"The shine will wear off in a few days and you will be cursing it like the rest of us," she murmured from her seat in a nearby armchair, her scarred lips twitching into a smirk of a smile as she watched him move from the jukebox to the bookshelves with that look of pleasure on his face. He was unmistakably new, but she didn't sense any of the confusion and fear the new ones often reacted with at being ripped from their homes. She'd felt it herself, once upon a time.
With her hands, she was loading a new roll of film into her camera, smudges of black ink staining her fingers. She still had a difficult time moving the middle fingers of her left hand, and she worked carefully and slowly, overcompensating for her lack of dexterity.
Mitchell turned to give the woman with the camera a broad grin and laughed. Cameras. He used to be half scared of them, frightened of what they wouldn't show. Now there was no fear, no apprehension. He could finally get a proper look at himself in a picture, or even on film, if he wanted. His parents had insisted on getting a portrait of him before he left for war, but that was nearly a century ago. Not that much had changed on Mitchell since.
"I'm sure I will," he allowed with another chuckle. "But the shine's pretty nice right now, so I'm going to take it." Digging his hands into his back pockets a little shyly, Mitchell strolled closer. "Are you a professional?" he asked with a nod to the camera.
"I was," she said, closing the film door with a click. Then, with a frown, she added, "I still am, I suppose."
Her lips twitched, the long diagonal scar running from top lip to bottom tugging one corner of her smile down. "It has been a while since anyone has paid me for my services."
The scars might have seemed odd to him if he hadn't seen worse and if they hadn't struck him as so very sad. She was a pretty woman. What had happened?
"Not much of an island economy?" He grinned and shrugged quickly. "Must be great though, to have all that... that outside just waiting to be shot. Or is that the shine in my eyes again?"
"It is quite beautiful," she admitted reluctantly, "It is a nice change from car bombs and the decay of Parisian youth."
Sometimes, she felt silly photographing pretty birds and flowers, after years of being one of the magazine's top photo journalists. Jean Pierre had called her fearless, once upon a time.
"I bet," he agreed heartily. "I never liked dreary Paris. There's too much going on, too much life in that city for it to be all ... black and white and obscure angles. Not all the time, anyway. It does look good in black and white, too."
Of course, Mitchell's dreary Paris was Paris in the middle of two world wars.
"You should be careful, insulting my city," she said, but she looked much more amused than anything else. It was depressing how comfortably English sat on her tongue and how infrequently she had the chance to speak her own language. She was teaching him both, entirely on principle, but her son would grow up speaking English more often than not. It was out of her control.
"It was a bit dreary when I left," she had to admit, though a lot of that had to do with how she looked at the world those last six months.
"I love your city." Even if it was a bit ... French sometimes. The city and the shadows had nothing to do with that though. Just the people.
"When was that?" he asked, half sitting, half leaning against the table. "I mean, my mate George said people come from all kinds of times. Is that... I'm not sure if that's a rude question or not, sorry," he said, finishing in a bit of a laugh.
"Not by a long shot," he said, half-laughing, but the amusement didn't quite reach his eyes this time. Hard to be amused during a war, though they had managed. "I think that's why I want to see it differently. It was all dreary when I visited. I'm from two-thousand-ten, so that's not far off."
With her hands, she was loading a new roll of film into her camera, smudges of black ink staining her fingers. She still had a difficult time moving the middle fingers of her left hand, and she worked carefully and slowly, overcompensating for her lack of dexterity.
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"I'm sure I will," he allowed with another chuckle. "But the shine's pretty nice right now, so I'm going to take it." Digging his hands into his back pockets a little shyly, Mitchell strolled closer. "Are you a professional?" he asked with a nod to the camera.
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Her lips twitched, the long diagonal scar running from top lip to bottom tugging one corner of her smile down. "It has been a while since anyone has paid me for my services."
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"Not much of an island economy?" He grinned and shrugged quickly. "Must be great though, to have all that... that outside just waiting to be shot. Or is that the shine in my eyes again?"
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Sometimes, she felt silly photographing pretty birds and flowers, after years of being one of the magazine's top photo journalists. Jean Pierre had called her fearless, once upon a time.
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Of course, Mitchell's dreary Paris was Paris in the middle of two world wars.
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"It was a bit dreary when I left," she had to admit, though a lot of that had to do with how she looked at the world those last six months.
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"When was that?" he asked, half sitting, half leaning against the table. "I mean, my mate George said people come from all kinds of times. Is that... I'm not sure if that's a rude question or not, sorry," he said, finishing in a bit of a laugh.
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"What about you? Somewhere less dreary?"
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