xp_logs | Pyotr and Marie-Ange

Pyotr decides to branch out a little in his art. Marie-Ange is taking her designated scheduled Art Time. They have a chat about art, philosophies of life, ethnic stereotypes and living up (down?) to them, fanboying Alison, and the glories of American Chinese food.

Authors' Note: Set the Wayback Machine, this one took a while to do.

Pyotr settled behind an easel in the Mansion's art room and frowned at the blank canvas. He didn't want to do another of his paintings from memory of his family, so he frowned thoughtfully and tried to decide what he wanted to capture in oil.

While he thought he absently poured himself a cup of frighteningly strong black tea, like the stuff he used to drink back home. It was a balm on days, like today, when he was feeling especially homesick. America was a wonderous and strange place, full of energy and vitality, but he was used to a slower life, timed to the seasons.

Ah. Inspiration having left her deft touch on his mind's eye, he started to mix some oils together to get the colors he wanted. He thought he'd gift the subject the painting when he was done. She'd probably appreciate it.

Drat. He knew he'd forgotten something. If he was going to paint, he needed snacks. It was a fundamental law of art, in his experience. A good thing he worked out daily or he might be in danger of getting fat.

Marie-Ange had a firm schedule for art in her calendar. Sometimes it was for work - custom tarot cards took time - but as often as she could, it was just for the sake of art. She had gotten firmly into the habit of ordering dinner - finger food mostly, nothing messy and nothing that required coordination. She pushed the art room door open with her shoulder, and set a stack of chinese take-out containers on the workbench. "Ah, good evening. Will I be disturbing you if I draw and eat dinner?" She tapped one of the take-out containers. "All finger food, I am happy to share. Egg rolls and dumplings and the like. Chinese-American, so absolutely entirely inauthentically delicious."

Pyotr, in return, gestured to his teapot. "Hot tea." he said, probably unnecessarily. He had a not-at-all-secret weakness for American Chinese - he'd had the real thing, but something about the American spin on it appealed to his tastebuds. "Thank you." he said then made himself a little pile of goodies to snack on - not grazing too heavily from her supply, that would just be rude. "Ever have one of those times when you want to paint but the subject of your endeavors eludes you?" he asked.

"Hot tea, or Russian hot tea, because Amanda has this tea from Russia that can wake the dead, but it tastes like a truck tire." Nonetheless, she found one of the endless shared mugs - clean, without paint residue, and poured herself a cup. At worst, it was bitter and hot and caffeinated. "I do, all too often. I do quite a lot of work on making drawings of my co-workers and friends, and sometimes chasing them down is endlessly difficult. You would think it would be easy. Sit for half an hour, be sketched, eat cookies, but no, they have to all want to be responsible and do jobs." Marie-Ange's smile was easy though, and teasing.

"You are doing nothing to mitigate the stereotype of French people being rude about food." he said with a smile, then bit down on one of the finger-foods. Yum. "I am not a gangster or a thug, so I am defying Russian stereotypes quite nicely." he said with amusement, then got to work grabbing the right pencil for a sketch outline of what he had decided he was going to paint.

"I only insult my girlfriend's tea. Yours is just fine." She took another sip. It was bitter, but bracing and smooth. Amanda's - the tire truck wake-up tea at least - was gritty. "You do like vodka quite a bit though. I think that is your stereotype, like I can make crepes even if I burn ramen noodles most of the time." Marie-Ange looked a touch embarrassed. "The stereotype for me is that I am a terrible driver. Good in high speeds but in traffic, or parking? No, it is better if anyone else drives. It is good I am working in the one city in America that has regular trains."

"Brits stole tea from Chinese. Or Indians. Let them fight it out over who had it worse." he commented as he crunched on finger-food, drank good Russian tea, and sketched the outline of what he wanted to paint. "Me, I live up to the dour Russian reputation. Came by it honestly, parents grew up and lived under Communism." he said. "Good properly dour Russians are perversely a comfort."

"Like bitter tea, yes?" Marie-Ange tapped her mug. "You know what to expect, and it is the kind of thing that you seek out to see the world clearly sometimes." She pulled one of the stools over to a workbench and unpacked a sketch pad and pencils from her bag. "Sometimes you want a cuppa with cream and biscuits, sometimes you want hot and bracing to clear your head and eyes. It is like - like walking outside in the winter, or jumping into a cold pool."

"Something almost exactly like that." he said agreeably as he sketched. Darned noses, they never wanted to go in cleanly the first time. "There's a comfort - and a blindness - to pre-conceived notions about how things should be. Wine-snob, effete foodie, vodka-swilling gangster, thug on the bad side, but a friend, an artist, comfort in food and drink and company on the upside." he mused.

