Hey-ho hey-ho you're probably wondering why this isn't the newest chapter of Undone and I'm here to tell you nothing except I'm sorry. And this got in the way. As did many other things. Anyways, yes, this is completely AU. I honestly don't know what this is but I hope you like it. I had fun writing it and I have some special, fun ideas for museum!sydrian yay!

Reviews are nice and my blog is michealfjordbak 3

My mornings are meticulous. I wake up at four thirty to the harsh sound of my alarm clock. I refuse myself the luxury of the soft sea, forest, or static noises. My body has adjusted to waking up at such early hours and I find myself waking before the sound fills my room. I'm comforted when I am forced to turn over and shush the tiny black box next to my bed. I slide out of bed, immediately tucking in my wrinkled sheets and comforter. I smooth down the sheets, check each side of the comforter for evenness, fluff the pillows. My mind has been running for an hour already and I've been concentrating on the wrinkles, creases, imperfections in the silky cotton my body has created.

I walk to my closet to find my fitness outfit. The closet itself is made of all dark wood with a long black bench in the middle. I have five fitness outfits in case I forget to send my clothing out to the dry cleaners. They are all black and grey. I slip out of my night gown and stand naked for a few seconds. I check my body for imperfections in a detached way. I stopped looking at my body personally a long time ago. It's just a shell; flesh, blood, bone, carrying out certain movements and orders I send to it. I know I am attractive, but I do not flaunt it. I use my face and healthy exterior when need be, but I do not feel any pride in the actions. It's just me.

My exercise routine is running three miles every morning. I do yoga for an hour at night. I haven't skipped my morning or night sessions since moving out all those years ago. After I have finished my three miles, I step into the kitchen for breakfast; a grapefruit and energy shake. The kitchen is modern with marble and steel throughout. I make my own shakes with all natural ingredients in a blender I bought from a late night infomercial. The smoothie is usually thick and bitter, made of spinach, coconut milk, ginger, and mint. I only allow fifteen minutes for breakfast and then I shower. I take the most time in the shower; scrubbing and washing until my skin is pink. I dry off using a newly cleaned white cotton towel. I'm pleased to see it comes away from my skin only wet and still completely white. I won't tolerate grime in my life. Wrapping the towel around my body, I allow my shoulder length blonde hair to dry naturally with the help of anti-frizz cremes and leave-in conditioners. My make-up is laid out on my counter in front of a wide mirror showcasing the entire bathroom. Large bulbs surround the edges of the mirror giving my face a white pallor, exclaiming every pore in my face. I examine my skin scrupulously for wrinkles, new freckles, anything that I might have missed from my inspection the night and day before.

Moisturizer is massaged into my skin by hands scrubbed twice more. I take my time with my makeup, even though I try to make it look as natural as possible. My even skin tone is evened out further by the expensive liquid foundation with a silky brush. Bronzer, eye liner, brown eye shadow and mascara quickly and efficiently follow. I have close to a fifty different eye shadows, all in different shades of browns, golds, and other such earthy colors. My eyes, before a dull, lackluster brown, now sparkle like pebbles in a creek bed. They seem soft and shiny somehow after my application. The lifelessness, however, is still lurking behind my expertly applied mask. I paint my lips a dark red so no one will notice my lack of depth today.

My closet is large, expensive, and mainly consists of one item: suits. I have a few dressing gowns, jeans, casual shirts, but I don't waste time or money on things I don't particularly need. My suits are the only item I allow myself to indulge in a splash of color. They range from the deepest blues to the creamiest beige. I choose a polka dotted black and cream silk blouse with billowy sleeves and a dark raspberry pencil skirt. My shoes are a pair of black suede wedges that showcase my calves nicely. After slipping the small strap around my ankle, snapping my feet into the expensive shoes, I am ready for my day to finally begin.

It is now 7:00 a.m.

I work as a museum curator overseeing the installation and planning of incoming exhibitions. I decide which art will be shown in our museum and which shall be rejected. My evaluations for counterfeits are well-known in the art world and beyond. I've been approached from all over the world for my opinions on certain works and even flown out to help arrange the displays. I'm a hard worker. I can look at an empty room, notice the details, look at the lights, the corners, the architecture of the room, and can come up with a dozen different ways to make it work to my advantage. The art is what matters and what speaks to me. I take in account the colors and history and the lines in which the artist poured his or her heart into the details and use my own expertise to show the art off to it's greatest benefit.

