2 April, 1895 — Someone's In-Home Studio, London

Since January Don Juan had been largely avoiding these sorts of parties, though he'd been a regular on this scene before. Everyone lounging around the downstairs floor of the London townhouse was ostensibly here for the sake of art, but in reality Don Juan's motivation before had usually been his drug habit. It was the right sort of place to find a new substance if you had run out, or to find a partner if you had something to share. He was sober now, and dreading the conversation that might come up if someone asked if he wanted something stronger than liquor and he had to come up with an explanation for why he didn't. It was safer to make an excuse not to go at all. No one raised an eyebrow at that; he had been an unreliable guest for years by now. But tonight he had bigger things to run from: his mother had made it her latest mission to set up a bedroom for Kaatjie, in case this preemptive care served as a mark in their favor when they went to court, which was beginning to seem inevitable. This would have been fine if she hadn't wanted him to consult on the project (surely you know something about the girl, Don Juan?) Being stuck in a confined space with his mother while he thought about and talked about Kaatjie for a prolonged period was a nightmare scenario. He had made it his mission not to be found at the Dempsey house for the next three days, assuming that by then she would have grown impatient and completed the project without him. Dean's house was a solid refuge, but he couldn't stay there three days straight; eventually Hudson needed his housekeeper to come through the place. So he'd been in need of a place to kill time, and this was as likely a venue as any other.

The gathering was one part celebration for the host's latest gallery showing, one part workshop — subtly fueled, at least in some cases, by the kinds of substances Don Juan was hoping to avoid. He had spent half an hour loitering in the kitchen and making a performance of mixing himself a cocktail, allowing himself to be liberally distracted by conversation along the way; he suspected that while he was actively involved with drinking no one would proposition him with anything else. When he had exhausted this avenue, he drifted towards the studio space and tried to pick out an artist least likely to be high, or interested in getting high.

"Miss Crawley," he said in greeting as he dropped into an armchair near her. She was sitting on a stool, presumably so her posture would be better while she worked; Don Juan seldom had patience for any task that required good posture. He draped himself over the arm of the chair and fussed with the skewer at the top of his drink, on which a cherry and a grape had been impaled. "Let's see it, then. You've gone and gotten exotically educated, isn't that right? So my expectations are high."

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Irene Crawley

  

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MJ made this <3

It was the kind of environment that Irene thrived in. She hadn’t thought to attend many of these parties for the longest time, always finding one excuse or another to give her co-workers. But then Italy had changed everything. Her introduction had been what some might have called a baptism of fire, one that she surprisingly made through completely sober. It was Matteo who made sure of that, and Irene had been extremely grateful.

Tonight however, Irene was flying solo — well, the others were off in their preferred rooms at least, and Irene felt content to keep to the studio and work on restoring a landscape piece for a client. It might have been an odd thing to bring a landscape painting of all things to a bacchanal, but the witch found the juxtaposition to be an interesting experience: having to work on a peaceful, serene landscape whilst every form of potential chaos served as a soundtrack to her work.

Sometimes people would stop by to observe her work; some would demand a quick sketch or portrait done, which she was always happy to oblige because there was no shortage of inspiration to be found in places like these. One such source happened to appear in the armchair next to her nursing a delicious looking cocktail. She huffed out a laugh. “Mr. Dempsey, I’ve told you to call me Irene in these kinds of settings,” She admonished in an amused sort of tone. “If any such place is an excuse to be overly casual it’s this one, don’t you think?”

As for his demands, she put down her brush and shifted in her seat to grab her sketches. “If I’d known you’d be so demanding I’d have put them all on display where you can see them easily.”

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Admonishing him to call her Irene, and yet she'd tacked on Mister; it was gratifying to see that he wasn't the only one with a hypocritical bent when it came to formality of address. She had a point about the venue, of course. No one at a party like this was going to clutch their pearls. This was the sort of affair where if you saw something scandalous, the only correct response was to pretend you hadn't, or risk losing your invitation to all future events. The company around them in the studio was still dressed in this case (or mostly, anyway; he hadn't taken a proper inventory), but that was far from a guarantee as the night went on and the liquor ran more freely.

