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Are ye an artist?

No, I'm afraid I lack the necessary creative capacity. [There's genuine regret in that statement.]

I'm fond of artists, though, and what they can do. Perhaps a bit envious.

More o' the logical sort?

It's lovely of ye t'support what y're fond of, aye. Many a strugglin' artist in the world.

[He smiles and shrugs slightly.] Not that, either, really. I can copy, but that seems insulting, somehow. My skills seem to be mostly in the area of getting along with people.

I had a...friend, who was a painter. Some time ago. He never had much financial success, but he had talent in spades. I thought I might give some people the leg up he never got. [He breaks off, mildly embarrassed, because he's making himself sound altruistic, and that's not a characteristic he normally ascribes to himself.]

Ahem. And you? Are you an artist?

S'a good skill, gettin' along with people. Seems most are busy lookin' for a fight.

[The corners of his lips twitch a bit, almost a smile.] S'very kind o' ye. And aye, I work mostly in the sketch an' charcoal mediums, although I've been known t'churn out some oil paintin's as well on occasion.

[He offers a hand.] M'Noah, Noah MacGreggor.

[His smile turns slightly grim.] Oh, well, I'm long since done with fighting. Unless I run out of options.

Ah! Sketch is fascinating to me. So much can be conveyed with so few lines. I like gesture. Motion. [He shakes hands firmly, studying the other man with a level of interest some have found unnerving.]

I'm Balthazar. Just Balthazar. Delighted to meet you, Noah.

An art gallery?

[Balthazar looks just a bit anxious, like he hadn't quite meant to admit this to Castiel. But he nods in response to the question.]

It, er, seemed like a good idea at the time.

Pleasure t'meet ye as well. I'll certainly try not t'leave ye without an option.

[Noah's handshake is gentle and soft, on the other hand. And when Balthazar stares at him, he averts his gaze to somewhere else, anywhere else.] Aye, sketches an' black an' white are'nae so obvious. Have t'look into 'em rather than at them. S'where me passion's at.

[Oh, that's intriguing! Shy, perhaps? Balthazar's smile widens, but he's still behaving himself for the moment.]

Yes...and they hold all the other colors of the spectrum within them. Have you done any ink painting? Sounds like you have the aesthetic sense.

I'd love to see your work sometime. [That could sound like a pickup line, but he's utterly sincere about it.]

[Very shy, at least initially. But when Balthazar speaks of the spectrum within, the corners of his mouth twitch, almost smiling again. It always surprises him when someone understands his love of black and white with shades of gray in his work.

He shakes his head, looking back up as high as the others lips,] I've done a bit of ink, nothin' I've ever sold though. Mostly dabblin' here an' there.

[He bites down on his bottom lip for a moment, trying to decide if he really is sincere or not.] I've a gallery ans a studio in Manhattan. Or... [He tightens the filmy scarf around his neck and then reaches into the satchel at his hip that he's almost never without. He retrieves a sketchbook and thumbs through the pages, most of them odds and ends; sketches of hands, both young and weathered, cats paws, eyes, a dog, all of them extremely detailed and life like aside from the lack of color. He pauses on one page of an old woman sitting on a park bench, her shawl pulled up around her head and a cigarette between her lips. Her eyes look old too, as if she's lived too long and seen too much. Strangely enough, it was Balthazar's eyes that he had glimpsed a few times that had made him think of this one.] Here. One o' the more recent. I'll be transferrin' it t'canvas soon.

[In a sense, Balthazar has spent most of his existence caught between black and white. Somewhere along the line, he started doubting, and then he started thinking, and then Heaven, for him, was lost. But black and white can be poles, or they can be ends of a continuum. He sees more of the latter these days.]

Ah, well, if you have your own gallery, you hardly need my services. But I'm still curious.

[He's noticed Noah's gaze is no longer rising to meet his own, and wonders. But the drawings are vastly more interesting at the moment. He watches the sketches flit by intently, but when the artist pauses on the last, he leans in, lips parting in a satisfied sigh.] You see into your subjects. That's...a precious gift.

S'one o' the few things m'good at. S'very much a gift. [Said with all the sincerity. For all of Noah's self-depreciation, depressive tendencies and shyness, he knew that this was one of the things he could do well.

He turns the page to another sketch, this one of a woman at a table, looking into a coffee or tea mug. She looks sad, thoughtful, tormented by something unseen.] S'beauty in everything, ye ken.

[And finally he looks back up to meet Balthazar's gaze.] An' I'm just as interested in those who can appreciate art as I am those how sponsor artists.

I'm sure there are many others. [That may be a hint of flirtation. He smiles.] But I am impressed.

[His eyes drift back to the page, sympathy creeping into his expression.] That's why art is so important. It's easy to miss that beauty. That connection.

My friend I spoke of had the same gift. Seeing the world through his eyes...well, it's been enlightening. [He looks back at him thoughtfully. His eyes are very old, indeed, a bit jaded and worn, but there's something bright and powerful hiding behind them.]

