ArchivedLogs:Music and Masques

Music and Masques
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Masque, Nox, Matt
In Absentia	2013-02-12 '
Location <NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival. The weather has been cold and wet of late but that's never kept the residents of the East Village from getting their freak on. Though, in this event, "freak" means "jazz quartet in the gazebo across from the handball courts". The activity is meant to serve as an early celebration of Valentine's Day. Red and white Christmas lights have been strung up around the gazebo (powered by the same generator also powering the space heater keeping the musicians from freezing) and some romantic soul has scattered flower petals on the pathways that join with the gazebo at their center. The poor petals have seen finer days, the damp getting to them, but where snow remains piled up to the side of the walkways, they do make for a pretty spray of color. Folding chairs have also been provided--their seats are spraypainted with initials that mark them as belonging to a local rec centre--for those brave enough to remain still as they listen to the quartet do their sweet, jazzy thing. Nox is less cold than many who've gathered to enjoy the music. She's in those bright red galoshes and the black trench coat again, the floppy hat, the shades, but no scarf, no gloves, no stockings. Just a charcoal grey woman with shadow snake hair, standing to the very rear of the assembly and swaying lightly in time to the melody. The hem of her coat, and the bag tucked over her shoulder, are both spattered with...something. Hopefully that is mud. Lucien is late to the performance, but these things happen when trying to corral siblings to get out of the house. Even just one sibling, even just one /older/ sibling, when he comes with his own host of Getting Out Of The House difficulties. Today he arrives with a Matt in a wheelchair, bundled up very snug and very warm against the cold. Lucien is less bundled, jacket, no scarf, though he does have gloves on has he pushes the wheelchair not so much through the crowd as /around/ it to find a less occupied spot. A less occupied spot which ends up being near Nox, who for /some/ reason many people are giving a small berth. He fits Matt's chair up into the end of the last row, leaning against its handles, his eyes skimming first the quartet and then the woman nearby. It takes a moment, but a small smile pushes back exhaustion from his face. "Hello," he greets, quiet, "You were there this weekend." Matt turns at this statement, his smile bigger and brighter. It does not successfully remove the shadows of exhaustion that plague him, though. "Oh, hi!" is /chipper/ until it earns a few stares from nearby people (who promptly /cease/ staring once they realize omgwheelchair!); he is more hushed following: "Nox, right?" It would take someone far less situationally aware than a Morlock to not notice a wheelchair being pushed through slush. Nox--or rather Nox's head with sunglasses--turn in the direction of the siblings as they approach. She doesn't recoil but there is the briefest of hesitations before she replies, it taking that long before she recognizes either of the young men beside her. "So I was and were you. Nox, yes. You, I recognize," she murmurs with a dip of her head to Lucien, "and you," to Matt, "but the chair, not so much. Did I overlook the accessory in the heat of battle? It would not be the first time." She's such a base liar but it's pleasantly intended. She's reached into her pockets while speaking and withdrawn a pair of gloves. They're tugged on before she offers Matt her hand first. Matt takes the offered hand, his own grip a little slack but his smile bright. "Naaah, the chair's -- well, not /new/ just not always. Some days are walking days, y'know?" And some, evidently, aren't. "Matt. And that's Luci. And I'm totally glad he got dragged into the war, he usually hates fun." "I do not hate fun," Lucien protests. Stiffly. "I'm here, aren't I? Hello again." This is less stiff and more pleasant, his own hand extended once Matt is through. "I had met your friends before. The sisters. Lily is fairly devastating in battle, though, it turns out." Nox's own grip is light. Squishy, one might say! She's not entirely solid beneath the glove--which may have been the purpose of putting it on in the first place. The three of them stand to the rear of the crowd assembled around the gazebo, where they are likely to draw the fewest suspicious glances for both the wheelchair Matt is occupying and Nox's unnatural grey skin and shadow-hair. "Matt...wise of you, to spare your shoes the soaking. It is a pleasure. And Luci...Lucien. That's right, I remember now." The smile she'd given to the older, chair-bound brother is transferred to the younger, standing. She takes his hand. "Ah, my Knights. Lily is so often underestimated. The girls know more people than I'd realized but I only rarely venture out. Do you enjoy the music? Or the lights? A shame the snow is melting, it is not as pretty as I'm sure they'd hoped for. "I love music. Luci plays," Matt says, gesturing towards the quartet jazzing it up in the gazebo. "Not jazz. More classical. The ones you underestimate are the most powerful. Fitting, for a Knight." "Nobody underestimates Knights," Lucien contradicts, "they're among the most powerful pieces on the board. I do enjoy the music. Is that what brought you, today?" His fingers uncurl, gesturing across towards the basketball court and the melting remnants of snow fort it