"Sometimes the world gives us the things we expect, and it makes it easier, yes. And sometimes it means we miss what lies under the surface. Sometimes we want to know what is inside the pastry, sometimes we want the surprise." Marie-Ange nudged one of the paper containers towards Pyotr. "Which reminds, the dumplings are spicy, if you enjoy that kind of thing. Sometimes the warning is good, yes?" She picked one up with her free hand, and took a careful bite, and waggled her pencil in the other hand as the spice hit.

"Da, is good to have warning." he said, delving into the spicy dumplings. "Got hooked on Korean and Chinese food growing up. Was special treat but so delicious." he commented, "Perceptions are tricky. So many spend a lot of time and especially money to manage them. Me, I just think that I will be me and let the perceptions fall where they may." he said. "Unless something truly egregious starts to get spread around. Like, what we name of show - Mean Girls? Something like that."

"Gossip is eternal, but yes, I tend to agree, at least now. It was harder when I was younger, to just accept that I was who I am, and let the cards fall where they will." Marie-Ange gulped down tea to cut the spice in her mouth, heedless of any attempt at politeness. Duk's had definitely remembered her usual order and the dumplings were spiced for people who liked setting their mouths on fire as a hobby. "Who I am is not enjoying those. Too spicy, I think I hit the Amanda or Doug spicy level on the app, and not the regular person spice level." She pushed the box towards Pyotr. "All yours. I am going to sit here and drink all your tea to try to put the fires out."

He dabbed at the piece, correcting some lines, shading a little differently. "Some days I can almost forget you're a spy." he said with a sigh as he knocked out the last of the spicy dumplings. "Ever think about finding more honest work?"

"Every time someone I work with comes home with a bullet or stitches." Marie-Ange said bluntly. "Every time I remember I used to have two eyes. Most mornings. Date night. Days like today." She waved a hand. "But I get the curse of knowing what happens if I stop. I stop what I do, people like you become monsters. They take you and make you a thing that crushes Russia's opponents. Perhaps what we do is spywork, but it is more than being spies."

"Seeing the future must be a curse." he said after a long moment. "See thing coming, either know you could act to change it, or just let happen. Sometimes good, sometimes bad." he mused as he finished up his base sketch to be painted over. "Spies, I can intellectually see the value, but after Misha and the FSB, I cannot bring myself to trust." he said quietly. "Someday, there will be a time when you can lay down your burden. Be Marie-Ange Colbert, the artist and woman, rather than Tarot, the seer and the leader of spies, killer of men." he said. "I would like to see that day."

"We both want that, yes, and there is no offense. It is hard to trust spies. I often wish we had perhaps chosen a less controversial description for what we do." Marie-Ange flipped open her sketch book to a blank page, finally free of the distraction of lingering burn from spicy dumplings and started roughing out the outlines of what would eventually be a card design. "But it is honest, we are spies. Spies for our side, spies to keep mutant kind safe, but spies. Seeing the future is a persistent irritation, but it saves lives. The benefits still outweigh the costs."

"Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?" he asked, his Russian accent doing horrific damage to the Latin. "Agreed, spies can be useful creatures.' he said. 'When kept under a tight grip. Power too easily abused is dangerous, no?" he asked as he started to mix a new color on his palate, a shade of red by the look of it. "Like your servant Felicia." he said. "Wanted to help. Said she could help. Would only do it if in return I owed you specifically a favor." he said. "Perhaps the fruits of wealth sour and the only payment can be taken in favors." he mused. "Would not hear of honest pay. Only the favor mattered."

Marie-Ange's mouth opened as if to answer, and she did try not to laugh, and it came out a warbling chuckle. "Felicia is much too much like a cat to be anyone's servant. She probably meant well, but did not understand what that would mean to you. I think perhaps finding you an agent who is less connected to my people is best." On the paper, she was making a messy sketch, all rough lines that overwrote each other, a figure in robes, a crumbling tower, a silo, a rocketship, all touching and overlapping and barely coherent. "My favorite forger's domestic partner used to be police. I can find you someone entirely above board. No favors owned, just snacks. Like last time, yes? I do you a solid help, you bring snacks to my office."

"This is quid pro quo I can accept." he said, filling his own painting in much more neatly, the newly-mixed red going in with bold strokes. "Unless you use leftovers to kill someone. Then I would be upset." he said with an absolutely placid expression on his face. He was not going to comment on her having a favorite forger. Forgery, after all, was a small step across the line from an art restorer and Pyotr kinda liked art restoration. Messy business but it challenged like few other things could. "Said agent would be content to work for money, da? Not snacks. Am artist, not Russian Chef." he said, and then waved his paintbrushes around in the air.

"Bork, bork, bork!"

