter. Come on, you like cocktail hotdogs, for crying out loud, and you’re judging me?”
She swore he pouted when she brought that up and the lower lip sticking out was unmistakable this time around, too.
He took a tentative bite of a chip and seemed, at first, put off by the immediate hit of salt. Sophia raised her hands out, as if to say, ‘See?’. After a moment, he nodded, took another one, and then said, “I suppose it’s a better idea than pickles and ice cream.”
The boxes strewn about the room were heavier than they appeared. She couldn’t help (not like he would let her if she offered), and Sophia could only hope he didn’t throw his back out.
It felt surreal, laying out instructions and materials.
They could have had it done for them.
But Vincent liked to do certain things himself and if it got him involved, gave him something to do, all the better.
It didn’t feel tangible for him, she knew, despite seeing her fuss over everything he knew she would. Not out of vanity but comfort, wellness, stability. Her body, for the remaining twenty-two weeks, was in a state of constant change.
Meanwhile, things were status quo for him. He was, after all, not the one housing their child while they developed.
They hadn’t told anyone, save immediate family. Which mostly meant her parents. A mutual decision but one that made it feel all the less real despite doctor appointments.
She was barely showing and their little one was only the size of a chicken breast. They heard the heartbeat a week or so ago, the amniocentesis came back fine. A milestone they hadn’t reached before that only solidified everything further. A milestone that meant they were safe , in theory, provided nothing else happened.
The day they heard the heartbeat, they decided the paint color would remain the same.
This morning, to her surprise, Vincent retrieved the cans of paint, the ones pushed to the far corner of the house, along with the stuffed animal from so long ago. His stature seemed to ask ‘How hard would this be, really?’ but he asked if she was up to it all the same.
The morning sickness was just as bad, if not worse, than the first time. To say nothing of exhaustion and headaches and fussing with clothes that were just a tad too small.
All of it made planning any excursion difficult, let alone certain tasks that were, to some extent, necessary.
And so, here they were, deciphering instructions as the walls dried.
A warm cream, something in the yellow spectrum but never quite reaching it, either.
When the child was older, they could paint the walls anything they liked. For now, a warm color that was soft and inviting, would dominate. Something both of them would have chosen, he liked to think, regardless of whether they decided to know the sex of their child. They didn’t want to force an image on a child who had yet to see the world they would soon be a part of.
He was glad to have worn clothes no one needed to see him in. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, he managed to get paint on himself. But he supposed it was better it got on him than on the carpet.
Sophia, on the other hand, remained clean, not a speck of paint in sight.
They saved the crib for last, although neither of them wanted to put it into words. What would have normally taken all of a few hours ended up taking a majority of the day to make sure both of them took breaks.
She was, initially, afraid the dark furniture would be overpowering. Or too striking. It was such a harsh contrast with the walls and color theory kept nagging at her that this wasn’t soft and warm and welcoming . But when they stepped back and assessed, her worries were assuaged, especially so when the early evening sunlight streamed in.
Vincent was still holding the stuffed animal. The one she kept on a chair in the master bedroom, the one she sometimes tucked in her elbow during particularly difficult nights. They both knew he pretended not to see the tear stains on her pillow and the plush peeking out from the covers.
Deep down, they were certain they would never forget .
“Would you like to do the honors?” Vincent asked softly, holding out the toy for her.
Sophia took it and rubbed it’s ears between her fingers before she approached the crib and placed the toy next to the pillow. After a second’s thought, she nestled it into the corner, where it would keep a watchful eye.
Perfect.
___________________________
Vincent paced.
He checked his phone.
He peered at the front door security camera feed.
When he was certain Sophia was gone for the day (certainty solidified by a text stating she was finally in Audrey’s company), Vincent breathed out a determined sigh.
Eugene would return in exactly another fifteen minutes.
They had a full day. Ideally.
Assuming Audrey didn’t insist on sending his wife back because she was too sick and deserved the comforts of her own bed.
Which would be the right thing to do but it would be terribly inconvenient.
The delivery came on time (for once), and Vincent resisted the urge to send a photo. It was just... perfect . There was so much Sophia worried about already, to say nothing of her exhaustion. The least he could do was take care of some of the other essentials. Or perhaps semi-essentials, he supposed.
