Work Text:
Your brush mixed the paint on your palette, getting you the perfect shade of pink for the blush of the maiden’s cheeks. You were nearly done with this commission, and grateful for it, too. The duchess was a horrible person to have looking over your shoulder; all you wanted was to be finished with this painting.
Just as you raised your brush to the canvas you heard a knock at the door. You pulled your hand away as quickly as you could, not wanting to brush paint anywhere you didn’t want. You sighed, setting your brush down and praying this wouldn’t take long – the consistency of the paint mattered more than many people understood.
You stood and went to the door, making sure you looked presentable. Paint was on your dress and blouse, but it didn’t look too terrible. Anyone who would come knocking at your door knew that you were a painter, anyway, so who cared.
You opened the door and frowned at the scene before you; the wind was wild and a dark shape had settled on your front step. Before you could do anything, you were swept out your door and all went black.
Sam pulled the latex gloves off of his hands, satisfied with the restoration project for now. Little by little he was working through the paintings, making sure they looked just as they did when they were first painted hundreds of years ago. Or so he hoped.
He noticed that once again he’d worked through lunch, his stomach growling in protest. He grabbed it as it gurgled, grateful that he was alone in the lab. With a huff he grabbed his lunchbox from the fridge and headed out of the automatic, air-sealing door, and into the main part of the museum.
He’d been working at the Stanford museum for nearly eight years now, most of that time as a restorer for damaged paintings. After getting his masters and doctorate in Art History and Anthropology, he was immediately recruited. Now, amazingly, Sam was one of the foremost art restorers in the field.
Sam sat in his normal place, a bench that faced his favorite artist’s work. Of course, he shouldn’t have a favorite, but he felt drawn to Y/N Y/L/N’s art. The emotion and dedication was obvious in everything she did, from her earliest sketches to her painted commissions to the few sculptures she did in later life, they were all incredible and Sam had done everything in his power to learn all about her.
He was lost in the eyes of a painted duchess as he chewed slowly on his sandwich. It was as though he could see the artist, mixing the perfect shades of color before setting her brush on the canvas. How careful she’d been, how detailed…
A breeze picked up, making Sam start. He looked toward the wind, wondering what was going on. There wasn’t a door opened; had the HVAC unit gone haywire? Sam set his sandwich down, suddenly worried about the sudden change in atmosphere and the way it would affect the art.
Before he could do anything more than stand, the lights flashed. Sam covered his face for a moment, shocked by the brightness.
When he removed his hands, he saw you laying on the floor, hair messily pulled back in a braid and clothes splotched with paint.
You groaned, rolling onto your back and bringing your hands to your head. What had just happened to you? You opened your eyes, expecting to see the sky above your doorstep but instead seeing a strange white ceiling.
You sat up, much too quickly if your head had anything to say about it. You groaned, closing your eyes again.
“Miss?” you heard a voice, feeling a hand lightly touch your shoulder. “Are you alright?”
You opened your eyes, looking up again. You took in the man kneeling next to you, an Adonis in his own right. You’d love to paint him, with his perfect cheekbones and beautifully styled hair. And those eyes – a swirl of colors your fingers itched to reproduce.
“Are you okay?” he asked again, making you realize you were staring. You looked down at yourself, mentally assessing if you were injured or not.
“I, I think so,” you answered him, letting him help you to your feet. You looked around the room, seeing the shiny floor and large windows on one side, hearing the bustle of people around. “Where am I?”
The man tilted his head at you before answering. “You’re at the Cantor Center for Visual Arts, the museum.”
You squinted at him, confused. “But how did I get here? I was just in my house…”
The man didn’t answer, instead leading you to a bench a few feet away. The two of you sat and he offered you a strange bottle, opening the cap. “Here, have some water.”
You looked at it, shaking the bottle gently. It made crinkling noises in your hand, but you could see the water inside. Tentatively you brought it to your lips, the water that met your mouth the purest you’d ever had before. You nearly choked on it, it was so clear.
“What’s your name?” the man asked, watching you carefully.
“Y/N,” you answered, still mesmerized with the water.
“Y/N?” he repeated. “Y/N what?”
You took another drink of the water, just as pleased this time as the first. “Y/N Y/L/N.”
The gasp that came from the man had you looking back at him. His eyes were wide and in awe, which you didn’t understand. “Do I know you?” you asked, sure that you would have remembered meeting such a beautiful man.
He shook his head, chuckling to himself. “No, but I know you.”
Sam didn’t know how, and frankly he didn’t care about how, you were here. It didn’t matter to him at all, actually. All he knew was that he was sitting in the presence of his favorite artist in the entire history of art, and he was giddy.
“Y/N, I have something to show you,” he said, taking the water bottle from your hand and putting it down, keeping your hand in his. It was so small, so delicate. Sam was momentarily distracted with the thought of your hands creating the artwork he so loved, but then he came back to himself. He stood, bringing you with him.
He walked backward, holding your eyes on his, into the room that held your artwork. He walked with purpose to the earliest piece that was on display, a sketch of a young girl in a field. Once he stood before it he moved, letting you see the sketch.
You gasped, recognizing it immediately. “That’s – that’s mine,” you said, pointing at the sketch. Your hand squeezed Sam’s as you took a step closer, eyes moving to the plaque next to it. “Portrait of a young girl, pen on parchment, Y/N Y/L/N,” you read, your voice wavering as it did. “What is this?” you asked, turning to Sam.
He smiled, gesturing to the rest of the room with his free hand. “This is our hall dedicated to your work, Y/N. This is what I do, I share your art with the world.”
Sam watched as you looked around, eyes landing on the dozens of other pieces you’d done as well as some you didn’t recognize. “What-?”
“It’s 2018, Y/N. I don’t know how you are here, but I’m glad you are,” Sam explained, watching as your face lit up. With one more glance to him, you let go of his hand, feet taking you round and round the room, eyes tearing up at the incredible display of your work.
Sam didn’t know how you’d come to 2018, but he was going to make sure you knew how much he adored you and your work before you left again.