Logs:Post Hoc

Post Hoc
CN: references to sibling abuse and murder, gaslighting
Dramatis Personae Jax, Matt, Ryan, Other Mother
In Absentia Lucien, Joshua, Lily, Dawson	2024-03-17 "It's been such an ordeal!" (after Luci's murder)
Location Signal, chez Tessier
In the small hours of Sunday morning, a series--typed just a touch too slowly to be characterized as a flurry--of Signal messages bombard Ryan's phone: (Matt --> Ryan): what I do with a body (Matt --> Ryan): *deceased (Matt --> Ryan): normalement I ask Luci (Matt --> Ryan): But I killed him (Matt --> Ryan): je ne sais quoi faire tabarnak (Ryan --> Matt): Are you high? (Ryan --> Matt): I'm very high (Ryan --> Matt): Jax says you're probably also high (Jax --> Matt): Don't forget to drink water, sugar (Matt --> Ryan): Oh yeah I'm very high (Matt --> Ryan): but, he's very dead (Matt --> Ryan): je m'en calisse de l'eau (Matt --> Ryan): oh wait your not Jax (Matt --> Jax): chu desole (Matt --> Jax): fuck water I'm vodka (Matt --> Jax): vodkas mostly water (Jax --> Matt): What are you talking about (Jax --> Matt): There's Narcan in his closet (Matt --> Jax): not anymore (Matt --> Jax): I didn't put it back --- <PRV> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village Understated opulence claims this spacious and well-kept townhome, the decor throughout the whole of it of the highest quality and carefully chosen. The front door opens onto the entrance hall, a closet close at hand to receive coats and shoes -- the pale hardwood floors gleam underfoot, unsullied by tracked-in mess from outside. The living room beyond the entrance is all dark woods and pale earth tones, comfortable couches and armchairs and a thick soft rug laid down beneath. Two large and painstakingly aquascaped aquariums flank the entrance to the dining room, with several brightly coloured species of fish within. Most of the rest of the wall space, notably, is taken up with shelves -- shelves crammed with books of every subject and genre. A study branching off of the main hall is cozy, small, done in pale blues and lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon, though these rarer books are cased behind glass. Another securely locked door leads to the basement, and another to the full bathroom downstairs. The kitchen connects to the living room; in contrast, it is sleek and modern and well-appointed, stocked by someone who takes their cooking seriously. And takes their alcohol equally seriously -- to one side of the kitchen there is a fully-stocked bar. The back door to the kitchen looks out on a small well-kept garden. There are a lot of flashing lights on Waverly Place tonight, but the ambulance, at least, is pulling away to unblock the narrow street, escorted by a pair of no doubt superfluous NYPD patrol cars, given they leave several more behind. The Tessiers' door stands open, and there's probably a bit of dirt tracked-in tonight as well, between the heavy boots of EMS workers and the police and the matriarch's black stilettos. The remaining cops are clustered in the living room around said matriarch now, their hats off and their notebooks tucked away in various aspects of respectful sympathy. "Thank you ever so much, Officers." Elie is dabbing at her eyes with one of Lucien's embroidered handkerchiefs, the very picture of dignified bereavement. "He was usually the one to take care of such -- official business, you know. I'd have been lost without you, but I can handle the rest now. Please get home safe to your loved ones. Thank you again for your service, and God bless you all." Matt stands beside his mother, letting her cling to his arm as if she were the one who needs his steadiness and not the other way around. He's pale and disheveled, his hair half dried and half spiky damp, wearing a threadbare moss green tee adorned the graphic of a pale green snake whose coils may or may not spell the word "dangerous" in stylized cursive, its head reared up to menace an unwary songbird, and also threadbare black pajama pants. His smile is a bit tired and a bit vacant, but that seems understandable under the circumstances, as is setting aside his wonted volubility to let his even more loquacious mother charm the law enforcement. With the speed that they've made it over to Greenwich it would be a fair bet that Jax has broken several traffic laws -- but then, there are (probably) not particularly well defined regulations governing his current ride. Sugar is descending in a thrum of enormous wings and giving a long look through the window at the crowd of ~~prey~~ people visible in the living room. The careful shielding Jax has put up in flight (they don't -- yet -- make adaptive dragonfly saddles) are vanishing in a blink as they land, He is trying not to be too visibly impatient as he helps Ryan down, but the anxious impatience bleeds through all the same in the whispers of feeling coloring his low repetitive whispered r'fuah shlemah though this prayer is fading in a despairing flicker as he watches the ambulance pull away. He's making as much haste as they can to get inside, not bothering with his shoes either. It's hard to tell how put-together he really is, a heavy cloak of illusion wrapped around him, but he certainly looks the more presentable of the pair, vibrant hair improbably neat given his mode of travel, bold rainbow color-blocked denim jacket anachronistically cheerful for the occasion, black and red button-down beneath paired with neatly tailored jeans. "Oh --" and as they're entering the house his grief isn't fading but his anxious panic is. "Ma'am, I'm -- so sorry," he's addressing Elie first and respectfully; the police officers get barely a look. He's hurrying over to throw fiercely warm arms around Matt, squeezing tight before letting go. "If there's -- anything we can do for y'all." Ryan comes along in Jax's wake -- he's considerably more disheveled, dark 5-o'clock (in the damn morning) shadow, hair a windswept mess, the faux-leather jacket he's thrown on over old dark purple shirt ('SOCIAL JUSTICE BARD' it reads and beneath that, 'rallying the revolution') and rainbow-pleated black kilt not particularly coordinated and a likely displeasure to his conscientious stylists. He's clumping his way in with a vaguely apologetic look down to his own shoes that fades -- into a distressed one -- at the mess already