The room that was becoming the nursery felt a bit empty, partially due to the room’s size. When he saw it during the walk-through before purchasing the house, it was set up as both a bedroom and a playroom. It was substantial enough for that kind of layout. But for an infant…
So much of everything else would come in time, he tried to remind himself. The dogs circled his legs, eyes alight, asking for play time. They would have to wait.
“You’re sure you don’t want to do this with her, sir?” Eugene asked.
A fair question, given the nature of the errand.
“I know she’ll like them, I’d like to spare her the emotional display. She doesn’t like crying in public, Eugene.”
Sophia always felt so embarrassed after such moments. There were few exceptions. Between that and knowing how awful she’d been feeling over the past few weeks (to the point where she’d asked her staff to handle clients carefully in her stead because she couldn’t ), Vincent figured this was best.
“Fair enough, sir.”
____________________________
Sophia breezed through the kitchen when she returned home, the wave of nausea finally becoming something more. She’d managed just fine for most of the day but the car ride home finally managed to do what Audrey’s mile-a-minute talking hadn’t.
Words fell from Vincent’s lips but she hasn’t heard them, too focused on making it through the kitchen.
She felt a presence next to her and glanced over to find Vincent kneeling beside her, cup of water and wet cloth in hand. The first pregnancy gave him experience and whenever both of them were home, she often found him next to her, as he’d been the first time, but often predicting exactly what she needed.
“It is becoming less frequent,” Sophia mumbled, trying to inflect a bit of hope for both of them. “What were you saying when I came in?”
“That I have a surprise for you. It can wait if you’d rather rest.”
Sophia shook her head, excitement pushing away the remnants of the dizziness and nausea. At least the elevator had a purpose now, given neither of them would enjoy her placing a foot out of place when it came to the multiple stories.
Once they reached the third floor, Vincent said, “Close your eyes.”
She refrained from a joke that danced on the tip of her tongue, reminded of the times she had her vision obscured willingly. He gave an admonishing click of his tongue when he realized where her thoughts wandered.
Instead, Sophia covered her eyes with one hand and held out her other so he could lead her. His fingers were warm against hers as they slowly made their way down the hall. She felt him behind her, his lips close to ear as he whispered, “You can look now, Sophia.”
She lowered her hand and, in addition to their handiwork, found a plush armchair in the corner. Both dogs saw fit to try and make themselves at home, Theodora resting on top of Esteban in her usual attempt to drown him in her fur. A swift command made both of them bound off the furniture and head elsewhere, bored once they realized it wasn’t play time. They had been sitting on an array of stuffed toys, some for active stimulation for teething and sound, others just as soft and gentle as the one in the crib already.
The chair was perfect, but she didn’t dare sit in it. Not yet.
So much of this still felt so far away. Out of reach. Able to be ripped from them.
She felt a prickling behind her eyes and silently damned her hormones.
“You can exchange anything you don’t like. I’m sure you’ll want to nest later on, at least I believe that’s the phrase.”
“Thank you, Vincent,” she looked up and kissed his jaw, the rest of his face just out of reach.
“You’re welcome, ma cherie . I’m afraid there’s one more surprise, though.”
She pulled back and looked at him again, a little incredulous.
He simply turned her around and gently walked her to the crib. Inside, nestled close to the one she adored, were two stuffed animals,two dogs,, their likenesses unmistakable to the ones who loved to run underfoot.
“In case of allergies or trips away from home, so they’ll always have them.”
Her tears came of their own accord now and she hastily wiped them away before she picked up the stuffed animals. Perfect replicas. If there was any doubt lingering since they first began this venture, it evaporated.
As they went to leave, she flinched at a bizarre sensation and on almost-instinct, reached out to grab Vincent’s arm. He stopped cold, poised and waiting. A nervous twitch in her abdomen. And then again. She had been warned it would be hard to tell the baby’s movements at first, especially because this was her first. They had to give it time.
A moment passed and then nothing else. Sophia shook her head but rather than stepping away, Vincent knelt and began speaking softly in French.
Still nothing.
“ Please, little one. It would make your mother very happy.”
Sophia felt tears prickling behind her eyes. There would be other moments, other times. She wanted to urge him off of his knees and simply hold her.
