Finding Inspiration (closed for MTPersson)

There were probably better things to do on a night like this. Most of his friends thought that way, he knew. They were all out and about, partying the evening away, and if he was being totally honest with himself, he wanted to be with them. Drinking, hanging out, watching other people do crazy things and forget about his troubles for a while. But a part of him was aware that no matter what he did tonight, wherever he went to try to let his trouble subside for one evening, that they'd just be back in the morning. Some people thought he was too serious, too focused on his work, or just didn't know how to relax. But to Thomas Weitz, what was relaxing to him wasn't relaxing for others.

He was an artist. Maybe one who hadn't had a single piece of work that he'd been compensated for (unless you counted his partial scholarship), and maybe one who hadn't been able to get his art displayed anywhere where people actually paid for it yet. But to him, being an artist was just a state of mind. And as he continued to click through images, taking his time doing so, he couldn't find what he was looking for. Something that stirred him, something that challenged him, that drove him to greater heights and made him want to push his work farther. A few canvasses hung on his wall, and he shook his head at them again in disappointment; they were unfinished, and Tom was pretty sure they'd stay that way.

Eventually, he was pretty sure he had stopped looking for inspiration and had just begun looking for images that interested him, which was a different thing entirely; being interesting to him didn't mean it'd help him draw. A ten headed koala was interesting but Tom had no fucking interest in making something based off of that. Without even knowing it, his picture surfing became checking forum threads, which soon became him checking facebook and liking random statuses on it, without him knowing it.

Damn it. He clicked off the screen, grateful at that moment that he had his own dorm room. He paid a bit of a premium for it, but it was money he had; rich parents were to thank for that, ones who had supported his desire to paint through thick and thin, believing him to be special. The clock on the wall read 9:45, and he scowled at it, blaming it for something that wasn't it's fault; a mere digital messenger of what he did not want to know. The evening had been wasted, but he didn't want it to be a total waste; the dorm's laundry room ran all night.

And it was usually quiet at this time of evening. It wouldn't be that distracting, so Tom knew he could at least do some doodling and drawing on his notepad; one of his favorite habits in his option classes. Tom carelessly threw a few shirts, shorts, socks, and various other clothing items into his laundry basket; two loads would do him for another week and change, and at the very least keep him from having to go back. He perched the basket on his hip, grabbing his notepad and pencil and walking out the door.

The rooms alternated between deathly quiet and the occasional ruckus going on; most of the students of the school had hit the bars, or the frat or sorority houses for the parties going on there. Dressed in a simple shirt and khaki shirts, and sandals on his feet, Tom wasn't out to impress anyone. It was unlikely anyone would see him.

He all but kicked the door open into the cavernous laundry area; there were more then twenty washers and dryers here, and with the hum of all of the machines and airflow needed to keep them active, he missed the fact that one of them seemed to be running at first.

Not due to the sound, though. As he scanned for which machine he would be taking, his eyes caught on something perched on one of the machines.

Or, rather, someone. Tom recovered enough to continue his sojourn towards one of the machines, but even as he knew he'd been caught gazing at her, and that she was beautiful, it wasn't her appearance that had seemed to captivate him at first.

No, something else had started to stir within him...

To say that Tamsin Walker was a night owl would be understating it a bit. Nocturnal was a better description of her behaviour. She rarely left her small dorm room during the day time. She much prefered to stay in bed, either alone or with company, leaving its warmth and comfort only occasionally to raid her mini fridge for snacks or to lean out of her window and smoke. Once the sun went down and the curtain of night fell though, that's when she functioned best.

She could bash out a three thousand word essay on ancient Greek poetry in a couple of hours and then do whatever the hell she liked for the rest of the night. Most of all though she loved the silence and isolation the night gave her. She could go places and do things she couldn't during the daylight hours and that gave her a thrill she just had to keep on getting. One night, Tamsin had managed to break onto the rooftop terrace of a hotel and go skinny dipping in their pool before watching the sun rise over the city whilst smoking and reading, the warm rays of the sun on her face and a breath of wind in her long blonde hair. She lived for moments like that.

Tonight was going to be far more mundane though. There was going to be no midnight swim or sunrise landscape. Tonight was going to be filled with dirty knickers.

Well, not dirty knickers exclusively but all manner of dirty clothes which needed laundering. It was roughly nine in the evening when she decided to climb out from under her bed covers, avoiding various cans and pizza boxes as she did, and jump in for a quick shower. A few minutes was all it took and she soon returned from her bathroom with a towel loosely wrapped around her with her hair sticking slightly to her damp back. Picking up the canvas sack she was supposed to collect laundry in throughout the week, Tamsin worked her way around the small room picking up discarded pieces of clothing which lay about the place. A sock on her desk, a t-shirt in her bed, a thong that didn't belong to her hanging on the door handle.

Throwing the filled sack by the door, Tamsin rooted through the wardrobe for some clean things to wear. She decided simply on a dark maroon lace skirt and a Rolling Stones t-shirt which was well-worn and faded with a few frayed holes beginning to appear. Slipping on her boots, she picked up her book, keys, lighter and cigarettes before shrugging on her cropped leather jacket - the one piece of clothing she really cared about - and heading out the door.

Outside the block the night air was warm and still. This was why Tamsin loved the night. It was the peacefulness of it. OK, so there were some rowdy parties happening and couples making out in doorways but on the whole she liked being able to hear the wind in the trees and far off revelry. She paused on the pavement by her neighbouring block and lit up her first cigarette of the night. Exhaling the smoke, she followed its journey up and watched it blow away on the slight breeze in the air to be lost amongst the stars. Another reason why she loved the night was because there was no queue for the washers.

And that's how she found the laundry room that night. Empty and silent. Smiling to herself she took another drag on her cigarette and tipped her clothes into the drum of the nearest washer. She jumped up onto a dryer and sat on top of it, her back against the wall, one leg resting on top and the other swinging freely off of it. The droning monotony of the spinning clothes made it easy for her to read and absorb the words on the page. She was lost in the text until the bong went off to signal the end of the cycle and she quickly moved the, now wet, clothes to the dryer next to her perch before losing herself again.

A small cloud of smoke had formed above her when there was a loud crash as someone kicked their way through the door. Tamsin barely looked up from her book but could see that a guy had just walked in and had immediately checked her out. Perfect. Just what she wished wouldn't happen. She would have to try and ignore the new comer and get back into her book. There was no way her night was going to be ruined so soon after it had started.

He would've liked to say it was the puff of smoke above her head that drew his gaze; but it wasn't that. Technically, nobody had *said* it was against the rules to smoke it the laundry room, and in any case it didn't really bother him. He wasn't a smoker himself, but what she did was her business as long as she didn't set his clothes on fire.

It wasn't her bare legs, one of his favorite parts of the female anatomy, by her rather carelessly chosen skirt, draped carelessly over the machine she'd been idling on. Or in any of the features of her beautifully formed body. She was like him, he figured; late night, throwing on whatever was clean to go somewhere nobody would see them. And she'd been right. For the most part. As long as they didn't learn their names, they'd still be nobodies, the same kind of encounter that happened on colleges every day. Pass someone, take them in, *maybe* check them out a bit, and then pass on by with no reason to do anything else.

It wasn't the effortless grace she displayed in the few movements he saw her make. The spontaneous, unplanned jerks of noticing an 'intruder', and still she moved as if she was turning a page in the book she still seemed intent on reading. It wasn't the focus she displayed, both in her wanting to ignore him and into continuing the story in her novel. It wasn't the defiance that seemed to bubble beneath the surface, hidden by her seemingly entrancing eyes while she seemed to decide what to do about the newcomer.

It was all of it. Rather, the combination of all of those things which seemed to awaken something in Tom. Her clothes showed her to be a rebel, yet her choice of activity showed she was learned as well. A lady who might be able to get whoever she wanted, and yet chose to isolate herself in a place like this late at night, taking comfort in whatever (or whoever?) she wanted to. She was an enigma. A mystery. Something unknown.

Maybe the thing that could jump start Tom's creative process....

The problem with all of that was that Tom wasn't really thinking about what precisely in this mystery woman had sparked his interest right now. Subconsciously, a thought was forming but right now all he was thinking about was if she was judging him like his gaze had judged her. Like his had briefly ran over her figure, taking her in first to see who she was, and then to get a better look at what she really looked like. He didn't want to think of whether she had examined him as much as he had her; which was probably why he was doing so as he made his way to the row of machines one row from her; placing his notebook and pencils on the bench while he started to load the machines.

Tom had tried to keep in shape, but he had found that heavy weight training had affected his drawing, so he mostly jogged to keep in shape, a habit he had admittedly gotten a bit lax on lately. So while he was no muscle head, he held his own in the looks department. At least that's what his last girlfriend had told him before she'd broken up with him. Which, in a way, was more disheartening; looks was an easier thing to fix then personality, and as an artist he'd been called eccentric more then once.

So while eccentric he was, stupid he was not, and he didn't want to make this girl think he was a creep, and as such he took a couple of the machines facing away from her. Tom thought about drawing her, his mind racing now. She was a more attractive subject then the things he had been thinking about trying anyways and if nothing else practice on a live model would probably do him some good. Sure, she might not know about it, but he'd done weirder things before...

He'd put one load of laundry in, the machine accepting his payment as he started a second load. As tempting as it was, he didn't want to look back to see if she was watching him; he'd taken what some might call a fairly close spot to her, the space he'd given her represented by his back, so to speak.