on the floor. "My condolences, Ms. Tessier." There's a gentle wash of comfort doggedly projected into his words. "Matt --" He's moving slowly over to kiss the shorter man light on the temple. "What happened?" Elie, on the other hand, looks on the verge of weeping anew at the sight of the cavalry, her tears held back only by maternal tenacity and sheer force of poise. "Oh thank God you are here!" She relinquishes her grasp on her son's arm only reluctantly to make room for Jax's embrace. If her words don't feel as enthusiastic as her voice sounds -- well, the woman is in shock, isn't she? "It's been such an ordeal! Matthieu killed Lucien, you see, and then there were the medics and the police and -- do see to it he gets something to eat, won't you boys?" She offers a pair of air kisses to all three men collectively in lieu of a proper faire la bise for each. "Alas, I've paperwork yet to do and must away. Be strong, mon loulou!" And with that, she's sweeping out the door, shutting it against the waning hubbub outside. Matt leans into Jax, closing his eyes. He's cool to the touch--not just to Jax's--and smells powerfully of vodka. "Sorry darling, I ought to have updated you," he says sheepishly. There are tired, spent dregs of anger in his voice, but right now he's flatter than his usual emotional baseline. "As you see, Mother has matters well in hand." This with an air of fond exasperation as he tips a hand in the direction of Elie's retreating form. "I was just...coming down pretty hard and ill-advisedly getting sloshed about it. Gods, but I am not drunk enough for this." He's already wandering toward the kitchen, presumably to rectify his alleged excess of sobriety. "So anyway, it turns out Luci handed me over to Prometheus while I was in the hospital, and probably did the same with Mother." He sounds at once entirely sincere and not terribly bothered by this. Annoyed, certainly. Hurt, perhaps. "Though he swore up and down he just killed her, outright. Which seems also very believable, frankly." There is a mostly-empty liter bottle of Reyka on the island counter, but he doesn't go for it at once. "Can I get either of you anything?" "Oh -- of course we'll --" Jax's brow furrows as Elie sweeps out, and he's slow to pivot. His hand lifts, fingers scrunching through his hair, and it seems to take a few seconds before anything filters through his current bemusement. When it does, though, his eye is widening, a bright flutter of alarm in his voice. "Matt, what on earth --" He's hurrying after his friend, although only to take Matt's elbow and steer him instead towards his armchair. "I just done told your ma we'd look after you, you sit." It's only after this that he's adding, just a little skeptical: "You sure Luci did all that, it don't sound so much like him." Ryan makes his way to the couch, though there's a small tilt of his head and a small flex of his power like he is not entirely sure he won't, actually, hear Lucien if he just tries a little harder. "You don't -- really mean killed him, right? Shouldn't we call Joshua?" This might be directed at Matt or maybe at Elie's departing back, more puzzled than alarmed although now that he is not deliberately trying quite so intently the fuzzy lingering edges of his already mellow high are seeping through in his voice. "... why would he have done that?" Matt doesn't resist--perhaps being herded into that armchair in particular just feels natural. "Doesn't it? I was dying, and Prometheus did cure me. I wouldn't have blamed him if he just didn't know any better, but clearly..." His anger is slowly winding back up. "I mean, he got Lily Allred into Lassiter. And how do you suppose he knew Dawson was at Blackburn? Gods know what else he was holding back." He's back on his feet and pacing the living room. "Oh, Mother was not a good mother growing up and Luci's always hated her, so he murdered her -- and didn't tell me!" He sounds far more irritated about the lie of omission than the actual matricide. "You don't understand how dangerous he is. Was. I..." He coasts to a stop, a slow uncertain dread creeping into his words. "...I had to protect my family from him." Jax's brows wrinkle deep. "He got -- how did he get --" He has been heading back toward the kitchen but he stops, now, in the doorway. Together with the grief still heavy in his voice there's a growing uncertainty, confused and kind of unmoored. "He always had his way but, Matt, that's --" But he stops here, biting down on his lip and flicking a brief glance to Ryan. "I'm -- I'm sorry, that must be a. A lot to learn all at once, an' what he done was awful but -- but you can't just --" There's a small flutter to the light around them. "Was he tryin' to hurt you? I mean -- now?" From the mingled hope and dread in this question it's maybe unclear what he wishes the answer here were. "What the fuck. He did what." Ryan is, meanwhile, immediately spinning up a fury that he is just as immediately trying to reel back in. "You can't just kill people because they lie to you." And here he's double checking with Jax, a small and worried glance like am I right about this? that leads to swiftly pouncing on: "Of course he was. -- he was, right? Matt wouldn't just fucking kill his brother. -- I mean he did, but." The dread is infectious, echoed back towards Matt just a little stronger than it was before. "-- what do you do now?" "What the fuck of course I wouldn't just kill my brother'--" Matt's fury is abrupt and breathtaking, but just as quickly fizzles out into a queasy confused dread that isn't all on Ryan's empathy. "But I had to, it was--why don't you believe me?" There's anger again, still fierce though tempered now with hurt and betrayal and grief. "Mother was right there with us, you can ask her yourself!" The question brings him up short and he just stops mid-pace, hand lifting to cover his mouth as if that would stifle the physical nausea creeping up on him. "Oh gods. What do I do now?" Jax's teeth clink down against one of his lip rings. He's wiggling it anxiously at Matt's outburst and with an immense effort does not point out that Matt has very much Just Done That. Instead he's crossing the room, curling one arm slowly around Matt's shoulders. "I don't know, honey-honey. Maybe when your ma gets back from talking to the cops we can figure it out together."