I work two blocks away from my apartment. I never take a taxi or drive a car. My walks in the morning are brisk and comforting, giving me the time I need to coordinate my thoughts before the chaos of art and arrangement and a million different questions are hurtled in my direction. My favorite coffee shop is kitty corner to the museum. I stop here every morning for the richest, blackest coffee I've found in this city yet. It's bitter and delicious as sin. I thank the barista for my heavenly mug, tipping him generously as usual. He told me a few months ago Starbucks had made a bid to buy out their business but the owner refused to sell. I am grateful.

The museum looms in front of my as soon as I step out of the shop. I walk purposefully up the steps as I feel my caffeine buzz working it's silky way through my system like a drug. Sinful indeed, I think dryly. The guard nods his head to me as I pass him by. My office is on the second floor. It's now 7:15 a.m.

"Sydney!" a flustered voice calls my name. "Thank God you're here."

It's Jen. She started here as an intern some months ago and stayed on permanently as my assistant. I liked her intelligence and willingness to work hard. She reminds me of myself when I started out. Her usually bright petite face is now showing clear agitation and stress, her eyes shadowed with lack of sleep. Her dark hair is messy and lacking its usual neatness. I feel worry begin to creep into my consciousness then squash it.

"Jen," I say, nonplussed. "What's wrong?"

"The artist that was supposed to come in next week..."

"Yes?" I didn't want a reminder of him. He is a huge client, of course, his work taking a huge leap in the fine art world a few years back. Every museum around the world wanted his art in their exhibit but I had been the one to convince him to showcase it here, in my museum. I couldn't have been prouder-until I dealt with him personally. The artist had given me demand after demand through his assistants, refusing to deal with anyone else but me. He'd been taxing, pigheaded, rude, and all together impossible to work with so far. We were expecting him to arrive next week to see if my exhibit plans were acceptable to his standards. "He's still arriving next week, of course?"

"That's the thing..." Jen bit her lip. The poor girl looked harried beyond belief. "He's coming in today."

I stop walking. Slowly, I turn to face Jen. She very nearly flinches at the blatant disbelief on my face. I hold myself in check. "Today? And this came about when?"

"His assistant called me this morning to let me know he'd changed his mind. She tried to talk him out of it but... Apparently he's coming tonight whether we like it or not."

I almost grimace but stop myself, taking a deep breath. I stand on the stone staircase, thinking, listening to the light chatter around us. I can feel Jen's eyes on me. I bring myself back.

"Thank you, Jen," I say, lightly. "I appreciate you telling me. Alert all of the museum employees that there is a meeting in 15 minutes in the lobby and I want everyone there."

I start to walk away but Jen stops me again. "What should I say the meeting's about?"

I raise one eyebrow. "That we're apparently having a VIP today and we need to make him feel as welcome as possible. Our schedules be damned."

Jen nods swiftly then scurries away to do her duty.

"Do you all understand what must be accomplished today? This artist is extremely important to this museum and we need him to feel as welcome a possible. Whatever our schedule for today, he must be our number one priority. He will arrive tonight at approximately eight p.m. That's after closing and gives you more than enough time to clean each of your sections to perfection. Do we have any more questions? No? Good, you may go back to your regular responsibilities."

My hands wave them off to their jobs. The employees just shrug, some looking faintly interested in these new turn of events. Jen climbs up the stairs to where I stand as employees walk around us to carry on with their morning chores.

"Do you want to get started on the exhibition you had planned for him next week, today? I know you didn't want to get things moving until the date drew closer, but we can try to have something done by the time he comes in."

I shake my head; no. "We both know I have too much on my schedule today. I have meetings with other artists, other works to analyze; I can't just drop everything with my other clients because he decided to change our appointment without my consent."

Jen raises her eyebrows at the flat tone of my voice. She wisely does not remark on it. "Your eight a.m. will begin soon, then. Shall we go?"

I nod. "Yes, let's get this day started and finished."

