Logs:Mnemosyne

Mnemosyne
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Murphy
In Absentia	2022-05-08 "She always wanted to see Italy, too, before..."
Location <NYC> Olive Garden - Times Square
It is 6:35 PM on a Sunday evening when Murphy Law comes to patronize the local dining establishment. Seated alone, he is dressed with an eye for solemnity -- a sharp suit as black as sable, a white buttoned up shirt with matching vest, and a festively colored 'Memphis Style' tie (resembling a radioactive trapper-keeper that escaped from the 90s). His brow is crumpled in thought, perusing the menu of this particular bistro very closely. "So, what can we start you with, sir?" The waiter manifests from the ether, pen and notepad in hand. "I'll have a 1949 Domaine Leroy Richebourg Grand Cru and a white truffle pasta, garçon." The waiter's expression flickers; a hint of annoyance is swiftly smothered beneath the familiar mask of customer service: "Ah, I don't think we have--" "Yeah, you've probably heard that one before." Murphy grins and folds the menu. "Sorry. Just breadsticks and a diet coke, for now. I'm waiting for someone." The waiter nods, smiles, and slips off. Murphy resumes his examination of the Olive Garden menu, brow crumpling once again. "Christ, this place is fancy." Murphy isn't kept waiting too long. In their current surroundings his dining companion tonight is eye catching -- an elegant three-piece suit in charcoal pinstripe that subtly downplays his muscular physique, a bright white broadcloth shirt with a silk tie tessellated in icy shades shades of blue, silver cufflinks with blue fleurs-de-lis, and black monk shoes. Like Murphy's attire, Lucien's expression is deeply solemn as he slips into the booth opposite the detective. "You have a very keen sense for ambience, Mr. Law." If this is sarcasm it is hard to say; Lucien sounds incredibly earnest. Murphy barely even looks up as Lucien arrives; his gaze is squarely set on the menu. As the well-dressed man settles into the booth across from him, Murphy just grunts -- before peering over the edge of the menu to survey Lucien, and... "They have chicken parmigiana," he states, taking his time to enunciate each and every syllable in all its grotesque glory -- as only an American tourist armed with a translation guide could. "That's Italian for 'covered in parmesan cheese'." "You don't say. What do you suppose lasagne is Italian for?" With the francophone accent that habitually softens Lucien's words, la-sag-nee stands out all the more. He is barely looking over the food options when he picks up his plastic-sleeved menu -- turning directly to the drinks menu at the back. "Rather more importantly, they have entire pitchers of green apple moscato sangria. When I was young I could hardly have imagined this level of sophistication." "Hating Mondays," Murphy responds automatically. "Green apple moscato sangria," he mouths the words with awe, his gaze dragged back down to the menu. "Goddamn. You won't find that shit at Wal-Mart." Despite the fact that you absolutely will. "Couldn't think of a better way to honor the occasion besides demonstrating how far you've come -- y'know? Makes me think that somewhere out there, maybe in the far out yonder, there's... y'know..." He looks up from the menu, his expression suddenly sentimental, thoughtful -- leaning back in the chair as his eyes drift past Lucien, toward the various knickknacks and kitsch-style Italian décor adorning the walls. He gestures toward them. "...a place just like this -- on another plane -- that we're sharing this moment with. A sort of..." For just a moment, that grizzled detective somehow almost pulls off a starry-eyed look. "...spiritual Olive Garden... from which those in your past can watch you from. And if so, I think... I really think they'd be proud of you, Lucien. I really do." "Monday is my favorite day of the week, I certainly cannot order that." Nevermind that Lucien is almost certainly not ordering any food. Green Apple Moscato Sangria has plenty of calories, no doubt. He folds his menu, and folds his hands neatly atop it. He, himself, has no trouble looking misty-eyed at Murphy's so-sentimental reverie. "So you're saying there's a chance we'll be reunited, some day -- at that great Olive Garden in the sky." As quickly as he donned it the sentimentality is dropping away, leaving in its wake only a quietly neutral expression but a wry amusement in his tone. "-- regrettably, the only other plane I am aware I have existed on, I sorely doubt either of us are currently enjoying endless breadsticks with loved ones." That starry-eyed expression of his own is something Murphy can