Unfortunately, it seemed fate did not want to give him the distance he seeked. As he pushed the coins in, he heard the ever familiar sound of the machine taking his coin, but not 'accepting' it. It had happened before, and normally he'd come prepared; however, so near to his parent's next cheque, he didn't have enough change to pay *again* and get his clothes dried.

"Come on you stupid machine. Why. Won't. You. WORK!" He kicked the machine carefully; ensuring the sandalled heel took the brunt of it, even as he knew it wouldn't work. He'd punch it if it wouldn't hurt his drawing, and he hadn't started most of his projects...

"Piece of crap..." he muttered, briefly forgetting that he wasn't alone in the room, and he turned back to his companion somewhat sheepishly. Assuming she was still where she'd been before...

Other than her initial glance when the door had smashed open, Tamsin had paid no further attention to the newcomer, or 'The Disturber' as she immediately dubbed him. By ignoring him maybe he would pay her the same kindness and let her read in peace. She heard the click of a washer door closing shut and a few seconds later the machine whirred into life and started its forty minute cycle. There was something about the regular rhythmic whooshing of the clothes and water as they spun around that calmed her a little and made it easier to concentrate on the pages in front of her.

A second click echoed around the room and Tamsin looked up to see that the disturber had filled a second machine full of clothes and was filling it with change. She smirked to herself when she saw what he was wearing and decided that he must have been a bit like her, if only a little, and had thrown on whatever clothes lay at hand.

“Come on you stupid machine. Why. Won't. You. WORK!"

She watched with mild amusement as he wildly kicked at the unresponsive machine. She decided that she would give him a little hint before he ruined her concentration entirely with his continued brutish behaviour. Cracking the spine of her paperback, she left it arched on top of the dryer she was sat on and slide her body off. Inhaling another mouthful of smoke, she walked around the benches in the middle of the room and approached the disturber of her peace. As she got closer he looked over his shoulder, away from her, and addressed the washer she had been sat on a moment earlier.

“Piece of crap..."

Tamsin reached out a hand and pressed the return change button. The coin the newcomer had just inserted dropped with a clang in the tray and spun around a little.

“If you press return change twice and then give it a whack you get a free wash.” She said in a matter of fact way. Demonstrating this, she pressed the button again before slapping a well aimed palm against the manufacturer's name causing the machine to whir into life. She took another drag and picked up the still spinning coin.

“See? Free wash.” She said handing back the coin and blowing smoke out of her mouth and into the air between them. Pausing for only a moment to allow him to take back his money, Tamsin returned to her dryer without really listening to what he was saying. Don't care, won't listen. She hoisted herself up and retrieved her book, trying to block the newcomer form her line of sight. Out of sight, out of mind. Right?

If truth were to be told, Tom's thoughts were anything but pure at the moment as he pondered just exactly how he was going to take apart this blasted machine to get his money back. In his mind, of course. He was no mechanic, and really had no interest in doing something that would involve him and criminal charges. Which taking apart the laundry's money dispenser would probably entail. He didn't care to find out.

With a rather embarrassed look back, he saw his book reading companion (still nameless) not where she had been perched before. A quick look around was interupted by a hand inserting itself into his perihperal vision, in front of the return change button as the sound of a coin hitting the tray filled his ears. “If you press return change twice and then give it a whack you get a free wash.”. To prove her point, she pushed in the button one more time and gave an apparently well practiced slap to the side of it; and the sound of the machine coming to life filled his ears.

"Really?" Tom was a little amazed he hadn't found that out himself, or heard of it from any of his colleagues. Although it occurred to him that something so specific probably wasn't meant to be found; simply discovered upon experimenting. He had never had a reason to want free washes for mere dollars, but Tom was wise enough to know that not everyone was like him, both in financial circumstances...and in morals.

“See? Free wash.” With what seemed like arrogance, she gave him the coin back into his semi-stunned outstretched hand, blowing smoke into the open air before heading back to her dryer. To Tom, it was almost like she was 'done' with the situation; done with him. She'd given what she had wanted to, kept him at arm's length, and now wanted the evening to resume like nothing had happened.

But everything she'd done - the offhanded way she'd helped him, the display of deception and trickery in getting free washes - had only stoked his fire further. Not the one that lingering in the back of his mind, of course, but the on nearest to the forefront as he watched her strut away before resuming her perch on the washer. Several words flashed in his mind, but the one that came out of his mouth was only the obvious one.

"Thanks." He fidgeted with the coin in his hand, looking down at it before clasping it in his hand; his mouth opening and closing once. "Not your first time using these machines, I take it..." A sly smirk came to his face at his insinuation about her likely cheating these machines out of more then just dollars.

"Don't get me wrong - I'm not...judging you, exactly." He looked down for just a second before meeting her gaze again. "Besides, even if I was from the look of you I doubt you'd care. In fact, everything I've seen about you so far tells me that you don't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks of you." He smiled a bit. "I think I like that. It's...rare, to really see that in someone." Tom was so engrossed in what he was saying, in his train of thought, that he didn't consider that what he was saying might sound weird to someone who wasn't used to an artist watching them, and analyzing them in such a way.

Please don't talk to me. Leave me alone in peace. All that was going through her head as Tamsin sat back down on top of the washer was hoping he didn't see this as permission to talk. Part of her was already regretting her small act of kindness and the opportunity of conversation that it offered to the disturber.

"Thanks."

"No need to thank me."

She said picking up her book where she had left it. Stop there. Shut up. Tamsin really didn't want to talk. Nothing annoyed her more than small talk, so pointless and banal. She just wanted to be left alone so she could smoke and read. Peering at her watch she saw that her dryer would be finished in ten minutes. She silently wished that this guy would keep his mouth shut for just ten minutes so she could collect her clothes, dump them in her room and then wander around the city.

No such luck. He was a talker.

"Not your first time using these machines, I take it..."

Another quick drag calmed the anger that was slowly building in her.

"It's the cheapest laundrette on campus."

Her reply was so cold and without emotion that ice was practically forming on it as the words left her mouth. The pages of her book slowly raised themselves and hid her face from view as she tried to block him out.

"Don't get me wrong - I'm not...judging you, exactly."


Tamsin took another drag, much heavier this time, smoke filling her lungs. He was still jabbering on as she exhaled, the fool. Why was it that some people just can't take a hint.

"Besides, even if I was from the look of you I doubt you'd care. In fact, everything I've seen about you so far tells me that you don't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks of you. I think I like that. It's...rare, to really see that in someone."

Whilst the disturber was still talking, she threw her book onto the benches in the middle of the room and swung her legs around so that she was sat on the edge with both hanging over the front. Facing him directly. This was the first time she really took him in. He wasn't really attractive, like a model, but he certainly wasn't ugly either. Good looking in a plain sort of way, she thought. He had finally shut up. Tamsin raised the cigarette to her mouth, one last pull before it burned down to the filter, and blew the smoke out above her head whilst surveying him.

"Do you want to fuck me?"

She asked it straight out to confuse him. Silently, she sat there watching his garbled response before getting to her real point.

"It's just you talk so damn much when it's clear all I want is to read my book and enjoy my smoke." she paused, giving him her best 'fuck you' stare.

"It's either that or you've smoked so much dope your brains turned to mush."

As an aspiring artist, Tom had dealt with some...interesting people before. Many had called him that, although he knew well enough that he was close enough to normal. But being normal didn't make him infallible, and one of his many weaknesses was thinking he would be able to measure someone just by watching them. He'd done it for models before, capturing them from every angle as they refused to speak, almost like a stalker. Except he was drawing them, so it was less creepy.

Or more creepy. Depending on how one looked at it.

He also tended to babble. Rather single mindedly. Even as she threw her book onto the benches; it was more proof of her cockiness, the complete apathy for what he was saying or doing as she focused on what she wanted. His hands moved as he talked, desperate for a pencil or a piece of paper to work with. Tom didn't think for a second that she was trying to tell him something; all that mattered to him was telling her how he felt, that she had sparked a creativity he'd been trying to find ever since he joined the school, that she was special, that....

"Do you want to fuck me?" A puff of smoke hung above her head as she said it, as if it was waiting for some sort of applause.

It was a sign of his determination that he continued, unabated, for another few seconds until what she said had fully sunk in. "I mean, I've been looking for something or someone to challenge me for...." Tom stopped, mid sentence, as what his laundrette companion had said finally sunk in, and his babble turned to dead silence, the list of answers running through his mind.

Yes? Hell yes. Say no, because that won't offend her...except she looks like someone who values honesty, and....

"...what?" Apparently, his reflex to respond had overridden his thought process as his dashing 'partner', for the moment, continued.

"It's just you talk so damn much when it's clear all I want is to read my book and enjoy my smoke." A moment passed as she gave him a look that clearly wasn't a kind one; a glare she'd probably given to other guys more then once. Probably more deserving ones then Tom, but he knew he wasn't the one making that call.

"I do talk a lot." He didn't smile at that; it seemed the last thing she wanted was a smile.

"It's either that or you've smoked so much dope your brains turned to mush."

He knew people who did, but he also figured she wouldn't appreciate that comment right now. Cut through the crap. Okay. Keep the million jumbled thoughts in the back of his head. Turn the tables on her with a surprise of his own? A quick look at her hard demeanour proved that unlikely. But she wanted truth, so....

"Never been interested in the stuff." Tom smirked at her. "Cheaper ways to lose your inhibitions if that's your fancy." He reached for his notebook, grateful he kept more then one pencil in it. "I promise I won't disturb your 'peace and quiet' again, if that's really what you want." He flipped open the book, propping his knee up as he figured the jibe relating to her first question probably wouldn't take on her, but it still felt good to say to this woman who was somehow making him want her more with her words of rejection.