My day goes by in a blur. I focus on each task Jen puts in front of me, charming new artists we are interested in coming to our exhibit, rejecting others, analyzing artworks for counterfeits, checking on the other exhibits for imperfections that might need to be fixed. This is my favorite time of the day. My mind is prone to turning off whenever I wander the museum rooms and hallways. I let my sight and senses take over completely. Calculating and planning is part of my daily life but I love perusing my finished accomplishments the most. Each piece of beautifully chosen work, from paintings to grand antiques, masterfully shown off under cleverly focused lights. All because of me. I take pride in my work and grow confident in seeing the rapture on a person's face because of it. Art and calculation combine to create such a charming expression on an individual's face. It brings vulnerability to my otherwise cold interior.

The time of the artist's arrival materialized faster than I expected. Jen ran from employee to employee earlier reminding them to clean and check each of their exhibitions meticulously. I shook my head, but didn't stop her. I secretly hoped this meeting wouldn't take long. I knew I was foolish to wish such a thing. This artist would probably look at every nook and cranny with a microscope just to find a flaw in our architecture. Convincing the artists is the hardest part. Obtaining the art was the easiest.

At 7:50 on the dot, Jen rushes into my office, face red and chest heaving. "He's on his way here."

I nod calmly. "Jen, fix your hair. Take a deep breath. I need you to calm down. We'll handle this situation but not if you keep running around like a chicken with its head cut off." I glance up with a small smile to soften the blow.

Jen nods, hurt and embarrassment clear in her eyes. Again, I squash the need to feel anything for the girl. I'm not her keeper. I am her employer. "I understand. I'll fix myself in... in the bathroom. I'll be right back."

"Very good. Meet me in the downstairs lobby in ten minutes."

She nods, leaving as swiftly as she had come.

The artist's name is Adrian Ivashkov. I've never seen his face; nor has anyone really for that matter. His assistants are known for handling most of his face-to-face appointments. Very rarely will he call someone and the rare times he has, the individual has gloated to no end. I stand in the lobby now wondering idly, not for the first time, what purpose could be served for meeting me face-to-face. Mr. Ivashkov's assistant has handled many of his meetings with other curators but now he apparently wants to see this one for himself.

I check my watch. 8:03 p.m.

"Any cars out front, Glen?" I call to our resident security guard.

"No ma'am, not yet at least."

Folding my hands, I stand tall and silent. I think of the first time I saw his paintings, of how bold, intense, and passionate they were. I knew immediately I had to have them in my museum. My instincts took over as I went after his work, tearing down the competition like a jackal in the jungle. It was almost easy, I think complacently.

Paintings are the most difficult for me to understand. The steadiness of the brush against the canvas, able to create such a complicated piece. How were artists able to do it? My professors told me all throughout college that the masterpieces were made from feel, a subconscious intelligence that tells the artists how to move their instruments and which paints to mix. My lack of understanding always frustrates me but I can appreciate a rare and fine piece of work with the best of them.

8:30 p.m. came and went. I turn to Jen.

"I thought you said he was on his way?"

She worries her lip. "He was..."

I turn around to the staircase and make my way towards my office. Jen immediately follows until I stop her. "No, Jen. You should go home. You look ready to fall over onto the floor."

I am right, of course. Her body sways a little as her eye lids droop unconsciously. I wonder if she is even aware of how tired she looks.

"I should stay, help you," she says quietly.

Shaking my head, I say, "Go home and come back tomorrow, refreshed and ready to work. Get a good night's sleep."

She slowly nods. "Call me if you have problems? Any at all?"

I wouldn't. "Of course."

Left alone, I make my way down the second floor hallway. Unfamiliar voices swell out from behind my office door. My eyebrows draw together at someone(two people?) being in my office this late. We've never had robberies in the museum but I guess there's a first time for everything. As I walk steadily closer, my shoes making a clop clop clop, against the stone, the voices continue. I recognize a lower, more distinguished voice, the other younger, arrogant, with a slight European accent. Cultured. I take a deep breath, pushing open my office door, knowing exactly who I'll find on the other side.

"You're late for our appointment, Mr. Ivashkov."

The two gentlemen standing in my office look towards me now, one with obvious unease, the other with blatant amusement. I keep my features bland, taking in both of them. They are both in their early-to-mid twenties, I conclude. The one on the left is dressed nicely in a tailored suit worth more than a month of my own income. He has blonde hair and hazel eyes. The other is dressed similarly only his suit has a slightly wrinkled look to it, as if he'd just taken a nap and decided to make our appointment. His dark brown hair is as untidy as his suit, his green eyes sharp and taking in every detail of the room. I step towards the blonde gentleman while extending my hand professionally.