Instead, she got a few more kicks and a kiss to her stomach, green eyes never leaving hers.
hi! <з thank you for filling this fandom with wonderful content such as beautiful writings, fresh ideas and funny promts!
what do you think would happen if Sophia bumped into Richard at some party and started arguing with him and then Vincent came to save the day? (everything RITD related)
thank you for answering! 🖤
This is stupidly long but also this is my utter weakness. Dark tones further in, clear references to ab*se and unhealthy relationships. Maybe even slightly out of character but in many ways, Vincent never quite lets go of his darker nature, I just don't focus on it much.
This had to be a joke. Him, at the same party as her and Vincent? Clearly no one ever read the notes she left in her RSVPs.
They ran in the same circles, if the past year was anything to go by. It was bound to happen eventually. Again.
She just didn't expect it to be here. At a benefit dinner. It was like the Kennedy Center all over again.
The last time they saw each other, she had intentionally spilled hot coffee all over him before dashing off to catch a taxi. In her defense, he attempted to drug and coerce her into an airport bathroom, and he was guilty of a lot more than that.
Just typical ex-fiancé things.
Everything went fine until she stepped outside to catch some air before dinner and bumped into the only Richard well-deserving of the common nickname, Dick. Literally. He dodged the sloshing of his drink and she managed to avoid ruining her dress but he moved with her when she tried to go around him.
"The Savior of Paris graces us with her presence," a voice drawled, a little too free with his American accent. "Our host has a sense of humor."
"Or wishes one of us dead," Sophia retorted, clutching her phone so hard her knuckles turned white.
Not tonight. Please just not tonight.
"Always such a good sense of humor, kitten."
"Don't."
Richard blinked before an easy smile crossed his lips.
"What does he call you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your lowlife criminal husband.”
She was going to snap her phone if she held it any harder. It was impossible to keep up a calm façade around him. As if the last shred of her dignity begged her to fight for all the times she didn’t, couldn’t. She spent so much of her life being polite and aloof. It was what her image was built on. No one caught her flipping tables and screaming in public.
So, as much as she wanted to, she withheld.
“You act as if a politician is of a higher caliber than the owner of a self-made empire.”
“He’s a felon.”
“So are you. The only difference is his job is not dependent on the opinion of the people.”
Sophia tried again to get away only to find her upper arm gripped tight by a free hand. She glared, wondering just where the hell the security at this party was, if she was being touched by someone who…
“Let go of me.”
When he gripped her arm tighter, she felt panic welling in her chest.
“I said, let me fucking go, Richard.”
“We’re not done here.”
She was going to trip if she moved the wrong way and probably at least twist her bad ankle, if not break it (again). The less she moved, the better. But as much as she tried to steady her thoughts and her breathing, the fear in her won out. Words spilled from her lips, her filter gone; she once would have let pleas and cries and efforts to appease fall from her mind to her tongue. But now, it was simply rapid fire thoughts in hopes of catching someone else’s attention.
“My life is none of your business. It stopped being your business when you decided to sleep around behind my back rather than break off our engagement. When you stopped coming back to the apartment. When you would tell me I didn’t believe in your cause after a day of blood and blisters from canvassing. I couldn’t smile for years without feeling you gripping my neck like a goddamn dog. Pick any instance you want, but what my husband calls me, what my life is like without you, is not your concern.”
In her fervor, she did exactly what she hadn’t wanted to and shifted her weight. Her ankle buckled and she fell into someone else as she tried to put distance between her and Richard. Familiar hands, ones she knew to be both kind and cruel, caught her before she tumbled to the ground.
Sophia registered the soft French in her ear, spoken only to her. So many found the timber of his voice terrifying. Not her. Never her.
“Tu es en sécurité maintenant.”
It took her longer than she liked to admit to look up at him, to see his eyes instead of Richard’s.
“Tu es en sécurité avec moi.”
He righted her, his gaze immediately falling to her injured foot and muttering under his breath. Many would have drawn the comparison to a broken purchase but many would have just as easily missed the way Vincent shifted his hold on her. He could bear the brunt of her weight with no issue and she could elevate her ankle for the moment.
“Do you make a habit of grabbing women when they want to be left alone, Monsieur Ingram?” Vincent crooned, fixing Sophia’s hair as if Richard wasn’t a foot away, unsure of his options. “I believe Sophia made it quite clear some time ago that she wished to not be near you.”