"But you can go back to your reading. While I sit here and draw you." His pencil started to move over the paper, carefully yet quickly drawing her outline, giving only darting glances back at her as he focused on his work on the page. Sure, it'd probably piss her off more, but at least with a picture or two he might get her out of his head.

Likely not, though. "All quietly, no need for words...you don't even need to remember my name is Tim, if you don't want to." Focused on his work, he didn't really look at her as he kept sketching, although truth be told she didn't seem inclined to cooperate...at least, not fully.

The mixture of washers and dryers working away along with the low cloud of smoke was starting to make the laundry room hot. Of course, her annoyance was also having a similar effect causing blood to rush to her head. Blood audibly pumping in her ears and it was starting to drive her mad. Tamsin breathed in and tried to focus on her most cutting look. She had been worried when her proposition of sex had no effect on abating the stream of words spewing forth but she needn't have worried. The disturber had carried on as it nothing strange had happened and then suddenly faltered as finally his brain caught up with his ears.

"I mean, I've been looking for something or someone to challenge me for...What?"

That one word was the most delicious, satisfying thing that had happened since he had smashed his way into her evening. For a sweet moment, the only sounds were those of the machinery going about their cleaning. It was too fleeting a moment. She regretted speaking as soon as the first syllable left her lips but she couldn't resist shoving his face in it. Embarrassing and humiliating him.

During Tamsin's diatribe towards him, he spoke over her. He actually had the temerity to agree with her when she accused him of talking too much. That just made her even angrier and she launched into a final scathing remark.

"It's either that or you've smoked so much dope your brains turned to mush."

And with that she pushed her legs off of the ground and stretched them out in front of her on top of the dryer, crossing them at her heels. She was agitated now and drew a fresh cigarette out of her packet and lit it feeling herself calm with the instant hit of nicotine that hit her lungs.

"Never been interested in the stuff." He smirked, "Cheaper ways to lose your inhibitions if that's your fancy."

“If this is normal for you, then may I suggest you start." Tamsin shot back. Eight minutes. Shut up for eight minutes, please.

"I promise I won't disturb your 'peace and quiet' again, if that's really what you want but you can go back to your reading. While I sit here and draw you."

Now it was Tamsin's turn to be taken aback though you wouldn't have known it if you were watching her. The only outward sign was the slow inhalation of smoke followed by an even slower, nonchalant exhalation. She was used to getting hit on by drunken guys in the street or in bars. Drunkenness was easy to understand and because she could understand it, she could deal with it. This guy wasn't drunk though even if he did talk like he was. Not once, in all of her time here had anyone randomly asked for them to draw them. Not even in the launderette. But if he was drawing her, he wouldn't be talking to her. That was an idea that greatly appealed to her.

“My dryer finishes in seven minutes.”

This was all she said signalling her approval but his pencil was already shooting across the paper etching small lines and edges onto the white background. He didn't seem to hear her.

"All quietly, no need for words...you don't even need to remember my name is Tim, if you don't want to."

She didn't reply. She didn't feel as if his remarks warranted a response. Anyway, if she had said something he would have probably carried on talking. So she tilted her head back so it rested on the wall and smoked. The scratching of his pencil mixed with the whirring of the machinery and she found herself closing her eyes and counting down the time to the bonged going off on the dryer.

Seven minutes. More time then he'd had for...some of his projects. And its wasn't like he'd try to recreate some semblance of this scene later. But still, Tom scribbled like mad, filling in some shading around his 'room' even as he'd finished her outline, perched on the dryer. Mixing on what he'd seen with some elements to tell the story of his picture; a story that would end differently then their rendezvous here tonight. He peeked up at her, a bit flustered as he realized what was missing from his picture; a soul.

He still didn't have her name.

Six minutes. Her legs, hanging over, a slight notch indicating her knee. The cigarette in the hand wouldn't do; a matter of practicality more then preference, since the one she was holding was going out too fast. A smoking inch on the ground, ashes. That was better. So she had been smoking, but wasn't anymore. The book, not blocking her eyes, but most of her face. The eyes had to be there, even if she didn't seem to want to look at him now. Tom only had one memory of her eyes to draw off of; not the almost bemused look she had worn earlier when he'd said he was drawing her, but the stare she'd given him when he'd started talking.

Or babbling, according to her. The 'fuck-you' stare. That was how he drew her eyes, but she wasn't looking straight at him in the picture. It was an aura of don't-mess-with-me, for people to leave her alone, even if Tom couldn't tell why in the picture, it was there. Mentally shrugging, he kept at it; time wasn't infinite and he still had more to do.

Four minutes. Drawing the skirt, framed by the jacket, was easy, and it made some unbidden thoughts rise up within him of how he wished he could see more of her. Tom wished he'd answered her question differently now, even if it would ruin and taint what he was trying to do now. Being motivation didn't mean he wasn't attracted to her, but she had a higher purpose. But how to explain it to someone like her.

Two minutes. He changed his mind, frantically erasing the book at her face, lowering it so he could draw her expression. It wasn't a smirk, nor a look of discontent, but something in between. An I-don't-care-about-you type deal, as her eyes looked back towards....

A clock. One minute. Tom drew a clock on the wall, not caring where the hands pointed; it was clearly the evening. She was waiting for something, whoever she was. The woman in the picture...and the one in the laundromat. The difference was, he knew what the laundromat woman was waiting for; the woman in the picture, he wasn't sure about.

With a theatrical rip, he tore his picture off the page cleanly right before her dryer's buzzer rang. He slammed it on top of the dryer next to her; she might not look at it, but he wanted to say something she would care about.

"Not that it's important, but my answer to your question is yes." He looked at her, 'daring' her to look back...until she did, anyways.

During those seven long minutes, Tamsin just sat there silently and with closed eyes. She let the sounds of the laundry room wash over her and found herself much calmer and relaxed than when the disturber, Tim or Tom or whatever he had called himself, had entered. She wouldn't admit it to him but she didn't entirely hate the sound of his pencil grating on the pad as he tried to capture her likeness. Tamsin only opened her eyes once during the whole unlikely scene, to check on the clock and see how much time was left on the the dryer. Come on. She started staring at the machine, urging it to maybe break and finish early. Tim/Tom was furiously erasing part of his sketch, a frown of concentration set on his features. At least he wasn't talking to her. At least it was quiet.

With a sudden flourish, he ripped the page from the pad and slammed it down with unnecessary aggression just as the bong went off on her dryer.

“Not that it's important, but my answer to your question is yes.”

Tamsin didn't really listen to what he said. She couldn't remember what question she had asked that he felt required to answer. Instead, she swung off of the dryer and walked over to where he had slammed the picture. It wasn't bad. Well, not as bad as she was expecting it to be. It was definitely her in the picture, she could tell that much, and he had certainly captured a certain amount of her contempt towards him.

“Hmm. You got the time wrong on the clock.”

Carefully, she picked it up and placed it on top of the adjacent dryer before opening the lid of the one that was filled with her clothes. She lit another cigarette and, reaching forward, she pulled the sack from the windowsill where she had left it and started to fill it with her newly cleaned laundry, handfuls of warm t-shirts and underwear being shoved in without much care.

The artist Tim or Tom was talking again but she ignored him, facing away from him. She flicked ash onto the floor where it mixed with washing powder which somebody had spilt earlier that day. She picked up the drawing and waved it in the air over her shoulder.

“Thanks for the scrap paper.” She muttered before folding it carefully in half and then in half again, making clean, sharp creases in the page and putting it into one of the pockets of her jacket.

Tamsin reached into the sack full of clothes and fished around looking for a specific item. When she had gotten dressed back at her dorm room, there was no clean underwear for her to wear. She didn't mind not wearing a bra, she went without one quite often, but it was a different story with knickers. Finding what she was looking for, she pulled out a simple black thong. Bending over forward, she carefully threaded it over her boots and shimmied it up her legs and under her skirt, wriggling her knees and hips to help it up. She didn't look at the artist whilst doing this, nor did she look at him as she picked up her cigarettes and lighter from where they lay on a dryer. She simply picked up the sack and walked out the door, letting it close gently behind her as she allowed the night to envelope her.

OOC: Unintentional slip on the Tom/Tim, my bad. Now I kind of want to make it like he said his name wrong intentionally though

IC:

“Hmm. You got the time wrong on the clock.”

Well, crap. So much for any 'small' attempts to show off. His mystery girl grabbed his drawing with some degree of respect and put it on top of the dryer next to hers before she opened the lid of the one with her clothes. Tom was grateful for the distraction as he tried to think of what to do next, what to say. It wasn't as if he was trying to charm her exactly, but he did want to appeal to her. Blunt answering hadn't. He looked at her carefully through the lid of the dryer, seeing the telltale sign of smoke as she grabbed her sack to put her clothes in to. If she didn't want to listen to him, that was fine, he'd still talk.

"Okay, I get it. You don't like me, and helped me because..." He scratched his head in mock confusion. "...come to think of it, that still doesn't make sense. I was disturbing your peace, and you wanted me to stop, so you helped me get a free wash. I try to thank you, and then...."
Another frown. "You just enjoy trolling people? Provoking them? My time wasn't off by that much, if it was at all. Or maybe you're-"

“Thanks for the scrap paper.” She'd apparently not even been looking at him the whole time; Tom smirked ever so slightly at his own faux pas; even on the worst of dates he'd managed to keep his eyes on the person he was speaking to, regardless of where their eyes were. With a few easy motions, she folded it up and put it in her jacket. Well, at least she hadn't thrown it on the floor, which Tom was fairly certain she would've done with real scrap paper. A start?