"Sydney Sage," I introduce myself. "Let me first say how excited we are you've chosen our museum for your artwork, Mr...?"

"I-" he begins, but his partner cuts him off.

"We're delighted to have the art here, aren't we, Ivashkov?" the green-eyed boy says, smirking. The blonde, Adrian Ivashkov, stares at him for a long moment, then nods silently in agreement. Their relationship is strange but I put it aside. "However, we'd like to see where you plan on having this exhibit."

I nod. "Of course. I would have had the room completely finished and decorated by our original appointment next week, but I'm afraid it's empty at the moment."

The green-eyed boy smiles. "Perfect. Lead the way, Mrs. Sage."

Adrian glances at him sharply.

I correct him. "Ms."

"Hmmm?" Green Eyes leans toward me slightly, eyebrows raised, eyes bright. I briefly ponder if he's drunk or high.

"Ms. I'm not married, Mr...?"

Green Eyes grins. "How fortuitous. Neither am I."

Leading them down into our cavernous Architects Room, I tell both boys a little of my plans for the exhibit of Mr. Ivashkov's art. I am quite proud of my ideas; I plan on turning the room into an absolute emotional treat for the senses. Some of Mr. Ivashkov's works are dark, piercing, completely overtaking in their bleakness, others almost too bright to look at head on. I plan on mixing and matching the pieces; letting the audience walk out completely emotional and turbulent. My opinion is, if you don't leave a museum thinking about an exhibit or certain works for months or years afterward then I'm not doing my job right. Captivating individuals with Adrian Ivashkov's art won't be difficult in the least.

We reach the massive room. I walk over to the panel hiding our light switches. "Your art is impressive, Mr. Ivashkov. I won't have to work hard to get people motivated to come see your work."

"Wait," one of their voices floats out of the darkness before I can flip a light switch. "Not yet."

"You can't see the room fully without the lights on, sir."

A laugh; deep, amused. "Sir? My father is a sir, Ms. Sage."

Softly I ask, "You would prefer the lights turned off, Mr. Ivashkov?"

I hear voices exchanging back and forth for a few moments then footsteps walking away. "Leave them off. He's going back to the car. He hates dealing with any type of decision-making process. Lazy sod, in my opinion."

I feel my eyebrows raise and thank for a brief moment the lights are off. Who is this boy the artist brought with him? An assistant? A friend? He is obviously important to Adrian Ivashkov; important enough, it seemed, to make decisions without his presence. Which meant this nameless boy would be my new pawn in making sure everything ended up perfectly. I arrange my face into a mellow, professional smile, although I know he can't see me.

"I'm surprised Mr. Ivashkov turned up at all. His assistants usually handle all of his face-to-face meetings." I walk into the center of the room and continue to talk loud enough for Mr. Ivashkov's partner to find me.

"Can you blame him," his voice is lower, amused. He's behind me, near the entrance, still. "Meetings can be so tedious, wouldn't you agree?"

I shrug, unfazed by the darkness. "My job is comprised of meetings. I have to deal with them on a daily basis in order to be able to enjoy the more pleasant parts of my job."

"And what are the more pleasurable parts? What makes you able to face meeting after frightful meeting?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Well..."

"The art," I say simply. Naturally. "The art is what the meetings and truly long hours are all for. It can be tedious but the art makes it all worth it. Every time I find a new piece or collection I'm drawn to, every time I walk around my museum and watch people staring at the art I've chosen, that my artist has created, with an expression that's completely lost in enchantment or despair or anger or some unnamed emotion because we've struck a certain memory, I realize this, this is what I do my job for. I do it for the art and the emotion. I do it to touch the individual."

I stand quietly for a moment. "And you can do that? For my-Adrian's series? You can make everything you said happen?"

I blink, confused at the sudden unconcealed emotion. There's a huskiness to his voice that pitches my heart to a stand-still, then a steady beat-beat, beat-beat.

"Yes, it's my job," I say, as if he's an idiot for even questioning me. "I'm the best at what I do."

"I don't doubt it, Ms. Sage."