Eugene appeared and took Vincent’s place, ice wrapped in a cloth napkin. The sounds of the dinner party inside bled out from open windows, a beautiful swell of music mixing with the sounds of glasses clinking, conversation, and cutlery on plates.
The valet tried to lead her away but she shook her head, almost entranced.
“I didn’t want her to fall, she can be like a baby deer. You know how she is.”
Richard had the gall to laugh. Vincent did not join in. Instead, his eyes narrowed in amusement, lingering on parts of the other man’s suit, sizing him up as he did anyone else he ever crossed paths with. Sophia could only compare it to her first meeting with him, and then the first time she saw him in action working with those he funded.
Somehow, this was worse.
Especially considering Vincent had long-standing plans that may or may not have included cinder blocks and hungry sharks when it came to Richard. He broke a wine glass when she finally told him. And Vincent made it no secret how displeased he was when he heard the other man was in Paris.
“No, actually, the comparison isn’t quite as apt as you think it is.”
Vincent’s words were shockingly soft. He picked a piece of lint off of Richard’s shoulder and brushed the fabric down again.
“You see,” he continued, “Sophia is much more self-sufficient than a baby deer. She doesn’t need you, or me, or even Paris itself and all of its glamoured legacy. She is not a fawn lost without a leader to cross a busy street. But you know that, don’t you?”
Richard shifted his weight, casting a skeptical look at Vincent, but didn’t make a move otherwise.
“That's why you ripped her away from her family, isn’t it? Isolated her?”
Vincent continued to adjust the other man’s suit, fixing his collar.
“What is the saying, ‘It takes one to know one’?” Vincent asked, taking the other man’s tie in his hands and tightening the knot, pressing it into the other man’s Adam’s apple.
Sophia inhaled sharply. She didn’t think he truly meant the jabs about ending Richard. Or rather, that he would act on them. She cast a look at Eugene, who shared her concern, but the valet held her back.
“He never gets his hands dirty,” was all Eugene said to her.
“I know what you are and I know what you seek,” Vincent said as he dropped the other man’s tie and instead reached for the back of Richard’s neck. “Control. Power. Recognition. But you don’t need to abuse your partner, now do you?”
Sophia could feel what that grip was like, how her muscles were pinched to the point of bruising. She bristled but she couldn’t turn her gaze away. This was the Vincent from the catacombs, the one let his pride take root, and swallow everything in its path.
“How does it feel, to be treated like a misbehaved dog, Richard?” Vincent hissed.
Richard swung wildly, fist tight, but Vincent’s other hand was quicker, grabbing his wrist. Security finally saw fit to interrupt and Vincent was swift to grab the narrative, that Sophia was wronged, and injured to boot. She finally found a seat on the terrace and took the ice from Eugene, pressing it against her bare ankle after testing movement. A few days of rest and it would be fine.
Vincent knelt in front of her, carefully replacing her hands with his around the cold compress.
“You’re terrifying,” she said after a beat.
“Knowledge you’ve had for a long time, Sophia. Except I'm never terrifying to you. I’m sorry you had to see that.” Vincent examined her ankle and moved the ice to another part of her injury. “Shall we head home or would you prefer to stay?”
Sit and let the other guests ask about what happened and endure more stares and whispers? Or curl up into bed after throwing her heels back into the closet, wrapping her ankle, and taking ibuprofen? The choices were so difficult.
“Home sounds good,” Sophia replied, resting a hand on his cheek.
He leaned into her touch and kissed her palm, the remnants of the darkness that consumed both of them fading into the night.
A collection of one-shots, post Rolling in the Deep. Mostly within canon but sometimes not.
Also available on AO3.
Vincent looked around the living rooms once, and then twice, checking things off the list in his head. Hors d'oeuvres in both rooms, out of reach of the dogs, with the large tree in the center of the two, lights glittering. Presents for everyone were underneath it and accounted for. Christmas music came from the speakers dotted around the house. An impromptu bar was set up near the piano. Enough seating for a small army.
Almost perfect.
He plucked a box tucked within the branches of the tree, one that was deceptively hefty despite its size.