He could call it that, since Tom had no freaking idea what to call the event that transpired right after that. She'd reached into her sack of clothes, looking for something. Tom wondered what she was looking for, knowing that her lighter and cigarettes were nearby, and her sack...well, had her clothes in it. She pulled something up, and it took Tom a moment to realize what it was she'd pulled out. He wasn't sure he believed what it was, since it couldn't possibly be what he thought it was-

And it was about that point she laced it through her boots and up her legs. Her underwear. A thong, to be more precise. A rather....appealing one, if Tom could make that judgement. Appealing on her, on what he had thought her body looked like. His train of thought came to a screeching halt when his brain put 2 and 2 together as to why she'd bothered to pull it on. Not why she'd done it in front of him; of course, or she her legs and hips seemed to have a bit of extra 'oomph' to it as she did, her hand moving the lace delicately up her thighs and gently moving her skirt around to cover herself.

No, the simplest reason she'd done it was because she hadn't been wearing any underwear before then. She'd been pantiless. Which led him to wondering if she'd been braless - her breasts had swayed a bit under her shirt- if she'd intentionally dressed that way-

Down this path lay madness. Remembering his place, Tom shook himself out of his stupor long enough to watch her fade into the night, out the door. Any thoughts of following her, if her brusque manner hadn't slimmed his ego down enough for the night, were brought down by the reality of the fact that he still had two loads of clothes in the washer here; with a deep sigh, he returned to his sketchpad. With inspiration enough for now, but still yearning for more of it, as if his connection with his 'mystery girl' had been left incomplete.

And yet, fate saw fit to tease him. Torment him, as if the manner of her presence had not been enough punishment for him, giving him a taste of what he'd been looking for and then yanking the cup away from him after two drops. On the bench, near where she'd been sitting, lay her book. With little else to do now, he walked over to it, picking up the cover. It's title didn't interest him so - he didn't recognize it anyways - but the name on the inside of the cover did.

Tamsin J. Walker.

So the mystery girl had a name. Tom cocked his head to the side; the name fit. It was one he'd never heard before, from a girl who's like he'd never seen before, either. Tamsin didn't seem like the type to hang around his crowd in campus, and he'd have no idea where hers was - and even if he did, he had a feeling she wouldn't like him lurking around trying to find her. Returning to the seat he'd had before, he shook his head; it wouldn't be right, anyways. She was more then just another hottie; she was his motivation to draw. And motivation could not be forced. It had to flow like the river, not be shot out like a hose, or it just wouldn't work.

If he was to meet Tamsin again, it would have to be another random meeting. He almost snorted at the thought of it. Back here again next Friday? Sure.

The odds of it were about the same as her keeping his drawing, he figured.

Tamsin went straight back to her dorm room when she left the launderette. Turning her key in the door to the flat she shared with seven other students, she could hear shouting and singing from a behind a door further down their narrow corridor. There was also the unmistakable sound of someone having sex coming from the door opposite hers. Tamsin didn't really talk to her flatmates that often, only when passing one another in the corridor which was not very often due to her unusual sleeping patterns.

She entered the kitchen, sack over shoulder, and rooted through their shared fridge. Finding a can of beer at the back that someone had left there, she smiled to herself as she pulled it out and pulled the tab. What's one can to someone who's already drunk? They probably can't even remember it's here. Heading towards her door, Tamsin sipped the froth that had sprayed out when she opened the beer and sighed at its refreshing coolness.

The sack of newly laundered clothes was thrown on the ground by the wardrobe, as she closed the door behind her, along with her keys and smoking stuff. After hanging her jacket on the back of the door, Tamsin stripped out of her clothes and dived under the covers along with her laptop. After about twenty minutes aimless browsing, the sex sounds coming from next door were becoming too distracting and arousing for her, so she reached over to one of the drawers in her desk and pulled out her vibrator.

Before long, there was an extra noise joining the cacophony of sound that filled the corridor that night.




A few nights later, Friday, and Tamsin was at her favourite place to get away from the world. The rooftop swimming pool of the tallest hotel in the city. It was remarkably easy to break in too. It was simply a matter of walking through the lobby with the confidence to appear as you belonged there, ride the lift as high as it would go and then climb the service stairs to the roof. She often wondered whether any of the guest realised how insecure the hotel was. Anyone could break in.

Tonight, though, she was the only person breaking in to use the pool. Finding a sun lounger folded against a wall, she unfurled it and dragged it over to the side of the pool. Tamsin shrugged her jacket off and lay it down along with a towel she had stolen, no borrowed, from a maids trolley on the way up. Her boots, top, jeans and knickers quickly followed. After tying her hair back into a high pony tail, she slowly lowered herself into the warm water of the heated pool.

The water felt good against her naked body and the warmth eased her aches and pains away. Taking a deep breath, Tamsin sank to the bottom of the pool and sat crossed legged. She did this every time she came here. The water filling her ears shut out the traffic sounds from the outside world. It was the closest to meditating she ever did, just sat there concentrating on staying calm and using her limited supply of oxygen to stay submersed for as long as possible. Tonight she lasted almost two minutes before pushing off of the bottom of the pool and breaking the surface gasping for air.

She spent about an hour swimming slow lengths in all variety of strokes before climbing out and drying herself off with her borrowed towel. Pulling on her t-shirt and knickers, she began to pull the lounger towards the ledge that separated the rooftop from a fifty floor drop to the ground below. Perching herself on top of this ledge, straddling it with one leg hanging out in the open air, she picked up her jacket and began rooting around for her cigarettes.

Tamsin's hand found her lighter and fell on the folded piece of paper the artist had handed her in the launderette. She carefully lay it on the ledge whilst lit a cigarette. After dragging on it a few times to make sure it was properly lit, Tamsin unfolded the torn piece of paper and examined the portrait again. It wasn't as bad as she remembered it being, in fact it was pretty good for seven minutes worth of work. He had drawn her face particularly well as well as her mean stare. Looking into those eyes, she suddenly felt very lonely up there in the roof. Those were her eyes telling the world to go fuck itself. The same eyes that were the reason why she had no close friends, why she spent her evenings wondering the streets aimlessly, and why her flat mates spoke about her behind her back like she was some sort of weirdo. You're alone in the world, no one likes you, the eyes were telling her.

She realised she was crying and she roughly brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. Peering angrily through wet eyes, she took one last look at the picture before screwing it up in her hand and throwing it into the swimming pool. For the rest of the night, Tamsin remained on her lofty perch, smoking, until the sun rose over the city and a new day began.

He did manage to get a couple more drawings done - with her expression being somewhat more likable then the one he'd let her take - but Tom found the time passing by frustratingly, his drawings labored even as they showed the hint of something greater. He knew what he was missing was the live model; he could draw a smile or an expression of contentment on her face but that didn't tell him how she would do it. There were subtleties in posture, in body language, in eye level and aim that just didn't make it real for him. Not as real as the first pose had been. In a way, that was the most frustrating thing for him; her anger had been genuine even if Tom couldn't quite tell where it was aimed at.

Eventually, with about five minutes to go in his dryer load, he fingered through her book. The well worn pages told of an item that she clearly kept with her a lot of the time, but brought no hints as to who she really was. Except that Tamsin clearly liked her books; Tom found himself not all that interested in it even as he admired her academia.

The evening passed, and he went back to his dorm, finding no desire to draw in the studio he'd made out of his 'living' room.

********

There were three signs that his week was going to get worse before it got better. It wasn't that he'd found no sign of Tamsin, keeping the book in his bag over the next few days on the off chance he saw her during his rounds on campus or between classes. Tom even found himself 'accidentally' wandering where near the smokers hung out, and while they paid him no heed, there was still no sign of her. If she was as much of a carefree spirit as she seemed to be, there'd be no telling where she was most of the time, and one day the book came out of his bag, and didn't go back in.

The second part was the project he turned in on the Monday. His professor marked it quickly and got it back to him; it had been a rushed effort on Saturday and Sunday, and the statement that his teacher had written on there had stuck with him.

C+. The signs of something good but it's as if you're missing something.

A C+ wouldn't get it done, but it was far, far better then the C- he'd gotten on the last project. Tom knew how to draw, how to create, but until he got his muse back he knew that he'd keep getting C's. Which would likely mean a job in graphic design. It'd only take one magnificent creation to start his career. He just wished he knew how he'd get there when the things that inspired him seemed intent on staying away.

The third part had been his date on Thursday night. It was with a girl he'd seen a couple of times, and while she was cute, funny, and all of those wonderful things, he wasn't feeling a connection with her. Still, as an attempt to stave off his blues, he agreed to see her again when his mood had kept darkening during the week.

They'd enjoyed dinner, and then came back to his place, where she whistled appreciatively at his studio. She seemed to be mocking him, he knew, and as she turned back to him suggestively, just a bit of a wiggle on her hips as she spoke.

"Do you wanna draw me?"

Tom knew of the many art students who 'abused' their trade to get access to scantily clothed models of the opposite gender (or the same gender, too - and it wasn't just guys who did it). And even as he felt his shorts tightening at the prospect, it wouldn't be right. And it wouldn't be him.

"Well, I..." His hesitation - and his eyes - ended the night for him right there as he couldn't explain to her why he couldn't. It wasn't as if he hadn't done it on dates before. But he knew that, even as he was drawing her, he'd be wishing that she was someone else.

*****

"So I take it your date didn't go well?"

"Screw off, Reynolds." Tom snapped into his cell phone. "That's not why I'm not coming out tonight." He was pushing clothes into his bag, intent on trying to recreate the magic that he hadn't been able to capture in the week so far.

"That means you should come out. Stop hiding in your room, man."