"Go on, then," he said as he leaned in to see some of the sketches. "Why don't you display?" He asked the question more or less as banter, an easy compliment to volley, and before he'd had a chance to actually take in any of her art. As he gave it a more appraising glance, however, he noted that it was actually quite good. Had she always been this skilled, or was that the European training paying off? Don Juan had never engaged in any sort of formal art training of any kind; he could write passably well by virtue of his upbringing. Being surrounded by authors for so much of his life meant some of it was bound to soak in through his pores even without conscious effort. Could art be trained? Improved, perhaps, but probably not skill created from nothing, he decided. There would have to be at least a seed of talent to start with. Which was why for all the osmosis in the world, he would never actually be a great writer.

"This one," he said, tapping one of the sketches (and being careful to right his cocktail glass before the gesture unbalanced it enough to spill on another piece of parchment). "Was that an early piece or a late one? It doesn't look like the rest."

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MJ made this <3

His question wasn’t unfamiliar; in fact it was one Irene had asked herself on repeat multiple times in the past. Originally it was because she didn’t see herself as a true artist; perhaps because she was in the business of conservation, repairing that which was broken and already claimed by another artist. It had been her job to make her work invisible and indistinguishable from the artist whose work she was repairing. But then she’d started to experiment on her own, and given herself a voice; a distinct style.

It was Europe that changed everything, however. Perhaps it was the confidence she’d gained, the heartbreak that fueled her drive, or the encouragement she’d both given to her friends and received by them. Either way, there was a change to her strokes now: they were more decisive. She’d been able to find the pockets of her uncertainty in her previous movements and bend them to her will now. There was both discipline and freedom to Irene’s movements whereas before, she knew she had felt lost.

“I suppose it hadn’t occurred to me until your question just now,” She mused, taking each sketch and tossing them up into the air, bidding them to hover there peacefully while she sifted through them. “In a way my work has always been on display, but no one has ever been able to see it. It’s always a mirror to the artist whose work I’ve been repairing.” Her voice trailed off thoughtfully. “It’s always been my job to remain invisible.” This part she said quietly, as if it had just occurred to her now the meaning of it and how much she’d taken it to heart.

Now that the array of sketches were hovering in the air, she crossed her arms under her chest, nibbling at her bottom lip as she surveyed her work. Her gaze landed on the sketch that Dempsey had pointed out. She’d frankly forgotten about it until now. “I did that a few years ago.” She murmured. “When I witnessed Mr. Hunt’s death.” It was a raw sketch; all jagged lines, harsh strokes and dark pools of lead. She’d used an eraser to further bring out the contrast, the agony she’d witnessed, the horror she’d felt cling to her long after she’d left the park. It lay in stark contrast to the rest of the sketches, which featured a lot more flourishing, a lot more whimsy.

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Don Juan vaguely recalled the death of a young man named Hunt, not because he'd had any dealings with the fellow whatsoever but because of the sensational nature of the death. There had been other suspicious deaths at the time, but like so many whispered rumors nothing had ever come of it. Probably any connections that were implied by the rumors were only imagined in the end. Regardless, being present at something so violent must have been deeply affecting for her, as this sketch suggested.

"It's very striking," he commented, which was not to say it was good or enjoyable to look at. It seemed to be a piece not concerned with such labels; transcending them in its visceral emotion. It didn't fit the rest of her portfolio at all, and he didn't know whether it was the sort of piece that would ever be shown, but the fact remained that it was the first one his eye was drawn to. "Did you know him?"

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MJ made this <3

Staring at it just brought back buried memories; ones Irene had tried to forget. She would have banished it with a wave of her hand, but she caught the expression on his face as he looked at it. Irene had always liked people watching at the art galleries. Half the experience of creating art was validated by the emotion it conjured up in other people. She watched him with a small smile on her face as she read his expression.