only hold for a few seconds anyway; like a dog pretending to be a cat. It swiftly melts at the mention of that 'other plane'. "Christ, y'know, I figured that shit was just some new brand of Ufology or something, until I met--" He cuts himself off rather abruptly. His mouth twists into a thin, narrow line. One large hand reaches out to fiddle with the edge of the menu, now laid down on the table, his eyes scanning the surface. "--she... uh, she doing okay?" The question is asked softly, with an unexpected amount of concern creeping into Murphy's tone. "I admit it still feels farfetched, and -- well. We are intimately familiar with the reality. Perhaps UFOs are not so out of the question." Lucien's lips compress at the question. "I suspect on some level her adjustment will be lifelong. How do you mourn losing your entire world should not be a question that -- multiple people in my orbit are learning to answer. Do you suppose --" Lucien breaks off, looking up as the waiter returns with Murphy's coke and the obligatory breadsticks. He is quiet and warm in his thanks -- quiet and firm in his insistence that all he would like, please, is the green apple sangria. The closest thing to sympathy Murphy is capable of expressing settles over him at those words. Mourn losing your entire world. He has no response, though he's listening when Lucien continues, lifting his head at the question... only for the waiter to return. He grunts and thanks the man, but then, as Lucien continues to insist on the green apple sangria -- "Are you sure, sir? We're offering a special for Mother's Day, the Tour of Italy, for--" "Good God, man!" The only clue that Murphy's flash of outrage is fake is that anyone who's known him for longer than five minutes knows he is physiologically incapable of uttering the words 'Good God man' unironically. "Just -- look, it's not your fault, but his mother -- Christ. Sorry," he says, now to Lucien -- flipping out a handkerchief from his pocket as if it was something he always carried. Holding it out to him. "She always wanted to see Italy, too, before..." he explains to the waiter, then shakes his head sadly -- as if deciding against it. "Just... get the man some green apple sangria, please?" Lucien accepts the handkerchief with an evidently sincere gratitude, lifting it to dab at the One Single Tear that is slipping down his cheek. "My apologies," he sounds just that much more quavery than he did earlier, "it's just -- she never had a chance to take me to --" He puts some visible effort into marshaling this display of emotion, fingers curling into Murphy's handkerchief as he offers the waiter a stoic smile. "My apologies. There is just so much she will never get to do, again. And thank you. For the sangria." His veneer of barely-repressed-emotion holds steady until the flustered-apologetic waiter has taken Murphy's order and taken his leave. He keeps the handkerchief, though, even as an amusement slips into his eyes. "A little practice and you could join me on the stage." Murphy's expression reverts to that perpetual scowl the moment the waiter is out of eye-sight. Almost immediately, he's responding to Lucien, eyeing the waiter's back -- already calculating in his head how much a tip he ought to leave the poor guy for screwing with him like this. "Nah," he tells him, "I'm just a good liar. Real good. But what you do is... I don't know what the fuck you do. Like your brain's some sort of Rubik's cube. You twist all the bits around until it's something new, but it's... still you. Just... different." Something in this description puts a genuine delight in Lucien's expression -- it's fleeting but bright, some appreciation in the look he gives to Murphy that he does not give voice to. "-- quite a useful skill in your line of work, no?" He picks up his glass of water, taking a slow small sip. "Though. Most people I know who have developed great proficiency at deception had some earlier impetus to do so." There's a glimpse of curiosity in Murphy's own expression when he catches that brief flash of delight -- as if he's beholding the rare moment of something he's not accustom to seeing. Just like that ephemeral flash of delight, though, it's gone in the next instant. He reaches for the glass of diet coke, and... after he's taken his own sip, his expression is distant. "Yeah. Learned real fast that everything around me was a lie. The easiest way to make it was to just tell bigger lies." Something in his expression changes, then; something uncommon for Murphy. Almost melancholic, looking past Lucien's shoulder. "Lies can be a kindness, too. Not just for others, but... for yourself. Sometimes, they're