"Not tonight."

"All right. I'll text you some pictures later in case-"

"Good night, Burt." He clicked off the phone before his friend could get a rejoinder in. Before he headed out, money and clothes in hand, dressed smartly, he grabbed the book that she'd left last week. Just in case. But the evening passed, and nobody showed. What's worse was that he didn't managed to draw anything nearly as good as he had last week.

The light was fading.

So he fell to sleep that night, and woke up on Saturday, determined not to think about art, or her. With a shower, his mind racing as he slipped on his boxers, jeans, and t-shirt, he decided he'd at least not waste his day if he couldn't draw.

There'd been a paper he'd been putting off to try to get his drawing done. For his history class, the one option he'd decided to take this year. After grabbing a light breakfast, he strode off to the campus library; it was oddly quite for a Saturday as he started what promised to be a long, dreary day of research.

“Oh, for fuck's sake!”

Tamsin only left her room during the daytime when she was timetabled to have a tutorial with her groups personal tutor. The only reason she went was because they were compulsory and others had been kicked off the course for their lapses in attendance. Attending these tutorials did nothing to diminish her belief that no good came of leaving her flat during the day. They had been given a paper to read. Nothing bad about that, Tamsin always accessed the library's online catalogue and downloaded PDF versions of her reading materials. She was screaming at her laptop. The paper was available only in hard format from the Arts & Social Sciences Library.

“Fuck.” Nothing good comes of the daytime. The library was a good twenty minutes away on foot and it was generally busy on the weekends. She loved being able to work from her room. It meant she didn't have to wash, get dressed or untangle her hair before she could get something productive down. At that very moment, she was wearing just an oversized grey knitted sweater that was covered with pinky, coral coloured stars and a number of shredded tears. It was the definition of comfort, big enough for her to cover her knees if she brought them up to her chest. Her blonde hair was greasy, full of knots and tied up in a loose bun. Going out would mean a shower and more clothes.

Ten minutes later, she emerged from her small en-suite shower room, towel wrapped around her, and started to blow dry her hair, not thoroughly, but enough to stop her looking like someone had tried to drown her. Satisfied, she threw the towel on the small patch of carpet that wasn't already covered by clothes or clutter and pulled the sweater back over her head without putting on a bra. If I have to go out, I'm going out comfortable. Picking out a pair of simple white cotton panties, Tamsin pulled on a pair of small denim shorts which showed off her long legs. It was too warm for her jacket so she took her keys and smoking paraphernalia out of it's pockets and put them into a black suede bag and pulled on the tasseled drawstrings to close it up.

The streets were surprisingly quiet when she exited the housing complex, especially for such a nice day. Saturdays were usually quite busy with students using their free day to go shopping, go to the parks or even, though rarely, go to the library to work. Tamsin was pleased that everyone must have had a heavy evening the night before. It made her journey more bearable. She didn't know many people in the city so no one stopped to talk to her, though she did get a few second glances from a group of guys she passed on the way. Take a picture why don't you? She hated when guys just leered at her on the street. Why not say hi or something? None of this she said out loud. She kept silent as they walked away in opposite directions and the whole episode was quickly forgotten by both parties.

The Arts & Social Sciences Library, or the Ass library as Tamsin called it, was an ugly square block of 70s concrete. Cool gusts of air buffeted her face as she walked into the air conditioned entrance and she swiped her ID card to open the inner door. Like the streets, the library was relatively quiet compared to most weekends with only a small handful of students browsing the shelves. Tamsin headed straight for the bank of computers and entered in the details of the paper she was looking for and received three numbers: Aisle 17; location 72 and the journals individual class mark. Setting off down the row of shelving units she quickly found the row she was looking for and nimbly stepped into the narrow gap, the smell of paper filling her nostrils. Her fingers running along the spines of journals as she counted off location numbers until she reached number 72.

Even though many people complained about the smells here, Tom didn't find them too bothersome. It was better then his flat did on the days he tried to paint his murals, especially with some of the earlier colors he'd been using. He loved creating, and he sure enjoyed the end result, but that didn't mean he loved the smell of paint, or the feel of it on his hands. It was just a necessary evil to get at what he loved, and here amongst the old, aged research tomes, he saw this for what it was too. Necessary, although not evil.

Having found three or four books to get himself started, he dug into his material: Russia, between the world wars, and its leaders during that time. How it fell into 'communism' and how Stalin came to rule. Easy material for some, but a labor some task for him. What took minutes for many practiced researchers, able to delve and sort through material easily and able to sort useful from non useful, turned out to be a much longer task for him. He thought he'd chosen a topic interesting to him, but the more he read into it, the more he realized that he probably should have tried to focus on something in American history. It was the flaw of an artist. See something a little off the beaten track in terms of being normal, try it, see it's not what you wanted..and then do it anyways.

Tom looked up at the clock on the wall; it was about 10 AM, and the library had filled up a *little*. Everyone seemed to be playing the game of not sitting near someone else if they didn't have to, working quietly or 'researching' on the computers. He cracked his knuckles and stood up, slamming his book shut. Perhaps something else would help him on his topic; he'd gotten a mere two pages of notes thus far and his paper had to be far longer.

Walking down aisle 13, he pulled out a couple of biographies about Stalin; perhaps focusing on his mindset would help him think, an angle to take on the man. He found himself grimacing at the picture on the cover, shaking his head. Tom couldn've sworn he couldn't hear anyone coming, and he walked blindly next to the aisles, not realizing he was about to-

"Oof!" With something resembling dexterity, Tom managed to keep his hold on his books as he ran into someone near one of the aisle's exits. However, his opposite number wasn't so lucky, and he bent over in front of her, not focused at all on who she was; only on what she'd dropped.

"Sorry...I'll get that." His tone was one of relative humility as he picked up the book she'd been carrying; it was a paper of some sort, and Tom knew he was lucky that it'd held together. "Wasn't watching..." He froze as he looked at her, his expression turning into one of recognition.

"...Tamsin?" Shit, she knows I know her name, don't panic. "...um..." Another moment passed, as he reluctantly went with his first instinct on how to respond. "...you left your book last week." Tom blinked, trying not to stare at her long legs, and how well her shorts framed them, how they seemed to go on for miles, how much he wanted to-

Listen to what she's saying, damnit!

Their collision at the end of the aisle caused a few disgruntled glances from the students who had taken seats at the desks nearest to them. At the time, Tamsin had been clutching a number journals some of which were twenty years old and very well read with pages coming loose of their bindings. Naturally these flew into the air and spread across most of the surrounding area.

"Shit!"

"Sorry...I'll get that."

Her heart was beating fast due to the shock of the impact and she had instinctively taken a step back into the aisle. The guy that had walked into her was on the ground gathering up her papers and restoring them to some sort of order. He was apologising with what seemed like genuine humility. It was just a freak accident. A pain in the arse but still just an accident.

"Wasn't watching..."

Oh, fuck.

"...Tamsin?"

He looked shocked to see her, his eyes opening wide. His mouth opened and closed like that of a fish that had found itself on dry land. No words had yet to form and escape his lips. I mustn't laugh at how stupid he looks.

"Oh, it's the artist. How do you know my name? Have you been stalking me?" Tamsin knew already how he knew her name. After their meeting in the launderette, she had dived straight into bed and had ended up masturbating. It wasn't until the next morning when she wanted to read it, did she notice that her book was missing. The only place it could have been was in the laundry room. When she went to look for it that morning it was gone. The artist must have taken it.

"Umm...You left your book last week." His eyes had dropped a little, following the lines of her legs framed by her short shorts.

"I guessed you had it." she said coolly, "Have you got it now?"

He replied.

"Well don't feel too bad about it. I threw your picture into a swimming pool."

She was feeling awkward now. Unsure of how to act. Their first meeting had been on her turf, so to speak. Late at night, quiet location. She had been comfortable there. Here, however, she was out of her depth and seeing how disappointed he looked when she told him what she had done with his portrait of her sent a small guilty sensation through her stomach. How am I going to get out of this? She couldn't walk away, he was blocking the end of the aisle. Equally she couldn't walk down to the other end of the narrow aisle because there were other people there. She looked down at his hands where he was holding her papers, waiting for her to take them from him.

"Oh, thanks." she mumbled taking them from him and holding them to her chest. She looked at him, his eyes darting around not knowing where to look and she remembered how the eyes in the picture, her eyes, had made her feel. She was lonely and maybe it was time to give somebody a chance instead of immediately writing them off as a loser.

"Look, I was going out to have a smoke. Do you want one?"

"I guessed you had it." She was still keeping her distance, even with as close as they were together; it was in her eyes, the way she held herself. "Have you got it now?"

"No, it's back in my room." He felt much better just answering questions; something he could handle. State facts, don't inject emotion into it. That's what the rational part of his brain was saying. Don't mention he'd pretty much brought it every day up until now, hoping he'd run into her again.

"Well don't feel too bad about it. I threw your picture into a swimming pool."

A small laugh escaped him, even as his smile only stayed briefly. "I've had worse done to portraits I've worked longer on." He looked down, seeing her honesty and vulnerability - at least as close to that as she had showed in their roughly 15 total minutes of interaction thus far - and decided to respond with some of his own. "I'm glad it made it that far, at least." And he was. Baby steps, he reminded himself, with someone who had sparked something in him last week. She'd thought of it enough to keep it, to look at it, judge it, evaluate it...maybe even him.

Baby steps.

Tom wasn't sure how much time had passed - likely just a few seconds - before he realized he'd been holding her papers, and he extended them out to her tentatively, given how she'd snatched his drawing from him before.