holds. "No war, this evening. I can't say I'm /too/ displeased about the melting, it certainly makes sidewalk navigation easier." The disagreement between brothers deepens Nox's smile. With her eyes hidden behind Jackie O shades, it's difficult to tell but she seems amused. "So often when I or we speak of Knights, no one thinks of chess. How refreshing you are." She slides her hands into her pockets again and returns the black glassy lenses to the gazebo. "I much prefer music to war, not being a knight myself. Better the sound of strings than battle cries, yes? Or being unexpectedly struck in the head by a missile. I came for the shopping," she murmurs, shrugging her muddy bag higher onto one shoulder, "but was kept by the quartet. Do you know, I had never seen this park before Tatterhood brought us to fight? I should venture out more often." "It's a great park. It's always full of interesting people and there's /so/ many interesting festivals and nobody cares if you're a freak," Matt says, delivering this all in the same light cheerful tone. "Welll, not until this past week anyway." His eyes roll. Probably at the mayor. "What if you're going into battle /to/ the sound of strings? Would war be better with a better soundtrack?" "No," Lucien says, giving Matt's wheelchair a quick /shake/ though there's amusement in his expression. "War would be better without war. Sometimes necessary, though. Matt thinks of chess before he thinks of most things. I think because he is constantly plotting how to hopelessly crush me in our next match. Do you play?" He's glancing back, across the park; there are stone tables with chess boards etched into them. "They have tables. For pick-up games." There is movement among the crowd. It starts quietly at first, mixing in with much the more flattering sounds that surround them, but it is not long before the movement becomes clearer- shoves and stumbling go accompanied by confusion and verbal complaints; Someone from much closer to the gazebo makes their way through the swathe of people and they don't much seem to care for the fact that you're supposed to walk around people, not violently /into/ them in the hopes that they will move aside for you. The few insults that are slung his way seem to go completely ignored, though it's hard to tell whether he even hears them in the first place- his face largely hidden under the hood of a dark red, ill-fitting and dirt-streaked coat. That is, until he comes nearer to the back of the crowd, where... he suddenly comes to a halt. In front of one person in particular, back hunched and face obscured by darkness. His hands dig deeper in the tattered pockets where they are currently buried, until he finally lifts his head to look straight at Nox. With a smile wider than half of his face seems to allow it to be, pulling uncomfortably at the semi-functional muscles as it slowly opens to crooked teeth. Saying absolutely nothing. "Somebody always cares," Nox hums, taking care to match light and cheerful with the same in her whispery voice. It helps that she bends closer to Matt's ear, as if confiding in him. "It is only they've been given room to speak out, now. Another reason to be grateful for music, it drowns them out." She straightens up, her hair curling discontentedly around her neck, and turns another smile towards Lucien. "Not so often as I'd prefer. I am teaching some of the children. My one other opponent far outclasses me, I suspect I would be a poor match to afficianados of the art. If you would like..." But here she trails off, looking from the distant stone tables to the source of the commotion. When Masque presents himself before her, what had been a puzzled silence becomes a startled one, filled with a flowing step to place her body between the seated Matt and the hunched man. "...Masque." "Most people are poor matches to Matt," Lucien says, wry, "though I'm not such a master as to -- perhaps some time we could play?" His pleasant smile is shifting into a frown at the commotion in the crowd. A deeper one at Masque's arrival, seeming more in response to Nox's discomfort than to Masque's actual presence. "-- Hello." It's bland. His eyes flick over Masque in slow appraisal. He pulls Matt's wheelchair back /just/ slightly. "I'm not going to break," Matt chides, but it's quiet. "-- Hi." His is more cheerful, even if somewhat /cautious/ in tone. "You two know each other." There is a brief moment in which the tone of Nox's voice, her change in position and the pull on the wheelchair seems to delight Masque somewhat disproportionately, drawing his smile even wider before suddenly it just vanishes and is replaced with a halfhearted, lopsided scowl. His grey eyes widen and flit arythmically between the three people in front of him, before coming to rest on the one he actually knows. "Yeah. I know /Nox/. Ain't it a pleasure running into you here." Without warning or a clear reason, he steps forward and pulls a hand out of his pocket to reach straight for her face. Personal space? Not a thing. "Masque doesn't break. Masque /changes/. Or so he did when I knew him last. Perhaps he's--" Nox doesn't finish. The moment the man's hand clears his pocket, the woman disintegrates. Hat, glasses and trench all fall on top of the galoshes she'd been wearing, leaving Masque's fingers to poke through a dark haze that hangs in the air between him and the brothers. It sinks quickly, merging with his own shadow stretched tall against the ground, but Nox's murmuring remains. "...or perhaps he hasn't." Those who had been shoved aside by the man earlier