She didn’t respond to his comment on her drawing. It was what it was; she’d never meant for it to see the light of day, much less receive any sort of commentary on it. It didn’t feel right to capitalize upon Mr. Hunt’s death even if she did consider it one of her better sketches.

“No,” She sighed, leaning back in her seat. “I just witnessed him carving himself to pieces.” She’d had insomnia after that for days. Unable to sleep or get a moments rest without seeing remnants of Mr. Hunt splattered all over the ground wherever she went.

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Don Juan had no response to that. It was not the sort of comment that one responded to. She surely knew that, which meant either she was trying to end the conversation and chase him off so that she could get back to her work in peace, or she had been too traumatized by the event to spare a thought for decorum now. There was a long pause while Don Juan reacted to the statement and then tried to weigh which of these two explanations was more likely.

"I'll make you a drink," he pronounced eventually, before standing up to do just that.

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MJ made this <3

Irene’s brows shot up, and another small smile quirked at her lips. She hadn’t given Dempsey a very easy comment to rebound off of, and yet it seemed he nailed it on the head. Because what else was one supposed to respond with after their conversation partner admitted to witnessing something as horrible as that? She waited, stooping down to pick out a cigarette from her satchel and lighting it as he turned to make her a drink.

“And what about yourself,” She asked conversationally. “Any skeletons in your closet you’d like to clear out?” She cracked another grin. “It’s April after all, might as well get a start on that spring cleaning.” Her tone indicated there was little pressure to actually reveal anything as she took a drag on her cigarette.

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Clearing out skeletons — was that what she had been doing? Don Juan doubted her impromptu confession was all it would take to flush the incident from her subconscious, but maybe there was still something liberating in having said it. Even if it was only getting to watch his reaction and confirming her own sense of it... confirmation that yes, that was entirely fucked up, you're not overreacting. That was something, having the litmus test of something external to yourself.

Did he have any skeletons he wanted to air? Don Juan handed her the drink and ran his tongue over his teeth while he thought. He certainly had baggage — mountains of it — but he wasn't sure it would benefit from the same treatment. Half of it was already common knowledge, anyway... or at least some version of it was, and the public version made it impossible to talk about his perception of the same events. Once one had built up a reputation like his, the persona was not so easily discarded on a whim.

"If you're wondering which married woman I'm currently sleeping with I'm afraid you'll be disappointed," he said with a smile and a light shrug. Dodging the question with a glib remark was safer than anything else. "I'm more discreet than my reputation would suggest. These days, anyway."

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She accepted the drink with a grateful grin and took a healthy swig. The taste of the liquor, burned her throat in a way that awakened her senses; if only to dull them once more. It warmed her immediately, and she waited as he pondered over his answer, choosing to abandon her painter’s post in favor of a rather plush looking armchair instead. She sank into it with a soft sigh, giving her body a little wiggle as she let herself melt into the cushions; a soothing respite from the rigid posture she had adopted at the easel. She tucked her self into the armchair, her bare feet burrowing into the folds of the fabric, seeking warmth.

“Only one woman, Dempsey?” She picked apart his sentence teasingly, nursing her drink as she did so. “I would have you pegged for at least two or three at a time.” Pun not intended.

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He still hadn't been entirely sure when he went to fetch the drink whether she would close herself off when he returned it not. The shift to the more comfortable seating (and the shift in her attention away from her work and fully towards the conversation) certainly felt more like an invitation. This scene suited him, for his initial goal of finding a way to kill a lot of time without anyone offering to sell him intoxicants. If he looked as though he was already having fun, he was less likely to be approached unless the oncomer also knew the person he was with, and he didn't think she ran in those sorts of circles. This was as close as he could come at a party like this to a safe haven.

