Armand is old enough that he's long pushed past the need to sleep through the day and only wake at night. For a time, it was a schedule that he almost set himself against. There was much to do during the day, and he was the only one who could do it.
On the Barge, he still doesn't need to sleep during the day, and skips sleep entirely when he feels like it, but going out during the 'night' generally cuts down on the number of people wandering the halls, and he doesn't have anything he needs to do. It's convenient, for him.
He knocks on Alan's door, easily balancing a covered dish.
Alan's in his element--writing, typewriter clacking away, suit and tie and hair pushed back behind his ears. The knock is heard and the writer takes a brief pause to finish his sentence. It's only when the soft thunk of the typewriter sliding back to the beginning of the page sounds that he gets up.
Had he said 'just a minute?' he doesn't think so. He voiced it in his head, probably, but it hadn't been that long. The door with the spiral painted on it opens, revealing his attic-like writer's room, outfitted with a changing screen and a small coffee station, as well as a cot--and light.
"Armand."
Alan's tired--it shows in his eyes, his usual insomnia creeping up. He hasn't slept yet, or slept very little. But his smile is genuine, however small.
"Hey." He opens the door wider, allowing him in if he'd like to.
Armand tends to stand to like's stood in a spot for eternity, and could wait another eternity without moving. Perhaps it's because he doesn't need to move in the little ways a human would, or perhaps it's simply something about him.
He tilts his head in acknowledgement. "Alan."
He doesn't sleep much, but such things don't effect him. Those details are for human faces, to be carefully stored away when he decides the details matter.
He steps inside, holding out the dish. "I brought you something." It's a meat pie.
Alan doesn't bother to hide his vague surprise--he's chatted with Armand, sure, but to have him show up is pleasantly unexpected.
"Thanks." He takes it, looks at it, feels his stomach react via a slight rumble. How long has it been since he's eaten? A glance at the typewriter. It's been a while since he's really gotten into it.
"Looks great--uh--make yourself at home. I know you drink blood, but, you want some coffee?"
Armand had assessed the level of 'care' Alan appears to take of himself - and he doesn't find him unpleasant to deal with, so he had been labeled as a good candidate for food delivery.
He doesn't enjoy being in what he can only bitterly call, 'a social situation', but he knows how to endure.
He takes a seat, as requested he looks completely at home. "I would like some coffee." It does nothing for him but the taste isn't actively revolting enough to not be worth the human ritual. He likes the warmth.
"Yeah." He drinks entirely too much coffee--he glances over at Armand, giving the other a tired but genuine smile, quick and thin.
"We can split this, too, did you--I didn't know you could cook." There's a coffee pot on the small little shelf, but Alan's pouring it from a light blue, homey looking thermos.
"Cream? Sugar? I don't--I'm not really that good of a host, I'm sorry."
"I've joined the dinner shift." If he takes a job, he's going to do it. That includes focusing on cooking until it meets his standards. When you have twenty-four hours a day, a... focused person can fit a lot in.
He shakes his head. He's not Louis, to go so far as to eat human food. "No, it's for you. I don't eat food." He tilts his head with a brief smile. "I believe that can be true of writers." And Alan doesn't have his advantages.
"Just black." He refrains from a joke about adding blood.
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evening
On the Barge, he still doesn't need to sleep during the day, and skips sleep entirely when he feels like it, but going out during the 'night' generally cuts down on the number of people wandering the halls, and he doesn't have anything he needs to do. It's convenient, for him.
He knocks on Alan's door, easily balancing a covered dish.
no subject
Had he said 'just a minute?' he doesn't think so. He voiced it in his head, probably, but it hadn't been that long. The door with the spiral painted on it opens, revealing his attic-like writer's room, outfitted with a changing screen and a small coffee station, as well as a cot--and light.
"Armand."
Alan's tired--it shows in his eyes, his usual insomnia creeping up. He hasn't slept yet, or slept very little. But his smile is genuine, however small.
"Hey." He opens the door wider, allowing him in if he'd like to.
no subject
He tilts his head in acknowledgement. "Alan."
He doesn't sleep much, but such things don't effect him. Those details are for human faces, to be carefully stored away when he decides the details matter.
He steps inside, holding out the dish. "I brought you something." It's a meat pie.
no subject
"Thanks." He takes it, looks at it, feels his stomach react via a slight rumble. How long has it been since he's eaten? A glance at the typewriter. It's been a while since he's really gotten into it.
"Looks great--uh--make yourself at home. I know you drink blood, but, you want some coffee?"
no subject
He doesn't enjoy being in what he can only bitterly call, 'a social situation', but he knows how to endure.
He takes a seat, as requested he looks completely at home. "I would like some coffee." It does nothing for him but the taste isn't actively revolting enough to not be worth the human ritual. He likes the warmth.
no subject
"We can split this, too, did you--I didn't know you could cook." There's a coffee pot on the small little shelf, but Alan's pouring it from a light blue, homey looking thermos.
"Cream? Sugar? I don't--I'm not really that good of a host, I'm sorry."
no subject
He shakes his head. He's not Louis, to go so far as to eat human food. "No, it's for you. I don't eat food." He tilts his head with a brief smile. "I believe that can be true of writers." And Alan doesn't have his advantages.
"Just black." He refrains from a joke about adding blood.