have been watching his exchange with the trio. When Nox vanishes, someone screams. The musicians stop playing. People look. "What. The fuck." Lucien is stepping forward as Masque reaches for Nox's face, gloved hand lifting reflexively to intercept this breech of personal space, less a grab and more a hard block. He twitches in surprise when Nox disintegrates, but his jaw only hardens against the scream. The staring. Matt rubs a hand against his eyes. He's focusing his gaze /very/ intently on Masque. "What are you doing?" He sounds more baffled than anything else. "It seems a little rude." "I missed this." Unfazed and unbothered by the stares and attention, breathing in the newly changed atmopshere as if it was a fresh foresty breeze, Masque slowly pulls his hand back and away from Nox's form. He seems the opposite of surprised, though eyes linger there for a few seconds before he focuses on Matt, head turning toward him before his gaze makes the shift. "You know what's rude?" His voice grates as he sluggishly shifts his weight under the heavy coat, "Rude is spyin'. Spyin's gonna get someone into trouble sooner or later." Without pause, he glances up at Lucien instead and adds to no one in particular, "Who's the cripple?" "Don't let him touch you," Masque's shadow advises, "don't let him touch you for /anything/." And then it is working its footless ankles up Masque's legs, wrapping around and around like bindings. Or shackles, if Nox dares solidify that part of herself rather than simply prepare to do so--should he lurch towards either of the brothers. People are scattering, the musicians among them. So much for jazz. "Some people simply deserve to be spied on, Masque. Do please remember, you're upset with me. Down here, dear." "He can touch me all he wants," Lucien says with a definitive lack of caring and a brief glance to Matt, "though it doesn't always go so well for people." "I'm Matt," Matt answers, lightly, "and it's not spying if you interrupt my conversation in a public park." "He doesn't appear to be very bright," Lucien murmurs to his brother, "you need to be patient with people when they have -- deficiencies. Generally," here he is switching to the slow and very patient tone one uses with small children, "/spying/ requires intruding on someone's /privacy/. Do you know what a public park is?" "Please do not antagonize him." Even incorporeal, Nox's whispering carries a clear note of pleading. "You don't understand what he can--" It's her role tonight, it would seem, to be interrupted by those around her. Or at least by Masque, who's loud reply to Lucien cuts over her murmured cautions. So, the woman resorts to a different tactic--distraction. It's growing late enough that the shadows in the park are deepening. Under the cries and exclamations of the crowd that is giving them PLENTY OF ROOM, a chorus of whispers begin. Ghost talk, a rustling buzz all saying the same name, Masque's name, over and over again--one of her favorite little spy tricks, when someone's been caught doing something they oughtn't. Lucien just quirks an eyebrow up, at all this. There's another exchanged look with Matt, and then Lucien pulls off his gloves and steps forward, offering his hand out to Masque. Matt looks apprehensive. But he's looking apprehensive at /Lucien/, not at Masque. The sudden influx of whispers slowly catching Masque's attention causes his face to fall, moreso on one side than the other, where his teeth visibly grit. The look he then throws Lucien is abrupt and somewhat puzzled, but any doubt he may have shown leaves him immediately when he spots the outstretched hand. His head lowers under the hood as his jaw muscles tighten, and he just /goes for it/. He reaches with long, wrinkled fingers splayed in anticipation of grabbing a hand soon riddled with extra pockets of flesh and folded skin. "That's the spirit." It takes a great deal of concentration to maintain the stream of whispers. Focused on Masque, on distracting and maddening him so he pays attention to /her/, she doesn't spy Lucien's gesture. When Masque leaps on the chance, the whispers stop--but Nox doesn't have time to do more than hiss out, "No!" before their hands connect. Now she /does/ solidify, or the bands around Masque's legs do, in a bid to topple him over and tear him away from the other man. Lucien is not hesitating. He reaches for the offered hand, clasping it firm and strong. Possibly the first thing Masque might notice is that his skin is not budging at all, Masque's mutatin simply arrested in its ability to work. Possibly the second thing is that, in fact, nothing is working, a brief paralysis of muscles for the duration of the handshake. Lucien's smile is thin, his bright green eyes fixed none too kindly on Masque's face. A quiet warning, "Luci --" from Matt has him dropping the other man's hand, though, muscles returned to Masque's own control with the cessation of contact. "It's okay, Nox," Matt says, quiet but assured, "He can't hurt us here. I mean, not that you /should/ hurt anyone anywhere, but she seems kind of worried right /now/. It's fine, though." The fact that Masque's attempt to ruin a perfectly good hand is rendered useless would doubtlessly have been scowled at if not for the fact that two different individuals at once cause him to tumble unceremoniously to the floor. The hood falls and folds back, and exposing his marred, mangled face and all the glowering he can manage while trying to figure out what in the world just happened. And, more importantly, if there is still a filthy spy impeding