"Why did he pick me?" The question slips out before I can stop it; I stand in horrified silence for a moment.

Green Eyes laughs again. "You're an enigma, Ms. Sage. You finish telling me how brilliant you are in one breath then question why Ivashkov hired you in another? Surprises abound."

"That was rude, I shouldn't have asked-"

"You scared him, actually."

I feel surprise leak through me as I circle to find him in the dark. "Pardon me? Scared him? Him? Me? How so?"

"You took out the competition like a sniper from the top of a building. Snap, snap, snap. Till it was just you left standing. No- don't try to deny it. It doesn't suit a woman such as yourself."

I close my mouth, surprised this boy understood my tactics almost as well as myself. Instead, I lift my chin, looking around the room. "I'm not apologizing for what I did. I acquired him in the end, didn't I? Even after all of his... demands."

His cheerful voice came again from close beside me. Very close. "Demands, Ms. Sage?"

"Spare me. Your artist may be the best in the world but he's certainly... lacking... in several departments. Civility and graciousness being the first that comes to mind."

Green Eyes steps closer, fiddling with a strand of my hair. "I'm sorry our civility has failed to meet your standards, Ms. Sage. Perhaps the next time we meet your opinion of him will have changed."

I snort, ladylike and delicate. "Doubtful. I barely talked to him tonight. He left before I had a chance to properly speak to him about his own artwork."

His voice is low again, deeply amused, as he still plays with my hair, his long fingers brushing the skin of my exposed neck and silk blouse. "Hmmm. I guess I'll have to try harder to work my way back into your good graces, then. I'm sure we'll find a few stolen moments to talk about my work."

"It's not your-" I stop. For a second my head spins as understanding slams into me.

My tongue is too thick to form another single word as his sentence takes shape in my mind. ...To talk about my work.

my work.

I lurch away from his playful fingers. My body is ice cold with embarrassment and humiliation. How could I have gotten so out of touch with myself? Letting myself talk about my largest client in such an unprofessional and inappropriate manner, to said client? I want to bury my head in my hands and hide for the rest of my life.

Adrian Ivashkov just stares at my inner turmoil with silence. I can practically feel the delight rolling off of him in waves. He is enjoying this, I realize sickly.

"You... I... Mr... I'm very..." My words still refuse to spit out.

He steps closer, finding my hands with his own. He squeezes gently before saying very softly, "You're so spirited; so much fire beneath such a harsh exterior. Your eyes, they hide so much, but beg to tell so many stories."

His fingers graze my cheek. I swallow but stand absolutely still. I'm thankful the darkness doesn't show my face and the myriad emotions currently running their course. "Yes, it will be a joy to work with you in these coming weeks, Ms. Sage. Choosing your... expertise was the smartest decision I've made in a long time, I think."

Adrian brushes his fingers down my jaw, lightly tickling my neck. My eye sight has slowly adjusted to the shadows around me. I admire his striking features for a few moments. I see the outline of his face, the straight line of his nose, the arrogant curve of his lips. I wonder whose good looks he inherited; his mother's? Father's? It's ironic such a talented boy would be blessed with the looks of the immortals the ancient Roman's and Greek's painted.

But it is time to put an end to his games.

"Mr. Ivashkov," my voice is soft, silky. Deadly. Adrian doesn't seem to notice the temperature of my voice has dropped a few degrees. "Now that we've finally been properly introduced, there's something I've been longing to tell you..."

"Yes?" he asks gleefully.

"We'll be working together, closely; possibly long into the nights," I pause, "Alone."

"Mmm, I guess I could endure a few long nights with you," he purrs. Adrian's face is slowly inching closer to mine, his body heat radiating clear through my silk and scorching my skin. I hold back a shiver.

"What I want to ask you is, Mr. Ivashkov..." My voice is breathless, heady, low. I sound like a girl caught up in the moment of some whirlwind affair. I skim my hands up his arms, past his elbows, feeling the lean muscles tense and bunch under the supple fabric of his expensive suit. My lips are so close; so, so, close to his own that I feel his breath fanning my face and my nose skim his. I lean in the last few inches.

"Is it possible," I say tonelessly, "that your parents never taught you any manners as a child?"

With those words hanging in the air, I turn on my heel and quickly walk out of the room, leaving Adrian Ivashkov alone with his petty thoughts in the dark.