If he waited, he would spend the rest of the night trying to distract anyone and everyone from spotting the small box hidden away. And it was something he didn’t want anyone else to see.
There were five people in the house that knew, precisely, about January. About the extended vacation, the intention to step back for a while, re-center.
Vincent took in a deep breath and released it slowly as he made his way down the stairs. Sophia’s parents were in the kitchen; her mother putting cookies on trays while her father gathered glasses and filled ice buckets. They were used to hosting, years of what were probably backyard barbeques and holidays parties giving them ease in their movements and certainty in the requests made by the extra staff on hand.
“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Celene asked, her jade eyes flicking up from a cookie tin to her son-in-law. “Both of you look put out by this entire affair already.”
It wasn’t hard to imagine where Sophia got her looks from. She was the spitting image of her mother more often than not; taller than average, poised and elegant. She got what little curves she had from her father’s side of the family, it seemed.
Would that be her, hosting birthday or graduation parties? Or in twenty years when Vincent finally retired and college rolled around?
He was getting ahead of himself again. Manage expectations.
It might never happen the way either of them dreamed it would. If at all.
Her mother knew about the previous situation, about earlier this year. Sophia didn’t keep secrets from her family, nor would he expect her to.
“I’m fine,” Vincent said, casting back a reassuring smile. “Did Sophia come down at all? I want to give her a present before everyone gets here.”
“She’s still upstairs, sir,” Eugene said as he came upstairs, wine bottles in hand. “That call earlier threw off scheduling. Shall I-“
“Not necessary, thank you, Eugene.”
He toyed with the small box in his hands before heading upstairs, continuing past the living rooms to head up to the master suite. His heart hammered in his chest and he tried to remember the usual mantras that usually slowed his heart back to normal, or something close to it.
They could have their normal, couldn’t they? Wouldn’t they?
He found Sophia fixing her earring in the large closet and dressing area. Their eyes met in the mirror when he knocked on the closet door, one arm behind his back to hide the small box.
She wore a dress that had a longer decor than the actual dress itself; the top of the dress was black, fading into a deep navy skirt that ended above her knees, so silky it gleamed.
It matched his tie almost exactly; he would be lying if he said he hadn’t stolen a glance or three at her choice of evening wear when she wasn’t around, in hopes to find a match.
The dogs had a field day with the bow that sat at the small of her back, large and structured, with tails that trailed down to her calves. It was one of the few things she bought after that perked her up, made her look forward to whatever life had in store for them, even if it didn’t involve…
“Everything okay, mon couer ?” Sophia asked, adjusting her necklace. “What do you have with you? Usually your hands are all over me when I’m getting ready.”
The heated gaze in the mirror made him want to call off the entire affair and steal her away far ahead of their intended schedule.
The suitcases packed in the corner told him she was ready for such a thing.
But she might not be prepared for the tiny present in his hand.
Vincent closed the distance between them almost lazily and he finally understood the comparison his wife often made between him and a panther, circling its intended prey. Smooth, languid, never without an ounce of pride. He locked eyes with her in the mirror again before pressing his lips to her bare shoulder and presented the tiny box to her with a sweep of his arm.
Sophia’s fingers were warm against his as she took the small present from him. She shook it lightly, puzzled.
You’ll likely never guess, ma cherie…
He waited for her to give in and finally open it. She did and Vincent watched as her brows knit in confusion as she stared down at the box and then back at him. Sophia pulled out two little crocheted booties by their laces, white and soft and so small. Her thumb brushed over the yarn over and over, her face impassive in the silence that grew between them until she spun so fast on sharp heels that the tails of her bow whipped lightly against his shins.
“What is this?” She asked softly.
It was clear that she didn’t know how to feel. And his silence was more telling than he preferred. He should have had more preparation in place for this. The box now felt woefully inadequate to express just what exactly…
How did he put into words that, while he would be happy with their life together no matter what, he couldn’t help but wonder what else there was for them. Did he admit that when he watched her when she wasn’t looking that he wished any child they had to have her nose, or maybe her cheekbones, high but not as prominent as his. Maybe have her startlingly electric eyes.
Did he tell her that something deep within him stirred at the idea of seeing her go through such a drastic change physically and emotionally, finally getting to be there for her? That he felt it would only make up for a fraction of the things he put her through, considering so much of the burden would be on her, again?