his movement. But either way, he stays lying on the ground for a moment, pushing himself up on an elbow. "/Disgusting/!" The word is suddenly shouted upward spitefully, before his hand swipes in Lucien's direction in wild gesticulation, hoping to catch the attention of any bystanders, "Pickin' on an /old man/!" Nox doesn't respond, at least aloud. She does quickly withdraw once Masque is toppled, retreating to curl herself into the shape of Matt's wheelchair, stretched over its spokes and curves, darkening those lines. Masque's anger is not an unknown but for once she isn't frantically trying to divert it. Instead, she observes. And then quietly (of course), and with a hint of awe, she says, "And this is why I'm not a Knight. I should have trusted..." The shadows on the ground quiver when the man bellows. "I think perhaps it's time to go." In response to Masque, Lucien's eyes widen, and he does not hesitate to point right /back/. "And you, to attack a man in a /wheelchair/." He sounds /shocked/, matching Masque for indignation. And volume. "My brother has /cancer/, who /does/ that? I think you're right," he adds, quieter but still with every evidence of chagrin, "We came here to enjoy just a few moments of relaxation to take his mind off the chemotherapy. Not to be /accosted/ by hooligans." Head shaking in a very what-is-this-world-coming-to way, he moves to take the handles of Matt's wheelchair, murmuring, "This will not hurt you, will it?" as he hesitates, looking down at Nox's form around the chair before he starts to push. Matt is -- rubbing a hand against his pale thin face. This could be out of the exhaustion brought on by his /attack or. Could be to hide the fact he's trying not to burst out laughing. Masque gets to his feet in intermittently jerky, painful looking motions, likely not purely for drama, though it certainly adds to the image. When he does rise again, he is even more hunched over than before. "You're speaking nonsense! I didn't lay a finger on him, nor would I want to!" Those last few words leave his mouth with a little more disgust than he meant for them to. He pulls the hood back up, still staring squarely at Lucien, then speaks in a calmer, quieter voice that is no less deprived of sanity, "You will regret this." He stays put. As the wheels turn, so too does the shadow. Nox is following the brothers, leaving her things behind. Given the slant of the sun, she is beside and a little behind them, possibly proving a rear guard to keep an "eye" on Masque. "He's often tried, rarely succeeded. I'd thought him gone. It should be fine. Your brother should be home, though," she murmurs in return, "and I apologize to you both for the interruption." After a slight pause, she adds with muted humor, "But I cannot say I minded seeing him put in his place." This is said extra special quiet because /just in case/--it's never a good idea to enrage a madman. Particularly one who isn't giving chase. Lucien's lips just twitch upwards, at Masque's parting shot. His own nod of head is almost exaggeratedly polite. He walks off with the others into the gathering dusk, and as they pull away from the crowd Matt does, actually, burst into laughter. "Who /was/ that? He seemed kind of -- off. God, Luci, I don't think you made a friend." "He did not seem like the type of friend I would like to cultivate. We should be home. I don't suppose you would care to join us for dinner?" Lucien wonders. "I am making stroganoff." Left behind, Masque twists around uncomfortably before abruptly taking off in long strides. It's not long before he disappears off into an alleyway, hands balled to fists and back in his pockets. "Never a friend. Not him." There's a moment of silence, time that's spent by Nox in leaping from shadow to shadow away from the brothers to watch Masque's retreat. When she's certain he's gone and not following them, she flows back to settle into Lucien's footsteps. Literally. Right, left, right... "You know, it's been so many years since I've joined anyone for dinner. If it would not be an imposition and you wouldn't mind the company, I would be delighted." And so, in the end, Masque has done one of his many enemies a solid. "No imposition," Lucien assures Nox. "We only live over in the village. It is not far." He is leading the way, out of the park and onto the thankfully mostly-melted streets. "Sorry about the concert, though. Your other friends," he says, wryly, "are much nicer company. Is it impertinent to ask what the, ah, deal with that man is?" "I think his deal is he's not really nice," Matt says. "What was he trying to do, there?" "I rarely tire," Nox assures Lucien in turn, "and if you would like some help with pushing the chair, I would be happy to assist." In the meantime, she flickers from shadow to shadow to keep the pace. Lucien's here, a mailbox there, the verge of a wall, a lamp post. Staying close enough for quiet conversation, and to be overlooked when others pass them--occasionally treading on the darker smudges that mark her presence. "Masque feels he's been done an injustice. I was one of those who helped to wrong him, in his mind." After a slight pause, she adds, "Had you not done whatever it is that you did, he would have warped your body. That is what he tries to do. Touching him...usually it's the worst that you could ever do." "I control people's -- um." Matt stops, considering this for a moment. "Powers? Whatever they can do. I can work with it. Luci'd --" Here he hesitates, too, glancing upwards to his brother for a nod of confirmation before he continues. "Luci's