"Oh, thanks." Her voice was low again, and it was all Tom could do to not cock his head in confusion. Tamsin was displaying none of the confidence or arrogance she had in the laundromat, and he was hoping he would learn why. His surprise at that was exceeded at what she said next.
"Look, I was going out to have a smoke. Do you want one?"

This wasn't someone who was trying to get rid of him. Tom wasn't entirely certain what to make of it, but clearly she...well, the only thing that was reasonably clear to Tom was that she was making a peace offering. For what, he couldn't be certain; she'd helped him out in the laundromat, had let him draw her (where many wouldn't). He was holding on to her book, but it was no more then anyone would for for a stranger, in Tom's eyes. Plus, there was the little 'show' she'd given before leaving that night...one which Tom had thought about more then once when the thought of her being something other then a muse for him had settled in. Still, even to spend more time with here, there were some lines he wouldn't cross.

"I'd like to take you up on your kindness, Tamsin. I'm not a smoker..." His expression softened, even as he kept the smile off of his face. "...but I wouldn't mind keeping you company." He paused. "Or I could watch your stuff if you wanted to head outside on your own." If nothing else, this might tell him what her plans were for the morning, and while he had planned on spending several more hours here, truth be told his mind was suddenly thinking of dropping everything to fall into more time alone with this beautiful creature. Even in her hurt, she was alluring, with the look of someone who needed to walk her own way.

"I don't really know why, actually. My parents smoked, so the smell has always been around me. I guess I'm just oblivious to peer pressure." Tom shook his head. "Addictions can be bad things for artists too, although certainly not...experimenting with certain other substances." The dorms were relatively clean in terms of 'interesting' substances to play with, but for anyone who wanted to try something outlandish, there was never far to go. This was university, after all. "If I was bothered by smoking or anything like it I've certainly chosen the wrong line of work." A small smile came to his face.

Tamsin found herself looking down at the floor. There was a small speck of dirt on her boots which was holding her attention. For some reason she was nervous and slightly embarrassed. Deciding to let someone into her life, however briefly, was turning out to be harder than she had first imagined. Hating small talk, she had never done anything like this before and had no idea what to say so she had looked up and ask him to join her for a cigarette. Something she would find comforting.

"I'd like to take you up on your kindness, Tamsin. I'm not a smoker..."

Her eyes lit up with her normal confidence and swagger. She instinctively derided him.

“Can't you speak like a normal person?” Immediately she regretted saying this and lowered her eyes again out of shame, “Sorry.”

"...but I wouldn't mind keeping you company. Or I could watch your stuff if you wanted to head outside on your own.”

Tamsin lifted her head and smiled. Her outburst a few seconds before had been forgiven. At least I think so. She caught his eye and looked away quickly unsure what to say or do next. So she just looked at her feet and mumbled away.

“I'd like that." She was smiling broadly, “The company that is. I just need to photocopy these.” She waved the papers in her hands, "Meet me outside?”

He didn't seem to be listening all that much. Maybe he's as nervous as I am. He was jabbering on about his parents and smoking and drugs so she just tuned him out and nodded her head politely at him. This was why she didn't do things like this. Talking to people. It was because they talked about any rubbish that came into their head. Tamsin had asked him whether he wanted to smoke and a yes-no answer would have been great. But a biography of the life of an art student?

He finally stopped and smiled at her, a small sweet smile. He was still blocking the end of the aisle so she couldn't get out without pushing him back and however tempting that idea was to her, she fought hard to push the impulse back.

“Can I?” She said simply, indicated with her eyes and the papers towards the photocopier before tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. He seemed to get the message. He didn't move back far though so she was forced to squeeze between him and the end of the shelving unit, their bodies coming close and the fabric of her sweater gently rubbing against his shirt. There was a moment, a very short moment, where they stood face to face and were looking into one another's eyes, the world seeming to stop. But it didn't, and a second later the clocks were still ticking and students quietly turned the pages of their books. Tamsin didn't look back and headed straight for the copier.

She assumed he would stand there for a few seconds watching her go, in that way that guys do, and then leave to go and wait by the entrance. When she reached the bay of photocopiers, Tamsin saw that he hadn't followed her and that he had left the spot where they had collided. So predictable. The copier whirred to life and started copying the pages from the journal. There was no way she was going to stay here longer than she was required to. So instead of taking notes at a desk like others were doing around her, she would take these sheets back to her dorm room and work on them at night. Much more my style.

Once finished, the journals found themselves being dumped on a returns trolley for some underpaid employee to put back in its correct place. Tamsin certainly wasn't going to do their job for them. She only had her bag with her and it was hanging off her shoulder so she headed straight for the door. Swiping her ID card again to exit through the main door, she saw him waiting for her by a bike rack. The old Tamsin returned and without giving him a second glance, she walked past him and started rooting through her bag for her cigarettes and lighter. The concrete cube was sat in the middle of a large public gardens so there were plenty of places where someone could go and sit in peace and enjoy the weather. Or a smoke.

The sound of his shoes on the path told her he was following close behind, a fact that was confirmed by his voice as he caught up with her. She often came here during the night, climbing over the locked gates, and always went to the same place. Right in the middle of the park was a small rose garden enclosed by a tall hedge shutting it out from the rest of the gardens. At night the place would be full of the aroma from different flowers and she would lie on a bench looking up at the stars and letting the sweet perfume wash over her. During the daytime, however, the garden was a little busier but that didn't stop her finding an empty bench and lying down on her back on it.

Offering her packet to him, she asked,

“Sure you don't want one?”

In response, his lovely muse smiled hesitantly at him, their eyes meeting briefly before she looked away. It was such a contrast to how she'd behaved before, not fully certain of herself as she looked at her feet, her words indecipherable to anyone but him. "I'd like that." Her smile grew wider, despite - perhaps because of - the fact she wasn't looking at him., “The company that is. I just need to photocopy these.” A slight motion of her hands, the sound of rustling paper. "Meet me outside?”

"Sure." It was at that point he decided he was done with the library for today. It'd hurt his research, but he knew he wouldn't get anything done now. He'd seen her smile. And it almost seemed like a genuine one; even with that, she seemed to keep her emotions in check, as if it was a light creeping in through a crack in the wall. Tom hoped he could find out what she was hiding behind that wall of hers.

“Can I?” Again, none of the brash tone she'd used in the laundromat, as she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear in the motion that Brent could never really understand. He'd never had hair that long, so it hadn't made sense to him. But it was one of those things that made women so alluring to him; one of the subtle differences. They were always concerned about how they looked, what was being seen. Tom did manage to clue in long enough to figure out she needed to get by, so he backed away like a gentleman. Or so he thought. His muse was still forced to slither by, and their bodies briefly made contact. Along with their eyes. He wouldn't deny he didn't feel something other then apology as they did; feeling her sweater, and whatever was under it, rub against him. It was a connection of sorts, or so he thought.

And then she continued on; Tom lingering for a moment before making his way to his own table, quickly gathering up his things. Screw the books. The librarian could return them, or he'd end up coming back here if she ended up ditching him.

Which she probably would. Quickly making his way out the door, he stood near a bike rack, waiting. Tamsin turned up moments later, the shield back up as she walked straight on by him, ruffling through her bag again. "Hey-" he started, but she kept on. The gesture brought up memories for Tom again, of what she'd ruffled through for the last time they were together, and what she'd gotten out-

He shook his head at the memory, following her into one of the garden areas. He actually didn't spend a lot of time here; as peaceful as the park was, it didn't seem to inspire him. But Tamsin clearly knew her way around her as she walked deftly, making her way to the middle of the park towards a certain bench, lying on it in a motion she'd clearly had practice with.

“Sure you don't want one?” She held her packet out to him, and Tom shook his head slightly. The hesitation returned; the wall back up for her. Tom sat on a boulder nearby; not wanting to loom over her as she did what she wanted to do, and as he did what he wanted - which was to keep her company. The silence lingered for a while, with Tom somehow not fidgeting, the puff of smoke and the sound of her breathing the only things other then the sounds of the day, the quiet hustle and bustle of students nearby.

Eventually, he looked at her curiously. "So why are you so angry all of the time?" Simple, direct (and, in his own way, a bit misleading). Maybe she'd respond to that.

With her eyes closed, Tamsin was lost in a world of darkness and of small noises. Birds tweeting, people laughing, the wind in the air. This is why she came here, to this spot, so often during the night. It was her own little secluded spot in the middle of the city. Not that coming here during the daytime had its perks as well. The smell of the roses was different. Varieties that smelt during the night didn't smell during the day and vice versa. The aroma that filled her nostrils at that moment was one she hadn't smelt before and it's novelty was pleasing to her.

She opened her eyes and looked up at the blue sky above her. Wispy clouds were scattered across the vista. Tamsin exhaled a mouthful of smoke and made small clouds of her own. With her free hand see waved a finger in amongst it, as it rose, creating patterns of waves and curves that were constantly changing on the breeze. For that moment her mind was free of all worry and doubt. It was filled only with the smells, the sights and sounds of the little rose garden on that sunny Saturday morning. Her rose garden.

“Why are you so angry all of the time?”

In her reverie, she had forgotten that the artist was sat on a boulder next to her and his question had dragged her focus away from the smoke and clouds and brought it crashing back to earth. Why am I so angry? Tamsin had a pretty good idea why but she wasn't going to tell him. She couldn't even remember what his name was.

“What at you? My psychiatrist? I've had one you know, you look nothing like him."