"You have paint on your ear now." Marie-Ange said, through a giggle. "Yes. Anyone I ask about will work for money, or a percentage. And I promise no snack murder. That is a waste of snacks. Have you met... half my office? Amanda? Jubilee? I work with people who eat their body weight each week because of their powers. We respect food at that office." She reached down into her bag and pulled out a little container of wipes. "For the paint."

Pyotr accepted the wipes with a grave solemnity from her and set about cleaning off his one ear. "Had a concern that good Russian snacks would be used to murder a hungry person of interest. And that's no good." he said. "Good to know snacks will not be used for nefarious ends." he said and then finally cracked a smile. "May have to mix it up, try new Russian snacks. Would hate to be predictable." he said with a slight smile still. "Any requests? Sweet? Savory? Caviar and good black bread with butter?"

"I am not certain how caviar would be met, but good bread and butter would probably earn you at least one free 'erase a speeding ticket' from our resident technology types." Marie-Ange said. "They are very interested in bread." She considered her statement. "And blinis, but that may just be me. We had a mission that had me visit a Russian Tea Room many times, so I have an affection for them."

"I might be able to do a home-made variant on good black bread. It's usually pretty simple, if I can get the things I need for it." he mused. "Sweet, savory, or both for your blini?" he asked, "Is stupid question,. Even I have heard of prodigious appetite of spies. Can do both, just may take me a bit longer." he said with a smile. He frowned at his painting, then dabbed at it.

"Then we have a deal. I will find you an agent who is entirely above board, you can make me blinis." Marie-Ange's sketch was not progressing as she wanted, and she pulled out a kneadable eraser to undo half of what she'd drawn. "It is funny, I was thinking at first probably have been to the same tea rooms, just never at the same time, but my affection for them is more recent than I originally considered, so perhaps not. It was ... call it magical time nonsense." She reached for her phone, remembered the charcoal stains on her hands and set it back down on the art table. "Phone, please set a reminder. Text Pyotr tea room list." She directed, and then turned back to Pyotr. "There, now when I have less messy fingers I can send you my list and we can compare notes."

"And no favors." he stressed. "Honest transactions for honest prices. Am not afraid to offer cut of sale price, but no favors." he added, probably entirely unnecessarily. He then dabbed a few times at his canvas, smiling at it. It was coming out the way he saw it in his mind's eye. This was good. "Food I am happy to make, as thanks for arranging agent. Is no problem."

"No favours." Marie-Ange confirmed. "It is funny how we do not think of making food as favours, but smuggling hard to get foods, that is a favour, yes? I was going to say I would talk to a few people to try to help find you authentic Russian snacks before they hit the reseller and become expensive, but then it starts to slip into the favour category." Her hand skittered across her paper, leaving a grey streak. "Ugh. Less talk of my job, more talk of why this charcoal is terrible." She picked up the piece, and rolled it between her fingers. "Or why I cannot draw today. You have that happen sometimes too, yes? Wake up one day, nothing comes out of the hands correctly."

He smiled at her. "Is luxury I cannot afford." he said with a hint of sadness. "And suppose like many things is focus on degree. Food? Easy. Simple. Gives no leverage. Favors like agent? Power imbalance, tips too far one way or other. Is fine for those that play dominance games, but am not interested." he said. "Even favor like smuggling authentic foodstuffs, tips scales too far. Besides, I am Russian, cooking with as close to authentic Russian ingredients as can be had in this nation of plenty." he commented. "Is authentic enough. Be like smuggling French cheese and wine from Lyons so you would do something small for me. Is manipulatory in way I cannot countenance."

As he spoke he dabbed at his canvas, filling in some details. "Oh. Before you go, have something for you." he said. "Despite what just said, gifts of art are not to curry favor, but because art will be appreciated for what is, da?"

"Yes, I agree. Art is for the sake of art, almost always." Marie-Ange agreed. "Which is why you are likely to get all the sketches I do of you before I make a few into tarot cards. Reminds me, I need, with your permission to get a few photographs of you in your metal form. I do readings for your team as well as my own." Despite this, she was nearly inching her way off the raised stool to peer over at Pyotr's canvas, and even if her voice was calm, her body language said "ooh ooh yes I want to see."

He shifted to give her better access to the painting - Marie-Ange, sitting in a severe style, beret on her hair, red thickly-braided hair spilling down one shoulder. She was wearing a miilitary-style uniform and clearly sitting behind a desk of some kind strewn with dossier folders. She looked cold, almost inhuman, her one good eye staring directly at the viewer.