thing is really different. But even if I weren't there he'd have been okay." His smile is a little crooked. "Touching Luci isn't always good news, either. But only if you deserve it not to be." Lucien keeps a brisk pace, though his eyes skip around, shadow to shadow, following Nox's voice. "Was he? I admit, he did not seem the most /civil/ of men, but even the rude can be wronged. He certainly seemed to mean you no kindness, though." He's turning down a side path, taking a shortcut through an alley from East- to -Village proper. "I must admit being glad for what we do. I rather like my body as-is." Alleys are her bread and butter. For a time, Nox walks beside the pair, a woman's shadow where no woman appears. "Can you? The most powerful of powers," Nox murmurs, humming softly afterwards to show her amusement. "I'm fortunate then, that you did not aim at me. I would be very cold, I think." She stretches ahead to have a peek around the alley's corner before sliding back to rejoin them. "I'm glad for what you do as well...he hurt those I care for very badly. No matter how I tried to watch him, he always found a way," she sighs. "It is...mm, an impulse, for him. To make others look like him. Those like you, Lucien, especially." "Like me?" Lucien asks, a little puzzled. "-- That's worse, almost, isn't it," he murmurs, gaze inadvertently dropping down to glance at his brother. "It's sometimes far easier to forgive hurts against yourself than against those you care about." Out of the alley and back into the light, for what value of streetlamps and store windows and passing cars city-night holds. "He wasn't very pretty," Matt explains to Lucien in an apologetic undertone. "I don't just mean the attitude. I guess maybe he's a little bitter. I usually just kind of blanket everything around me, when I'm shutting things off," he admits to Nox, "but I don't usually expect there to be too /many/ of us around so it's usually a safe bet nobody much else is going to be targeted. But I /knew/ you were there, so --" He shrugs. "I would not dislike him so much if he'd focused entirely on me. But I bored him because he couldn't touch me, until I began to watch him," Nox admits. "And so I am the spy. I am a very /good/ spy, unfortunately." As she corners, the too-long spear of her shadow arm settles briefly over Matt's, the way someone might when touching to offer comfort or thanks. It slides away a moment later without any real contact between them. "Thank you. For remembering I was there. It has happened before, by accident, and invariably reminds me than I am happier as I am. Particularly in the winter months." "People forget I'm there a lot," Matt says from his chair with a quick flash of smile. "I mean, nothing /bad/ happens to me for it, but I -- don't like to overlook people." They're coming out of stores and apartments, onto a short row of rowhouses. Lucien angles Matt's chair up the two front steps of one, reaching down to take the keys that Matt lifts up to him. "That," Lucien says, thoughtfully, "is good to hear. I hear many wishing they were -- other than they are. Sometimes people call these gifts, and sometimes I -- wonder." "Small wonder, then," Nox confides to Matt, "that you so admired Lily." She retreats as they ascend the stairs, pooling herself behind them in the lee of the steps while waiting for the doors to open. It's so difficult to tell what she might be taking in but she's quiet while the door is unlocked. Sizing up their home? Observing them? Basking in the growing dusk? Who can say...and the shadows aren't telling. "Sometimes they are gifts," she says simply, "and sometimes they aren't. Are you certain I won't be intruding on your evening?" "Lily's rad. And really nice. Even if she thinks I'm a dork," Matt says. "You are a dork," Lucien answers, carefully polished diction for a moment dropping away entirely to pure little-brother teasing. He opens the door, nudging it wide with a foot so that he can angle the wheelchair in. "Quite sure." "Luci sometimes hates people," Matt tells Nox, sounding cheerful about this, "and he's /not/ polite. Like. He doesn't invite people to socialize out of /politeness/. Cuz if he doesn't like you he just kind of snarks till you go away. So if he /is/ inviting you and you're not paying him it's probably cuz he wants to." Lucien just gestures to Matt, with all this, very much a what-he-said sort of thing. He holds the door, once the chair is in, gesturing to Nox, as well, in invitation. A buzz of sound drifts up from the stairs. Is she laughing at them? /Probably/. Then Nox brushes by the pair, just a whisper of coolness as she slips inside to take up residence within the foyer. "Then I am doubly honored to have been invited," she says. Once within the safe confines of the home, the woman becomes more tangible. Not so solid as she was in the park, but there is a head, with hair, and shoulders, arms, legs. Too dark for details beyond the sparks of her eyes but recognizably human, at least. She quickly slides backwards and out of the way of wherever the chair needs to go, literally flattening herself against the wall. "As I said, it has been...years and years and so many years. Thank you." "Well, I hope you like stroganoff. Cuz that's what's in the crockpot -- mostly in the crockpot. I still need pasta to go with it." Lucien slips his shoes off by the door, and closes and locks it behind them. He slips his arm around Matt's shoulders, helping his brother stand; Matt leans against him heavily as he folds the chair, nestling it in the front