[For a moment he just watches Balthazar, maybe studying those eyes a little too intently. But in the end, as always, Noah looks away first. A corner of his lips twitches just a bit into another hint of a shy smile at the insight of that power in those eyes on top of everything else.]

Ye d'nae see y'friend anymore? The one who painted such lovely things?

[Used to interaction on only two levels (the angelic hierarchy and parties with recent human acquaintances), Balthazar finds this man difficult to read. He's not sure 'shy' is quite the right word, after all. Introverted, certainly, but that's different. He straightens, giving him a bit more personal space, but continues to observe.]

I don't see him now, no. [In point of fact, he's referring to his own vessel. The man is certainly not dead, but he won't be painting again any time soon, either. Uncertain how to translate that into a story that doesn't sound insane, he glosses over it.] I still have some of his work, though. Even a few portraits of me, which was...terribly flattering. I thought I might name the gallery after him.

[It's not common for an angel to be emotionally attached to his human vessel. Then again, Balthazar isn't normal in any other way.]

Perhaps someday I could see some o' his work, the portraits of y'self? [Noah is always interested in looking at art. He attends shows and admires most all artistic mediums.]

I'd bet a pretty coin on his havin' sketched or painted your eyes. [Noah forgets himself, allowing his self to look into Balthazar's eyes for the moment.] They're very interesting, y'see.

[It takes him a few moments to consider the suggestion, particularly since he's only showed one or two of the sketches to his closest angelic friends. Still, if anyone would understand, it would be an artist.] Yes...I think you could. I don't have them here, of course, but I'm fond of travel. I could visit you some time.

[Balthazar allows the intense eye contact for several seconds, enjoying the attention. He's not sure how perceptive Noah is, beyond the physical, though, and it wouldn't do to hurt his sight or mind. He's the first to break the gaze this time, but with a faint grin.] Are they, now? He drew my eyes a great deal, as I recall, but tell me what you see.

Of course. I've an apartment in Manhattan. Y're free t'visit at any time. [He probably shouldn't have been so open but in many ways Noah was very trusting to the point of naivete.]

I see... [His eyes narrow a bit, a little more discerning than before.] Age. History. Loneliness? Sadness. Strength. An'... [Finally he looks away again.] Curiosity t'the point of mischief.

[That's quite an invitation, and Balthazar makes note of it. He should probably ask for an address or phone number, to keep up the appearance of needing direction. But he doesn't. He can find him without those details. Noah may just find him unexpectedly on his doorstep sometime.] Thank you, that's very kind.

[His head tilts a bit. He doesn't quite meet the gaze, but he doesn't try to hide, either. It's a good assessment. He's relieved there are some things the artist has missed, namely anger and despair, but the characteristics he's noted and named are certainly part of Balthazar. He nods faintly, then breaks into a grin at the last, and chuckles.] Oh, you are good. And you've only known me a few minutes! I'd better be careful with you. You'll have my full personality covered within a week.

((Apologies for the delay. I had a busy week. But I'm really liking the interaction here.))

[He nods, a silent 'you're welcome' to Balthazar's gratitude. For the moment, it didn't even occur to him that he hadn't given his contact information. And it probably wouldn't until after they had parted and he expected never to encounter him again. For now, he was intent on trying not to be too intrusive into studying the other man. Although perhaps he already had been.]

Well, when y've been standin' on the sidelines watchin' for long as I have, y'learn t'read a few things about people here an' there.

ooc: No problem! Slow time is good with me. I'm enjoying the thread too! :)

Oh? Why so much standing on the sidelines? [He looks directly at Noah again, this time so that he can make his own assessments. Were he still connected to Heaven, Balthazar might be able to read him better. Angelic power does tend to allow for glimpses of an individual's past, and the inner workings of his mind. But Balthazar's power is at a low ebb, and in any case, he enjoys surprises. He's not looking for anything more than a perceptive human might see.]

I hope you've withdrawn from the game voluntarily, in any case. You certainly deserve the opportunity to play.

Och, I’ve never been a front man. M’father was quite well known, y’see. There were appearances t’keep up and I never seemed t’get it right. So I was more… scenery than anything else. A paintin’ on the wall that was visible but could’nae be interacted with.

[There’s an awkward moment where Noah’s shoulders hunch at the memories and he pats his coat pockets until he finds a wooden cigarette case. He withdraws a cigarette and lights a match to light it. After a healthy drag or two, he seems to become less withdrawn and awkward and he looks up to meet Balthazar’s gaze, his own eyes a little sad and dark.] Guess I’ve never really gotten meself away from bein’ such.

[Balthazar's first impulse is to comment that his own Father is quite well-known, too, but that would sound flippant. He considers the words more carefully, then, rubbing his chin.]

My sister said something like that once. About being a statue, being cold and unable to touch. I didn't quite understand at the time, but...I believe I do now.