He wasn’t very paternal, he never considered he’d be very good at the fatherhood thing. But his heart fluttered at the idea of feeling movement beneath his hand pressed against her, tiny fingers holding his, of holding another living being that was the culmination of emotional expression and passion.
Their brush with new life, and the death that followed, left him with a lot to think about.
And ultimately, he tried to think of who could possibly be better to be a mother than the woman in front of him and failed.
And yet despite everything he’d discussed with her, despite working through what he managed to, fear still crept into his heart.
“There has been...a lot...this past year. And I couldn’t quite find a way to express that, despite all of it, despite my words on the matter, I can find nothing I’d like more than to continue to build a life with you. Or at least try to. If and when you’re ready to.”
Sophia tucked the present back in the box and placed it carefully on the vanity before she closed the distance between them and took his face in her hands. She swore to both of them that she would never see green eyes so scared, stricken with a grief he couldn’t bear again; words he remembered from before she fell asleep from the medication, said between sobs so sorrowful that he swore the world beneath them shattered too.
Below them, guests began arriving-the usual crowd who would show up early to assist in finalizing things. Just moments ago, his wife was bright, stunning in her enthusiasm to celebrate Christmas and be with family and friends before they stole away for their first anniversary.
But now, she was pensive as she searched his face; she would find no lie, both of them knew that.
“I’m afraid of it happening again,” she said at last.
“As am I, ma cherie . But if there’s a chance for us, fear should never rule until we’re certain it’s not possible.”
Her hands fell from his face and smoothed his lapels initially. He found himself with his wife’s arms around his waist and her perfume dancing around them.
They remained like that until a knock on the master suite door. Eugene, ever efficient, ruiner of quiet moments, reminded them of their guests and they parted, Sophia finalizing her jewelry choices.
Vincent caught her eyes lingering on their suitcases, and then the tiny box.
After a beat, she said, “It would be nice to make use of the other rooms of this house. To hear more than paws running around. Little hands to hold at museums.”
He pressed his lips to her forehead, the first of many to come tonight.
This doesn’t have a title. It lacks coherency. I kind of don’t care. Sophia being snarky gives me energy.
Enjoy an interpretation of a famous Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway scene, with an AU of RITD.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sophia disliked press days.
But especially so on days where they were putting finishing touches on a show and hanging most of the pieces in a new venue.
Working in Orsay again felt...bizarre.
The angle of the article was to see the process from start to finish and so far, talk about how art history saved Paris. At least the writer was tolerable to work with. Standoff-ish, American, clearly didn’t take the assignment seriously. Audrey Kingsley was something more of an investigative journalist; she wrote the expose on the entire Flood, from Sophia’s understanding. To have a journalist of her caliber stuck writing a piece about an American-In-Parisian-Artworld was somewhere between surreal and a waste of talent and time.
The latter seemed to be especially the case but Raphael Laurent himself assigned her and that was that.
She could deal. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen press outside the art world thrust into assignments they didn’t like.
Sophia keenly felt as if she was on stage, rather than the artwork itself as expected, when going about her process for this necessary step.
Vincent lingered, his keen eye welcome when called for, but he always left this up to her now.
“A salon feel could be interesting in some sections,” someone chimed in. “Force viewers to juxtapose pieces and find out minute differences between them. Many of these are sets; it would be a shame to break them up.”
She hired for passion and she didn’t pay them on commission. The words were simultaneously business-based for the artist but from the heart. Hard to contend with.
“There are a lot of works, we could put everything out and re-arrange at a later date for the closing show. Feels like clearance to do that though, it’s an insult to the time they took on this collection.”
Sophia looked at the pieces lined up against the wall and then picked one, walking over to it and plucking it from its place to then bring it to another wall. The color in another would offset very well and she picked that one next, giving it a home next to its brethren.
“The entire collection tells a story, out of order. The artist gave us liberties to arrange as we see fit. The story we see. A salon hanging could confuse the viewer if a pattern isn’t used and it could result in a traffic flow problem. Which…” Sophia picked up two paintings and placed them in different sections before returning to the stockpile. “...we have anyway because of the bar. Let’s try this.”