If she wasn't regretting asking him out here before, she was now. She wanted to give him a chance, to let someone in, but this was all too soon. The truth hurt too much and she wasn't prepared to let him see her beaten and bruised emotionally. He was talking again but Tamsin tried to focus on her smoke again, shaping it with her hands. The truth was she was scared. Scared of losing anyone she cared about. It had happened before and it had hurt. She had decided on that black day that she wouldn't let anyone get that close to her again to save herself the suffering. What followed were a number of shallow relationships based solely on mindless, animalistic rutting. They were fun whilst they were happening, but in between depression and loneliness would fall often followed by a number of bad decisions.

But she had seen how sad and angry she looked in the picture. His picture. Tamsin didn't want to be that person who everyone avoided and talked about in mean whispers behind her back. She wanted to be happy, to have people around her who understood why she acted like she did. She didn't want to change, not much anyway, but she was beginning to think she needed to. And this guy was the unlucky one who she had decided to try with.

She told him none of this as he sat there talking. All she heard was birdsong and aeroplanes flying overhead. Her cigarette had burned its way to the filter so she took one last drag, snubbed it on the bench and flicked it into the flowerbed.

“What's your name again?”

She had interrupted him midstream again but He answered without hesitation.

“What do you do for fun, Thomas?”

His question seemed to bring her out of something, and her response told him more in what it didn't say then what it did. “What at you? My psychiatrist? I've had one you know, you look nothing like him." The fact she'd gone out of her way to mention her psychiatrist - and his apparently want to resemble him, in question though not in appearance - she was keeping him out. Again, not an unnatural reaction given they'd had about twenty minutes of time together. But the hostility in it, the seemingly unneeded emphasis to keep him out of her business. It wasn't an arrow over the destination, but it was giving Tom a few ideas as to where to keep driving.

"I'm glad I don't look like him. In my experience most shrinks are boring, balding, over priced, a waste of time..." Tom frowned, a smirk coming to his face as an amusing thought came to him. "Although I guess I've heard painters described that way too." It wasn't as if he felt entirely comfortable talking around her, but she wasn't saying much and the silence bothered him. He had to be focused on something, and if he wasn't drawing it had to be him talking. Or singing. Which he'd been told wasn't really that. He wanted to get to know this girl better and she didn't seem to be letting him in.

"My parents sent me to a shrink once, actually. Shortly before they started 'accepting me'." Now, Tom was starting to wish he'd taken her up on her offer; even if he'd probably cough his way through the cigarette the memory of the disdainful doctor was making him angry. "For all the good that did. The guy listened to me, deduced that I needed to 'face my feelings', and I was rewarded with my parents' financial support." He sighed. "Even if they had to send me away to 'love' me." He looked at her, taking her form in. God, she was beautiful, enticing. It was more then just physical attractiveness; her manner, the way she carried herself.

She made a simple motion to snuff out her cigarette. “What's your name again?”

For a moment, his dreams were dashed; she didn't even remember his name. Or maybe it was a good sign? That she wanted to try to learn about him. "Tom. Thomas We-"

“What do you do for fun, Thomas?”

He cocked his head in confusion. It wasn't as much the question itself as much as that she seemed to be asking it with something resembling interest. There were no right answers to her questions though. They had to be honest ones. "On my own, I do some reading, although not quite on the level that you seem to enjoy it. Some fiction, or biographies of famous artists, although even that's more for trying to learn from them then actually enjoying it...Da Vinci's interesting, though." He recognized that he was digressing, and shook his head. "Socially, I like movies...long walks with the right people..." Or person. "I swam a lot when I was younger, haven't found anywhere to go since I came here though." He looked at her with something resembling passion. "I like drawing, too, although I'm pretty sure you knew that already."

Falling into the comfortable pattern, he nodded at her. "What about you, Tamsin? Surely there's something you enjoy aside from smoking and taking jabs at me." His quick smile indicated that he was trying to tease her; to guage her reaction to it even as his expression turned serious as she replied. He was trying to listen, no matter how much or how little she said, he was taking it in, but not analyzing it. If she was to be his muse, he'd have to let his heart make the decision.

When she seemed to be finished, he spoke again; unsure of whether he'd ever see this woman again. Seeing her once was random enough, but twice in a short while. "I felt a connection when I saw you that night. Maybe not anything...but seeing you sparked something in me." He met her gaze seriously, with intent; the innuendo was there even as he tried to avoid it as she spoke. "You are beautiful, but it was more then that...I don't know how to explain it." He shook his head. "When an...artist finds something that moves him, he has to hold onto it. That's why I wanted to draw you, Tamsin. It was an attempt to try to grasp something that's fleeting to people who do what I do." A sad smile came to his face. "I'm glad to be here, but I think I'm done with the library today."

It occured to him now that he'd done something she seemed to hate - which was talk a lot - and he looked at her, wondering how she'd react to it. Or if she was even still there.

Tom looked shocked at her question and to some extent she was too. It had been a while since she had asked another person what they liked to do. It had been a while since she had said more than a few sentences to another person. But here she was trying to make small talk with someone she had only been around for about twenty minutes. I hate small talk. She was trying though, however much it pained her and annoyed her to do so. He had cocked his head to one side and Tamsin could see out of the corner of her eye that he was looking at her with a quizzical look on his face. It quickly passed and he began reeling of a list of activities.

"On my own, I do some reading, although not quite on the level that you seem to enjoy it. Some fiction, or biographies of famous artists, although even-”

So the artist liked reading. Not all bad then. Tamsin found herself slowly loosing concentration as he went on at length. I can't keep ignoring him. She swung her legs off the bench and placed them on the ground in front of her, her elbows on her knees and her hands cradling her chin. She tried to look interested in what he was saying and her movement seemed to have had the desired effect as he moved on.

"Socially, I like movies...long walks with the right people. I swam a lot when I was younger, haven't found anywhere to go since I came here though."

A slight smirk formed around Tamsin’s lips, an almost imperceptible raising of one side of her mouth.

“I might know somewhere you can go swimming.” She said casually.

He mentioned drawing and she could tell he meant what he said about it. Nothing explicit, just a small change in the tone of his voice and his body posture. He had pulled himself up a little and there was something in his eyes that made her smile. She respected him a little more after that. Takes a big person to love something with that much passion and admit it to a stranger.

"What about you, Tamsin? Surely there's something you enjoy aside from smoking and taking jabs at me."

Shit. She wasn't surprised when he asked but she was reluctant to answer. Not one to talk about herself very often, least not to relative strangers, Tamsin felt suddenly awkward. The bravado that had returned when she left the library had gone and the shy, nervousness that crept up on her when then bashed into one another in the library returned. It had been her choice to keep people at a distance and she had been comfortable not telling people about herself. It wasn't nice to be alone but she was safe from the pain that came from losing others. Thats not the only type of pain though. Other pains had come along: loneliness; depression; jealousy. She felt a cloud pass between Tom and herself and she felt the smile drop from her face.

Tamsin pushed of the bench and stood up. Walking past Tom, she went over to one of the flower beds and started smelling the roses. Their perfume was sweet and floral, her head filled with their scent and calmed her. She spoke as she moved from flower to flower, laying a hand under each bloom, bending forward a little and bringing it towards her nose.

“Well, laughing at you has been fun and smoking I find calming. It lets me think clearly." She gave a quick glance over to where he was still sat, his eyes following him around the small garden.

“The rest? I don't know. I swim some nights, I like a nice view of the city. Sometime means I have to break into somewhere but that's part of the joy.” She paused, “Sex, of course.” Moving onto the next flower she leaned in to smell.

"I felt a connection when I saw you that night. Maybe not anything...but seeing you sparked something in me." He was looking at her earnestly, with intent. "You are beautiful, but it was more then that...I don't know how to explain it." He shook his head. "When an...artist finds something that moves him, he has to hold onto it. That's why I wanted to draw you, Tamsin. It was an attempt to try to grasp something that's fleeting to people who do what I do. I'm glad to be here, but I think I'm done with the library today."

She looked at him for a second and then returned to a rose she had liked the smell of. No one had called her beautiful before. Well not for a long time, anyway. She got called hot or sexy but never beautiful. Tamsin didn't think she was very beautiful inside. She smelled the rose and, deciding she liked it, snapped the flower off the bush taking some of the stalk with it. Wordlessly, she carried back over to where Tom was sat. Still without speaking she threaded the rose behind his ear and smiled before walking away. She reached the wrought iron gate and opened it. Looking back she could see him still sat in the boulder.

“Well? Aren't you coming?” She asked, “I'm going to show you what I do for fun.”

Tom wondered if she was reacting to what he'd said. Her visage met his for a second with none of the brashness she'd been flaunting during their conversation as she leaned over a rose to smell it; she'd gone through several of them while he'd been talking. It was an interesting gesture from her, an honest appraisal of something. Maybe it was because the rose couldn't talk back. It sure couldn't fight back as she picked it, seemingly getting enough of the stalk as she made her way over to him silently. Tamsin reached behind his ear in a rather intimate gesture, in this public space. She pushed the rose behind his eager, a warm, genuine smile lighting her face as she walked away, bag in hand.

Tom watched her as she went, hoping she wasn't just signalling that she liked him and wanted to meet again, he still didn't know nearly enough about her. No phone number, no contact information...and really, still no knowledge of who she was. She turned back, her tone seeming flirty, mischievous, taunting.
“Well? Aren't you coming? I'm going to show you what I do for fun.”

There were still way too many unknowns. Tom had only known this woman for...this made it twenty five minutes. He knew she liked reading, smoking, swimming, sex...even as he had decided not to state the obvious himself, it still shot a thrill through him when she'd said it as if she'd been talking about the weather. She hadn't told him her name; he'd gotten it from the book she'd left but for all he knew she had stolen it from Tamsin. He'd decided the name had fit her; Tamsin was a name he hadn't heard anywhere before, and it fit this mystery of a girl.