"At a time, Miss Crawley?" he returned in an indulgent tone, drawing the word out for more emphasis. "My bed isn't big enough for four." To date he had never engaged in any kind of sober group sex (which he supposed to be qualitatively different enough from the hazy way bodies sometimes jumbled together at the end of a high that it merited categorical distinction), nor did he take anyone back to his actual bed, but facts were besides the point. He was giving the impression of having fun, and that was the main thing.

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MJ made this <3

She’d started the jest and yet it took Irene a second to realize what she’d actually insinuated when he commented on the size of his bed. She hid her blush behind the fact that it was already quite warm in the room coupled with another healthy swig of her drink. It was already halfway gone. She laughed, quickly attempting to recover, though the thought of multiple people sharing the same bed for intercourse seemed to set her stomach aflutter. “Why, you seem to have enough money to purchase one that fits.” She countered, shifting positions again to free one of her legs from under her. Her bare foot tapped a rhythmless beat on the floor.

She chewed over her next question, wondering if it would be too impertinent to ask; though if there was a setting to ask something, it was likely this one, at a party where inhibitions seemed the lowest. She ultimately decided to hold her tongue a little while longer, enjoying the lighter conversation while she could.

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Don Juan let out a short huff of amusement. She was probably right. He didn't know how much a bed actually cost (or any piece of furniture... or really anything that wasn't clothes or drugs) but he didn't imagine it was exorbitant. He didn't have as much disposable income as his lifestyle suggested, but probably enough to replace a piece of furniture. The piece that amused him was imagining what excuse he would have to give his family or the servants for such a move. At that point his parents might kick him out, honestly... they seemed content enough to turn a blind eye towards his antics most of the time, but that didn't mean they wanted to hear them, if he was going to start bringing them home.

"Perhaps," he allowed. Hadn't she come into money recently, to? Not live-on-an-estate-in-the-Irish-countryside money, but she had gone abroad and undergone some sort of training program. It might not have been exorbitant, but it likely wasn't free. "How's the size of your bed?" he teased. He could tell he'd embarrassed her — the size of the drink she took attested to that — but she'd started it, with the quip about two or three women, so he didn't have a wealth of sympathy for her there.

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MJ made this <3

It was in the middle of drinking that his teasing question reached her, and Irene’s hand holding her glass paused as her dark gaze flickered back to him. She took her time with her answer, lowering her hand slowly, swallowing, and then laughing softly at the conversation she’d managed to walk herself into.

“Size doesn’t matter when one’s bed has always meant to remain empty, Mr. Dempsey,” She said dryly, canting an eyebrow at him as she settled further into her seat. Her foot, which had stopped tapping a rhythm when he’d posed his question, began to do so again. She tipped the glass back to down it all. “Not for lack of trying, but I don’t believe Fate’s dealt me enough cards to be so fortunate as to be concerned with the size of my bed.”

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Don Juan, who had lost his virginity at eighteen and could not conceive of anyone their age having failed to do so, interpreted this answer to mean that she was in something of a dry spell. As such he responded with the same levity he'd had a moment before, despite her evident change in tone. "Perhaps for lack of trying," he said. He accompanied it with a suggestive look that seemed to imply not for lack of appeal. She was fairly attractive... and anyway, half the men in the world seemed not to be much concerned if their partner was attractive so long as they were warm and breathing. He took a healthy sip of his drink. "Or maybe trying all the wrong places."

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MJ made this <3

She hadn’t expected him to contradict her, and his doing so caused her brows to shoot up as she looked at him. But it was refreshing in a way, and the look he cast her, despite her not entirely understanding its meaning, seemed to give her the impression he was paying her a silent compliment.

Irene gave a snort, one that was somewhat self-deprecating as she leaned over to set her glass on the floor. “Oh, I’ve most certainly been trying in the wrong place,” she agreed, leaning back. There was no use in perusing someone who was in love with someone else. Was now married to someone else…

She shoved those thoughts to the back of her mind before they could become fully formed. “So by all means if you have any suggestions of where to try, don’t hesitate on my account.”

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