closet. Walking him to the living room is a slow process. "But you've got friends," Matt is saying, slightly puzzled. "Or -- do you all live together? /Anyway/ I'm not any /more/ a dork than Lily and Tatters are. I think you're just jealous we all out-nerded you." "Jealous," Lucien replies thinly. "Yes, that's it. I aspire to your levels of geekery. -- You don't have any allergies I should know about, do you?" He asks this of Nox almost offhand-routine, like it is something he deals with frequently. "I adore stroganoff." With that assurance, Nox follows the brothers. It's easier to move slowly like this, stepping away from the wall and trailing darkly in their wake. She actually hovers a little--heroically resisting the impulse to offer help--as the chair is put away. "And I have no allergies that I'm aware of. Shall I..." A very brief slip, before she catches herself and resumes the role of guest. Hands are folded behind herself at the small of her back, all but disappearing, black on black. "Mm. We do live together, in a way. Or rather, Tatterhood and I do, while Lily lives above. Away. She lives apart. But this is different. Is there anything that I can do?" That effort was doomed to failure, after all. "Good, cuz Luci's allergies will make him /so dead/ and working around others can --" Matt doesn't finish this sentence. He shrugs, closing his eyes and for a moment resting his head against Lucien's shoulder as he's settled into his armchair. Clearly /his/ armchair, judging from the nest of blankets and pillows that he immediately burrows into. "Above? Above what?" Lucien lingers near Matt's chair, for a moment, /fussing/ at the blankets, but then turns away to head into the kitchen. "Ah --" There's a moment when it's clear his first impulse is to say no, but he shrugs and gestures towards a cabinet. "You could set the table? Plates there, glasses there, silverware --" Another gesture, towards a drawer. He's eying the light on the crockpot, then filling a pot with water to boil. "Do you drink wine?" "It would be difficult to manage allergies in a social environment." She sounds sympathetic. She also sounds relieved that there's a task to busy her hands with. Nox drifts to the cabinet, hands shifting from black to grey as she opens it. "Apart, I had intended to say apart," she says quietly as plates are lifted from their stack and carried to the table. It's not a job that takes much time, though she might linger overlong in selecting silverware and setting out the pieces just so. "She lives apart from us. I do drink wine, yes." A knife is placed carefully beside a plate. "You have a lovely home. Do you know, I don't believe I've said thank you, for your attempt to stop him from touching me, Lucien. In the park. That was...kind of you." "It's hard to manage when out," Lucien says with a shrug, "but it means I've gotten quite a lot of practice honing my skills in the kitchen. I love Chinese, and setting foot in most Asian restaurants means, ah, nothing good for me." Water put up to boil, Lucien retrieves not a box of pasta but a foil-covered tray from the fridge. Fresh-rolled noodles, handmade. He sets the tray out on the counter. "Well. He seemed like he meant -- nothing good. I didn't know that it wouldn't hurt you. There was something about his smile --" Lucien's lips thin. "One minute," he says, then, "I'll be right back." He slips out of the kitchen, heading to a locked door in the hallway to unlock it -- it leads to stairs, dark, heading downwards. Basementy. In the living room, Matt shudders, where Lucien does not. "It was a /creepy/ smile. Like a want-to-stab-you smile. Going right for the /face/ is kind of --" Another shudder. "He -- /warps/ people's bodies? I know people can't choose the powers they get but that's -- I mean, okay, I've known some people with /terrifying/ powers but they don't use them to hurt people. I guess it's who wields it a lot more than -- what. Still, though." "As I didn't know that he couldn't hurt you. Even so, a thank you is in order. And my sympathies for what Chinese would do to you. I have had similar issues with Indian, though not so deadly as an allergy." Nox keeps her whispers as light as the tone allows. A glance is spared the basement but she doesn't pry. There are forks to be set out, and spoons, and other forks, and other spoons, an entire formal spread simply because she can and it pleases her to see all of that cutlery out where it should be. Shining and proper. She touches a plate to straighten it minutely then returns to the living room where Matt is resting. "Creepy is no impediment," and here she spreads her shadow arms, amused, "but yes. To hurt. To enjoy the hurting. He is a bad man. I was afraid for you. How are you feeling, Matt?" Lucien returns in short order, with a bottle of wine in tow, a Burgundy that he uncorks and sets on the table along with wine glasses. By now the water is boiling, and he carefully tips the tray of fresh noodles into it, glancing at the clock as he does. "Creepy is in what you do with it," he says, amused as well as he moves into the doorway to watch Nox's shadowy arms spreading. "Many powers have the /potential/ to be." "There's nothing wrong with enjoying hurting," Matt says, with a glance to Lucien and a slight twitch of lips. "But the other person involved's gotta enjoy being hurt. I'm --" He hesitates, and offers Nox a quick smile. "I'm good. I think I'm gonna be sitting out this dinner thing, though. Maybe save me some for later, Luci?" "The potential. Or the need." Nox sounds agreeable, though she hums