She reminded the staff of the motif the artist used, how that tied back to their theme and the collection as a whole, as well as the historical significance of turning that motif on its head. She tried not to think about her words being recorded, about being observed as if she was teaching a class and her entire career laid in the balance.
One piece of the puzzle was missing for one wall, though. A narrative bridge. And there were several different variations to choose from.
Someone said as much and in the silence that followed, a scoffing laugh covered as a cough echoed in the gallery.
Sophia turned to find the journalist covering her mouth with her free hand, her Go-Pro strapped to her shoulder and her recorder still in her other hand, blinking red.
“Is something funny?” Sophia asked, resisting the urge to clip her tone and instead opting for something more earnest.
It was impossible to miss Vincent’s smirk as he watched, peridot eyes dancing with amusement.
Well, at least two people thought this was entertaining.
“They...look so similar, does it really matter which one goes where?” Audrey asked, something of a self-righteous air mingling with her words. “They’re all paintings.”
The unspoken words rang in her ears. This isn’t saving Paris by symbolism; is everything truly that deliberate? Does it matter? You’re not part of this museum anyway.
Sophia took a deep breath, eying the postcard collection and museum catalog peeking out of the journalist’s bag near the bench.
“Interesting. So, you think this has nothing to do with your experience with art? With Parisian culture?”
Audrey stammered, shifting her grip on her recorder.
The brunette found herself greatly disliking one painting in the lineup now and walked over to it, pulling it out and taking the one someone else-Eugene-was already carrying. Vincent likely saw what she did and intervened before someone kicked a hole into a canvas.
“You come to Paris and you decide, oh I don’t know, to go visit the Louvre because you would rather have the tourist experience of French culture and you decide the postcards in your bag would make a nice souvenir…” Sophia started, placing the piece eye-level on the wall, looking at the way the lighting glossed over the paint; perfect.
“But what you don’t know is that behind that entire machine of the Louvre are not just paintings and sculptures. Not just tour guides. But actually, art historians on all different levels and all different career paths.”
She pulled a pencil from her pocket, marked the wall where the hooks were on the frame, and placed the painting back down gently. They would have to adjust the hanging system as well. Unfortunate and time-consuming, but doable. With a little help from her husband, perhaps. At least he didn’t need a ladder.
Sophia glanced over her shoulder to find the journalist shifting her weight but listening respectfully. Good.
“And you’re evidently unaware that the umbrella of art history covers archivists, conservationists, curators, appraisers, tour guides, receptionists, maintenance mechanics who are all part of that process; science and physicality blending perfectly with art to tell the history of culture, of our very species…”
She plucked one of the two paintings still being held from her assistant and definitively placed it at the end of the first wall’s row of works. Darker. A little more gruesome. Darkness first, before the hope that followed.
“They determine and uphold the Canon that’s been set by centuries of art history and each city has their own shining beacon. Paris has the Louvre, Orsay; New York, the Met and MoMA; Mexico City has Palacio Nacional; Japan has Ota.”
Sophia stood back, appraising her work, before she turned and walked over to the journalist.
“Art historians determine who wins out, and it all filters down to you, where you pluck that postcard from its display in the Louvre. However, that postcard represents centuries of history, of eyes gazing upon it and generations of art historians caring for it and it’s sort of comical that you’ve made a choice for a souvenir that’s based upon an artist’s technique, use of mystique and motifs, when the only reason you even know who Da Vinci was, is because The Mona Lisa was made valuable by art historians who preserved its legacy after its theft. From a pile of paintings.”
The journalist backed down first, breaking their clashing gaze. She had no right. Some people found the idea of communicating through paintings absurd, archaic; it certainly didn’t have a place in 2017. But it was what led to a murder, to a Flood, to a cycle of vengenance that needed to be, and was, broken.
Broken by the person curating this show. Audrey’s question and ignorance were insulting.
Sophia looked away to find Vincent hiding a laugh into his coffee, shoulders shaking at her buried heels and fiery defense.
The article would no doubt paint her as a shrewd, sharp, American, out of place in Parisian culture. But the journalist was just as sharp, just as rough, and just as out of place.
All was fair, she assumed, and she didn’t necessarily care. She had solidified her place, her career, her life.
She made a mental note to never bother with press tagging along for future projects. Especially one Audrey Kingsley.
