juxtaposition

He ordered what she asked for. “Classy,” he said with a bit of a smirk. There wasn’t any sarcasm in his voice, though had it been anyone else he was talking to, there would have been. Hopper smiled. “Oh, it’s nothing.” He looked around, acting as if he were judging it a bit. “It’s alright enough. Usually, my standards are a little higher, but I decided what the hell, it’s Halloween. Should try to have a little fun, right?”

“Classy, yes,” she says, inclining her head towards him. Not quite in a revering way. But she was respectful enough. And he’s open about his expectations and the realities of the party. Lucy could have toasted to that. “Well, it’s publicity for me. I do enjoy get-togethers, though. Things that are more quaint than extravagant have their... charm. Are you here with someone? Or did you get the open invite and decide this was the place to be?”

“Just because I’m working doesn’t mean I can enjoy the fun,” Donald said. “That just means you I can’t drink tonight. That’s fine though. If you need me though you’ll find me drinking mocktails and breaking up fights.”

“Ah, I see,” Lucy  says, regarding him over her own champagne glass, “that seems a shame. Has the night been exciting, at least? There must be some consolation for not being able to drink and having to break up petty fights.”

“Good. I could really go for some beef bourguignon and bread. I think that’s what I’ll get,” he said once he was settled in the car with his seat belt on. “I’m mistaken then. You’ve never been one to shy from attention.” He smirked a little bit at his comment. “No, it wouldn’t hurt it. It would be rather nice, in fact.”

Lucy knew he knew. They were good like that. Lucifer knew Lucy too well, and knew how she acted, knew how she spoke. He could tell when she had plans, when she didn’t, and when she thought fast to make small miracles happen. She knows he knows she’s up to something. Something where she wants a moment’s peace. And maybe to stay out of the spotlight to talk about something private. The Tremaines were known for the paparazzi... or whatever you call them... stalking around. She envied, at times, Lucifer’s apparent normalcy. They’re in the car and they’re going to pull up soon, but Lucy says, “I think it would be nice as well. A good chance to chat. Some excellent food. No interruptions.” She says it with meaning. And Lucifer should probably know what she’s getting up to in the next minute or so? He was good.

Proper ladies should stay out of trouble. Proper ladies with good background and good standing should avoid confrontation. But Lucy Tremaine was presented with an opportunity the moment she crossed paths with a certain Eloise. The two had ended up waiting at the same terminal of Grand Central, Lucy waiting for some publicity shots. Eloise... for whatever she did. She wasn’t particularly fond of the girl, especially considering her son’s history with her. “Ah, don’t you look sweet,” Lucy began, and the tension may already be there. Lucy was a celebrity. There was no doubt... or little doubt... that this Eloise knew who she was.

A russet light catches in Lucy’s eye, like the reverse spotting of a golden fleck. Lucy’s own blue eyes did not match her daughter’s, but the copper strands that reflected golden light interwoven in their hair seemed to match well enough. There was very little tenderness to Lucy’s actions, or at least for the general public’s consumption, but seeing Anastasia with a small twist in her hair, a twist that bordered on a knot rather than an elegant ringlet, Lucy felt the need to straighten it with care. “Anastasia,” she says, an announcing presence, before taking her silken hairbrush, a travel staple of hers, and running it down the small section of Anastasia’s locks. “There. Presentable,” Lucy assures, before shaking her head at the foolishness of her daughter being merely presentable. “Of course, you are radiant in many ways aside, but your hair is now as perfect as the rest of you.”

Kit… shouldn’t have shown up. He realized that as soon as he showed up. How would that look, what with that ridiculous gossip blog post about him? Not to mention if word got out what he leaked to save Ella, or if anyone even knew it was him. He was a mess, he was frazzled. And going somewhere, wondering briefly if Anastasia was there to inform her that the gossip wasn’t true, well, it was a bad idea. As he made his way out of the hotel lobby, he heard a voice. Kit turned and smiled, a second nature trick he’d gathered over the years. She wasn’t who he’d wanted to run into, but this was probably better. “Ms. Tremaine,” he greeted, walking over, taking her hand and bowing his head a bit in a kind gesture. “I’m doing well, how are you? Busy night ahead of you, eh?”

At the greeting, Lady Tremaine dipped into a small curtsy. She knew how this went. Manners, social cues, convention. All of it was a careful script with some flourishes of improvisation throughout. “I’m doing well,” she returns, her head bowed a second longer before she rises again with poise and grace and maybe a touch of weariness, “yes. A busy night,” she agrees. “There is something to be said about media circuits. They can be so demanding.” She imagines Kit knows a thing of two of that. One may not believe that, for how graceful Lucy absorbs the limelight, the constant attentions tires her. “You need to balance the information that you are willing to give with the privacy of your own life. It’s never easy.” There is a pause before she begins another line of conversation. “Speaking of balancing information, I heard someone had some gossip on you in one of those recent... gossip columns. Something about you and a certain Anastasia. It was on a blog of sorts. I’d heard of it from a few people today. Can’t say I’m surprised with the media the way it is. A circus, that is.” She sniffs at that, distaste for the wild behaviors of the press evident. “Of course, I’m not new to the circuit. I know you can’t believe anything and everything those gossip rags show. But... of course I must ask... is there something I should know about you and Anastasia?”

This. This made up for the day being a total sham. Crossing paths with Kit Spencer as he waited in the lobby of a fancy hotel. Did he know the press was doing a media night? Her relative stardom earned her, Lucy, a spot at the press night, as well it should, and as well as it has the past few years. Was Ella here? What would she have for the media at a press night? Nonetheless. Lucy cursed internally that Anastasia and Drizella weren’t here right now, but that didn’t mean that Lucy couldn’t nudge the future Duke in the proper direction. She put on her most radiant smile and approached him, a charming, brightly accented, “how do you do today?” asked into the air.

Lucifer doesn’t flinch at his mother’s tone. She’s always had a sharp tongue and over the years he grew immune to it. He had been typing away on his computer, terrorizing the lives of a few mousy people he had a great distaste for. It wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait until later though. He closes his laptop and turns in his chair to get up. “We haven’t had French food in a while,” he says, taking his coat from her and slipping it on. “Shying away from the camera now, are we? Why the sudden change in heart, Mother?”

“No, we haven’t. I thought it was about time,” she returns, straightening her own coat. She’s pushed the door open for him and is already ushering him out. The car’s in the front, a driver tipping his hat to them. “Not quite shy, Lucifer,” she says, no truer statement to be said. Lucy Tremaine did not hide from attention should she be able to obtain it. “But a private moment with my son wouldn’t hurt anyone, now would it?”

“Get up,” she says sharply. It isn’t mean, it isn’t cruel. But it is in the tone of a Lady Lucy Tremaine. Her son, she finds, is haunched over his computer, doing whatever it is that Lucy doesn’t understand. She doesn’t mother looking over his shoulder. If it’s computing, she vows she won’t understand it anyway. “Lucifer, I’ve arranged a lunch for us,” she says then, not waiting for protest or any sort of refusal, “no cameras, no recording, just a simple lunch in a private room at that French Restaurant on Lafayette Street.” There isn’t room for him to say no, and she’s already got a coat for him, the weather turning colder, over her arm. “Come now, let’s not be late. You can... do your technological hobbies later.”