Marie-Ange blinked several times, and then broke into a smile. "Oh, it is evil me! I love it!" She patted her hair, as if checking to make sure the beret hadn't somehow appeared. "A reminder, yes? Be less the spy, more the woman?" She popped out her phone and took a quick photo, unfocused and off-center. "Colors, so I can get a matte and frame. Once is it done and dry and set and varnished, I will hang it in my office. You do not happen to know any strange german grandmotherly witches, correct?"

He blinked at her question. "No." he said after a _long_ moment. She was a seer, a prophetess, in addition to part-time work as spy. Question was likely not an idle one. "Family reportedly goes back past the end of the Tsars and we're of good peasant stock. No Germans that am aware of in blood. Know I will regret asking, but why ask?"

"I was being cheeky, but there was a mission. A German witch in a library told me to remember to be the woman and the person and not the spy so much." Marie-Ange said, with a very gallic "What can you do?" spread of her hands. "It was a very strange weekend, even by my very high bar for strange. Magical library, fictional people giving unwanted advice. I fought a ghost, I got to yell at a terrible librarian from a book, the witch gave me good advice but she seemed the kind of person to be nosy and try to send messages through other people."

Pyotr couldn't help but laugh at that. "If did not know were serious, would suggest lay off mushrooms." he said with a laugh. "And when portrait is done will have it sent over so can do what will with it." "Creepy German lady may be creepy, but is not wrong." he pointed out. "How many in line of work lose perspective?" he said, manfully resisting pointing out that with one eye it would be literally harder to keep perspective on things.

"Oh, those sorts of mushrooms make me throw up. And, yes, she was right, which is why I love the painting. More of a reminder. I do my job to keep people from becoming monsters, and sometimes those people remind me not to be a monster. It is a good thing." She leaned in, already looking at some of the little details on the painting - Pyotr had an absolute gift for faces, expressions, the layers of color that made up skin and hair and eyes, even at this early stage. "Very much, merci, this is going to turn out lovely and harsh and both are good."

"Is good start but will need additional work if to hang up in office." he said, looking critically at the painting. He was his own worst critic, he knew it, and she'd already indicated that she liked it. And given his knack for colors and faces he wouldn't need her to sit again to make sure he got the details right. On the desk he started a new embossment, a dagger with the hilt towards her hand. "Am glad taking it in spirit indicated." he said after a moment. "And what were you working on?" he asked, very belatedly remembering his manners.

"A mess, it seems. Sometimes I do just sketches and see what comes out of it, and this is just a mess." Marie-Ange flipped the sketchbook towards Pyotr. "Sometimes it turns into a tarot card, sometimes a watercolour, but this is too chaotic." The sketch paper had rough outlines mostly, a crumbling tower of bricks, something shaped like a chair, some abstract shapes came together in a cone. "Art block day, I think. Sometimes the art happens, sometimes it is just good practice to try to draw shapes."

"I had to work hard in grad school to not have art block days. When you make your living from your ability to draw, paint, sketch, cannot afford art block." he said with an almost Gallic shrug. "There's something interesting there..." he said, thinking specifically of the crumbling tower and the interaction of some of the shapes with it.. "Try relaxing. Let it come naturally." he suggested. "Some of worst art ever comes when forced."

"Yes. We do not force art, that is how we give ourselves headaches." Marie-Ange agreed. "The tower is calling to me, I just need to figure out why. Until then I will keep sketching at it." She tapped a piece of the sketch with the blunt end of her charcoal pencil. "If it is worst art ever, it is just a sketch. Better now than in a month when I am trying to figure out details and turn it upside down and have to go find a new language to swear in because the perspective is all wrong. In the meantime, egg rolls." She plucked one out of the container of snacks she'd brought. "Someday I should see if all of us can put together a mural for the room, all the snacks we all eat in here. Here and the music room. Alison hides her Pocky in the cabinet with the music stands."

Pyotr almost got giddy for a moment. "Cannot believe am in same place as Alison Blaire. Love her music!" he said cheerfully. 'Such an honor!"

"You know you get to train with her, yes? She is on your team, I hear she lasered a giant crab in half in Baltimore."

"Oh, da, am knowing. Refuse to be, how do they say, That Guy? Da. Not that guy. When training, am Colossus and Dazzler. Not popstar with voice of angel, not artist from Russia." he said. "Do not wish to offend by gushing at wrong time."

"I am not sure Alison is capable of being offended by a fan, but I can see your point. It would be unprofessional at least."

"Good thing have another profession to fall back on if I fanboy too hard." he said, deadpan. He let it hang there for a few seconds, then cracked a smile. "Speaking of other jobs, if you're here being creative who's holding the spy leash?" he asked.

"We do take time off. The office is quite capable of running itself." Marie-Ange answered. "Sometimes I even leave for days upon days, and no one has burned down the building yet."

"English is not first language, but I note the yet." he said with a smile. "First time for everything."