This mystery of a woman. He amended as his eyes raked over her. A rational person might've asked for her phone number, to be her friend on facebook...maybe to go have a coffee instead of heading off to wherever she was leading. But if there was one thing artists weren't known for, it was for being rational, and Tom found himself standing up and matching her pace as she walked away. "I'd love to see." The smile was wider now, and stayed on his face as he went along behind her.

A part of him wanted to walk alongside her, but he decided to lurk a little behind. It was apparent she wanted to lead him somewhere, and he decided that he'd go wherever she'd take him. Plus, it gave him a nice view of her legs as she walked. Strong legs, but still slim; upon further examination, it was obvious she was a swimmer, and had the build for it.

Inspiration was a twisted thing. You never really knew where it went. And so Tom followed behind her, almost blindedly to her whim. Save for the fact he'd taken the rose off of his ear and now held it in his hand, wishing he'd had a collared shirt so he could've just tucked it in the front pocket. It had been a nice gesture, but the stem had been poking a little painfully into his ear as he walked, and it represented his one small compromise to her wants so far. Before long, it looked like they'd reached the edge of campus, but Tom was fairly certain he was going to follow her no matter where she went.

"You wouldn't tell me where we were going even if I asked, would you..." It was a bit of a tease, and he wanted to remind her that he was following, if behind her.

Neither one of them had spoken since Tom had spoken to her at the gate to the rose garden. They had been walking now for almost twenty minutes, Tamsin out front leading the way and him a few steps behind, following diligently. She hadn't looked behind her either, and for all she knew he still had the rose she had given him hooked behind his ear. I doubt it but it would make me smile if he did. They had left the buildings of the university behind them and were heading towards the commercial areas of the city by the waterfront. From over her shoulder, Tom's voice came floating on a light breeze.

"You wouldn't tell me where we were going even if I asked, would you..."

She looked back and there he was right behind her. He had removed the rose from his ear but he still held it in his hand, gently cupping the bloom trying not to knock any of the petals off.

"Nope, just follow like a good boy now." Truth be told, Tamsin hadn't had a clear idea where she was going to begin with. Her first thought was the hotel pool but it was mid-day and there would most likely be people using it. Somewhere else then, but where? And then it struck her, the perfect place to show him not only what she did but who she was.

Before long they reached the water front. Small boats and speed boats were moored up at the marina and small groups of people were sitting outside of the quayside restaurants and hotels enjoying the afternoon sun. Tom grumbled a little but she ignored him and headed down the boardwalk towards the hotel she was looking for. Alongside it ran a narrow alleyway that was overgrown with ivy and other greenery. Again Tom spoke and she ignored him. Instead she pulled out a key and unlocked an old padlock and pushed against the rusty gate and ushered him down the path before closing it shut behind them and locking it again. Tamsin had to take the lead again but because the alleyway was narrow, she was forced to squeeze up to Tom to pass him. She heard him breath in as she brushed past him, the material of her sweater rubbing against his top a second time that day.

"Not far now, just up the steps." Tamsin mumbled as she passed him and headed for the well worn concrete steps that climbed up the hill behind the hotels. There were a lot of them and if she was alone she would have stopped more than once but she didn't want to appear weak. She didn't want any sympathy off of Tom so she carried on at a brisk pace, her breath getting heavier and her brow sweatier the higher they rose. Soon they were high up on the hillside above all of the buildings on the boardwalk below. Reaching the last step, Tamsin paused and pointed the small outline of a concrete doorway cut into the side of the hill.

"Watch your head as you come in." she warned before ducking her head and disappearing inside. She couldn't hear his footsteps behind her and shouted back, "Don't worry, I'm not a serial killer!" Her voiced echoed off the close walls and reverberated around her.

She reached the end of the low passageway and emerged in a wide open room. Three walls, the one she had emerged from and the two side ones, along with the floor and the ceiling were made from a rough concrete mixture, holding out the very body of the hill they had just climbed out of. The forth wall, however, was completely absent, no more than a hole in the side of the hill, and offered an awe inspiring view out over the bay. The light from the midday sun glinted off of the waves of the sea. Down on the waterfront she could make out cars moving along the roads and even a few people walking along. She sighed. She loved this view not to mention the fact that she was probably one of only a handful of people in the city who had seen it. An old war bunker, a relic of a long forgotten war.

She heard Tom's heavy breathing coming down the narrow passageway leading to the room long before he arrived so she rooted around in the ice box she had left here the year before and brought out two cans of beer. Not ice cold but not warm either. Good enough though. She watched him stumble into the room and the slow change on his face as he took in what he saw. She smiled and tossed a can towards him.

"Welcome to my home away from home, Tom."

Nope, just follow like a good boy now." Tom bristled a bit at that, even as it was somewhat compelling that she seemed to feel comfortable enough to tease him. But being called a 'boy' had never sat well with him. It reminded him of his parents. The pace was steady through the campus, by buildings, parking lots, and buildings before they eventually found the water front. A benefit of being so far from home, for Tom, was the moderate climate. Truth was, it was easy to swim, but harder to find people to swim with. Maybe she could be one of those people, he hoped. Even with as many friends as he'd made here, as many people who seemed to care about him and wanted to be with him, he hadn't found 'the one' yet. As he looked at her, he wondered who Tamsin was to him. Was she some mysterious model, to gaze at, be appreciated, and drawn?

Or would his baser instincts ruin that? More time to think was giving him more time to admire her as more then just someone to draw...

To the boardwalk they went, past hotels and now admittedly in an area of the city Tom hadn't been to. "Not sure I've been around here much..." He frowned, but Tamsin kept on unabated. He looked at the boats, the people on them, tying them up, enjoying the restaurants, far enough away not to disturb their relative peace. Eventually, they came to an alley, brushed with undisturbed greenery.

"Okay, now I've got to ask - where are we going?"

His complaint helped him miss her pulling out a key, one that clearly had seen better years, much like the lock she inserted it in to. She pulled the lock off of a gate which looked like it might crumble from a gust of wind. At the very least, he didn't want any part of it and he slipped by it as gingerly as he could, even if the alley beyond gave him no such space, some dirt getting on his shirt and bag.

The 'click' of the lock behind him gave him some pause, but no complaint that escaped him as she had to slide on past him, and he gasped, ever so slightly, as her chest rubbed against his again, closely enough to confirm to him what he'd suspected earlier about what she was wearing. Or, more specifically, what she wasn't: a bra. "Not far now, just up the steps." She said it like it was just a few of them, but it was a fair trek up, one that Tom admittedly would have slowed down for had she not set a brisk pace, but it looked like she was struggling with it too. She didn't want to be weak for him. She wanted to be strong, look strong, not show pain.

He caught the sweat glistening on her brow as they found themselves on top of a hill, with a rather impressive view of the buildings below. He saw her stop, pointing to something he somehow hadn't noticed until now. A door. [color="blue]"Watch your head as you come in. Don't worry, I'm not a serial killer!" [/color] She'd already made her way in, the sound of her voice muffled by what was concrete.

[b]"I'm sure that's what a serial killer would [i]say[/i], though."[/b] His voice was light even as there was a twinge of nervousness. It wasn't as if new things scared him, but this didn't look like a place that anyone went to explore, but to escape. The concrete framed him as he made his way in, much slower them Tamsin due ot his unfamiliarity with it as he navigated the slim passageway. Eventually, it opened up into a much more open area, and his mind clicked: a war bunker.

Definitely not made for aesthetics, but for utility, to protect from a threat that had never materialied. Still, for something so bland it did have a magnificient view of the bay, and he stopped to gaze out at it, the absent wall now providing a picture of what was going on. Cars, people, moving about, totally unaware of them. It told him how high they'd walked up, and his breath caught again.

A spell that was broken when his hands, of their own volition, dropped his bag to catch something that was coming at him: a beer. It was early in the day, but he wasn't about to refuse his hostess as he cracked it open, her smile different then it had been before: this area had seemed to change her as she spoke, her voice welcoming, rich. [color="blue"] "Welcome to my home away from home, Tom."[/color]

Tom slowly walked around, taking it all in; the absolute isolation that this place seemed to offer. It could be so peaceful, so content, but with his occasionally stolen glances at her - increasingly occuring ones, as her entire body language seemed to be shifting into something more comfortable - he saw what she'd been missing. Going to a place to be alone when ones life was not content could also lead to something else. And even as he smiled warmly at her, a hint of sadness darkened his expression as well. He took a slow swig of his beer, raising it in a bit of a salute before turning to her.

"How did you find this place?" He breathed, watching her closely as she replied to him. He didn't want to ask why, but Tom had a feeling he'd figure that out as she responded. It wasn't as if a key to an isolated old war bunker was something that every student got along with their ID card and number. "It's...." For a man who was graded based on how well he could describe abstract art, he found himself at a loss for words. Tom looked out, at her, back out, shaking his head. "....." A quick laugh came from him, and he shook his head.

"So...I don't know what it is you do at your 'home away from home..." Tom stepped closer to her, not sure where her head was at....and if the truth were to be told, he didn't know where his was either. "...but the artist in me sees a lot of stories in these walls." As much as he wanted to be with her, understand her, and even as he enjoyed it, Tom was in a foreign place. His creativity came in controlled environments, in his studio, where his mind determined the boundaries and gave the orders. Here, he was in the middle of an old war bunker with a woman who - while attractive - was a bit of a mystery. But she wasn't a serial killer.

Or so she'd said.