again at Matt's interjection. If she notices that it coincides with a glance at Lucien, she gives no sign but there are stars in her eyes and they are /twinkling/. Her amusement fades when Matt goes on though and she studies him for a moment before dipping her head in acknowledgement. One hand stretches out--bridging the gap between couch and chair that a normal arm couldn't bridge--to touch his wrist again. This time, the contact is felt, though fleeting. "It was good to see you again. To speak with you, and meet you properly, Matt. Thank you." "It was good," Matt agrees, his smile easy-warm though his voice is a little tired. "Maybe next time we'll see the whole show." He smiles at the touch, brighter, and his head nestles down against his blankets, eyes closing. Lucien watches this, and turns to slip back into the kitchen. The fresh pasta cooks much more quickly than dried, and he is getting out potholders alread to drain it, dumping the strained pasta into a bowl. "The potential or the need. Though even a /need/ need not coincide with a -- sadism. Though," Lucien admits, a little quieter, a little more wry, "I'd be lying if I didn't say that sometimes, giving people what they deserve does have a certain pleasant taste to it. -- Shall we?" He moves the pasta to the table, moves the stroganoff from the crock pot to the table, too. It is quite full of beef and peas and several types of mushroom. Nox spends a little longer in the living room, watching Matt drifting into rest, before she slides from the chair and goes to join his brother in the kitchen. "The danger, one supposes, is in feeling that you are in any position to judge what a person might deserve. Ah..." She's surveying the feast that awaits but hesitates behind the setting she's claimed for herself. "Do you have a robe, Lucien? Or a shirt? Even a jacket would suffice. In order to eat, I have to..." She gestures to herself, from collarbone to navel, hands a solid charcoal but the rest of her body shifting dark. "I'd forgotten, I apologize." "I do possess clothing," Lucien says, with a quiet note of amusement in his tone. "I wear them, from time to time. More than just the ones I am currently in, even. One moment." He pours two glasses of wine, but then hurries out of the kitchen, heading upstairs. He returns in short order with a long robe in very soft black cloth, holding it up. "Will this do? It is, at least, comfortable. If you stay intangible, do you get hungry?" "I would not have guessed," Nox deadpans, which is far easier to do when you can't raise your voice. She remains as she was while he's gone, neither taking her seat nor taking an early sip of wine. It's just enough to soak in the atmosphere. But that doesn't mean she can't greet the return of man and robe with pleasure. The fabric's taken, grey spreading over suddenly appearing skin just as she slips into the garment to cover everything. "This is perfect," she assures him, "better than I'm accustomed to. Thank you." So she's able to take her seat, slipping the napkin free of the silverware and draping it over her lap. "Distantly. As with cold. I feel them but it's a little like having a word on the tip of your tongue and not being able to remember it. This smells wonderful," she says now that she has a nose to sniff at the air. Lucien smiles, dishing out two servings of stroganoff ladled over the wide noodles before taking his seat. "I enjoy cooking. It's usually just the two of us, it's kind of nice getting to share. I don't often get hungry," he admits, his smile a little crooked, "Or cold, but in my case that's not so much a boon. I need to eat as much as most people. And I will freeze to death just as easily. The signals just -- don't quite come, sometimes. Bon appetit." He lifts the glass in toast to Nox, before taking a sip. "Are you from this city?" His quiet francophone accent probably answers the question for him, at the least. "Prost," she says with a passable accent--high school German is evident there, not the real thing--and she raises her glass as well before enjoying a taste of the wine. Another hum marks Nox's enjoyment. "No but it's become home. Is your appetite a side effect of whatever it is that you do?" She tilts her head, eyes cutting towards him while the glass is set down and a fork taken up. "I don't believe either of you gave a clear explanation of your abilities but if I'm prying, I believe you are within your rights as host to have me removed from the premises." After she's forked up a bite of the stroganoff, she adds, "Though now that I've tasted your cooking, I'll have to ask you to wait to eject me." "A side effect, yes. I, ah --" Lucien smiles, at the compliment to his cooking, a hint of colour touching his cheeks. He takes a bite, himself, washing it down with a sip of wine. "I control -- brain activity. Unfortunately or fortunately, it extends to my own as well. But it means I have a lot of control over things I should not have control over. Numbing pain or discomfort is kind of a reflex. I have to consciously tell myself to /stop/, it triggers right away. Except most everyday pain or discomfort -- cold, hunger, hurt -- we need those things to remind us to eat, or get inside, or stop touching the hot stove." Lucien's hand turns up, fingers spreading. "Sometimes I need to do a check, just to make sure I have not accidentally hurt myself while I was not feeling it." He takes another mouthful of stroganoff, dabbing lightly at his lips afterwards. "So what is it that you do? For -- enjoyment, I mean. You like jazz? What more?" Nox