all you've got." "Mmm." The look Lucien settles on Murphy is just one of quiet thought. His fingers are toying with the handkerchief, rolling one of its corners idly between forefinger and thumb. "It feels like the truth would be harder for you to hide from than many." "You'd think so," Murphy grunts, the moment of melancholy passing. "But no. It's like... this... ringing in your ears, yeah? It's always there. But you can ignore it, pretend it ain't. You kind of have to. Because no one else seems to hear it -- and every time you act like it's there, people just..." Murphy grimaces. The ice in the glass clinks against his teeth as he tilts the glass back and swallows half of it in a single pull. "It gets easier with practice -- lying. But that ringing is still there. And then, one day, you catch yourself right before you repeat the lie to some kid complaining about a ringing in his ears, and you realize..." He shakes his head. "I used to think it was harder for me -- but it ain't. You repeat a lie often enough, you start becoming it." "Mmm," comes again, just as neutral as before. "That sensory experience, I am familiar with." This time, he sounds a little bit wry. There isn't much in his expression that can be called sympathy -- just quiet, just calm -- which perhaps makes it all the more striking when he reaches out to return Murphy's handkerchief. The gentle touch of fingers that accompanies this comes with a careful peeling-away -- not of emotions, Murphy's melancholy left untouched, but the residual pain beneath it, the constant neurological screech, the endless ignorable-un-ignorable ringing, softening, quieting, carefully tucking itself away. "Becoming is a process, not a destination. We remake ourselves daily. Perhaps --" His free hand turns elegantly upward in a sort of a shrug; there is a faint trickle of something warm, hopeful and comforting that whispers in Murphy's brain -- not nearly powerful enough to push away whatever he was feeling, but adding its own pleasant coloring to the mix. "You can try repeating something new." There's a ghost of a reaction -- like an old, lingering scar. An unconscious flinch when Lucien reaches out to return that handkerchief, and in doing so, touches Murphy's hand. But the moment that the contact is established, that instinctive response melts away... tampered down and evaporating along with the rest of the calcification that infests Murphy's mind. It's like a network of psychic scar-tissue; hard, dense pockets of information, of pain -- forming a labyrinth of harsh, sharp angles that protect nearly as much as they hurt. And now, they're growing softer... more malleable. Murphy hisses out a breath. In the face of chronic, constant pain, its sudden and unexpected absence is easily confused for a new type of pain -- like a hand under a faucet that briefly cannot differentiate between scalding or freezing water. But even this response is being tamped down, smoothed out; the hiss fades into a soft, shuddering sigh. For just a moment, Murphy's own hand curls toward Lucien's, as if desperate to squeeze it -- but he catches himself. Curling his fingers into his own palm, instead. Exhaling, his eyes closing... before muttering: "...swear to God, if you make me re-enact the diner scene from When Harry Met Sally..." But even as he mutters it, as much as that scowl tries to assert itself -- there's a smile beneath it. "Maybe." "You would not be the first man I have had that effect on," Lucien informs Murphy solemnly. Less solemn is the playful flutter of pleasure, now, that oh-so-briefly ripples across Murphy's nerves, there are fading away so soon it might -- were this not Murphy -- be ignorable and soon forgot, chalked up to imagination. The rest -- dampening of pain, quiet undercurrent of warm happiness -- stays firm. "No doubt the world will continue to crystallize you, but into what shape --" A very small twitch pulls upwards at the corner of his mouth. "Still you. Just... different." "Hhn..." Murphy's breathing evens out; it's like knots are unraveling inside of him. Knots he didn't even know were there. One by one, they go slack, pulling his body into an easier and easier slump. The pleasure is almost an after-thought; like a hint of cinnamon sprinkled lightly atop of a cup of cocoa. There, noted, delighted in, but ultimately just an emphasis to the feeling sweeping over him. "...I think..." Murphy starts, his voice sounding a little distant, a little wistful... But then the thought crystallizes, as the smile slips out completely from behind the scowl: "...I think that if this is your idea of mother's day, it's a shame I only got to meet your mom once."