listens to the explanation quietly, the only sounds the clink of silverware on the plate, or a soft glass tink when the base of the wineglass catches the edge of the same plate as she lifts it. Ordinarily she might apologize; now she just continues to listen. "A gift and a curse in one. How easily that happens," she says afterward. "But you've done well with it. Living with it. Not that you've had much choice...and there, I ramble." To stop herself, she resumes eating and it is no chore to make inroads to the stroganoff. It gives her time to consider her answer, too. "Mm...enjoyment. Music, really, not just jazz. Theater, though that's a very rare luxury. I read, when I can. I tell stories. I look after my own. It isn't hard to find enjoyment in most things, when one's brain activity allows it." That was a joke, though it was gentle enough to be missed as such. "So many of these things are," Lucien allows, with a small smile. "Living has been less easy, at times, but -- there are harder ills to bear." Maybe his eyes cant back out towards Matt, sleeping in the living room, here. Maybe they don't. His gaze tips downward soon after, as he sips at his wine. His smile warms, widens. "I do love the theatre," he says, quietly. "Books, too --" This time he does look back to the living room, and its expansive bookshelves. "When you can? Is it hard to find time?" There's amusement in his eyes as he adds, "-- Indeed. It's impressive the things our brain can learn to enjoy." "Great heroes need great sorrows and burdens, or half their greatness goes unnoticed," Nox murmurs, the tone one of quoting. "But then one could argue that what is great about wanting to be noticed? He's good, isn't he? Sometimes I think that good is better than great." She means Matt--the light in her eyes turns towards the living room before lowering towards her plate again. "It is good to have the things you love around you. Do you have a theatre tucked away somewhere here too?" Half of the stroganoff is eaten but she sets the fork down, dabs her lips and folds the napkin beside the plate. The wine is taken up instead. "Time. Resources. The ability to enjoy unhindered. It's a small thing." "He is good," Lucien affirms, and like before it's abruptly younger, less carefully polished than most of his words. Little brother, still, though this time without the bratty teasing. He sips slow at his wine, turning an amused smile on Nox. "Goodness, but I wish. My own private shows. No, I have no theatre, but I do have a library. I can't buy you time, but if you find some you can come over. It's a big house, and just me and him here, usually. There are plenty of places to curl up unhindered with a good book." "Oh." The wine glass pauses on its way to her lips, while Nox's eyes turn to him. She's surprised. The apples of her cheek shade from charcoal to soot. "Oh," she repeats. "That is so very kind of you but I couldn't. It would be too great a temptation, and you would always wonder, is the shadow lurking in that corner just a shadow or is it her? No. I think it's enough to know that places like this are still real. But thank you. Thank you." "I would hope," Lucien says with a soft laugh, setting his fork down -- his food is only half-finished, as well -- and sipping again at his wine, "that if it were you you would say hi. But I understand. It was just an offer. Perhaps, before you go," he says then lightly, "you might indulge me with a game of chess?" "I don't always," Nox confesses, "because sometimes I forget. As you do, with your pain. But thank you, Lucien. Maybe one day I will have time and willpower enough to engage your library." Mention of chess wins a smile again and the lifting of her glass. A late, second toast, without words. "I think you will be disappointed with the threat I present on a chess board but I would be happy for the chance to play a game before I go home. Ah...before we play, do you think I could use your phone? The call would be a local one." "Certainly." Lucien shifts in his seat, sliding a cellphone out of his pocket and swiping it quickly unlocked. He slips it across the table towards Nox, and then stands, dishing out the rest of the food onto a third plate but wrapping it neatly in plastic wrap and leaving it on the counter. He leaves Nox with the phone, then, heading back out to the living room. He stops by Matt's chair, for a moment just looking downwards, but then moves aside to the fishtankes to measure out their dinner, too, in careful pinches. Nox takes the phone with a murmur of thanks and touches in the number--Tatters' number, in the event he doesn't have it saved in his contacts. She speaks so quietly but occasionally words stand out while Lucien bustles around, as she's speaking both slowly and deliberately: "Tatterhood, we...problem...found me earlier and might have...your friends Lucien and Matt...follow him...would follow them...unfortunately....the word on, sweetheart?...or Callisto have questions." When she's finished, the screen is studied before she figures out how to turn things off--a swipe here, a poke there, and finally she has it. Success! The gadget is borne back over to its owner, held in one hand while she cradles the wine glass in the other. "Thank you. You've been a most generous host." Lucien takes the phone with a slight tip of a nod, for a time watching the fish swarm to the top of the water after the food but then turning to smile at Nox. "Thank you for spending the time," he says, quietly, and then gestures towards the doorway out of the living room. "Now -- shall we?"