Logs:Accomplice

Accomplice
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Steve
In Absentia	2022-03-06 "How would you feel about a little terrorism of your own?"
Location <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. It's a dreary day outside, and though it's grown warmer as the afternoon wears on, it's also started raining, on and off. The shower in the first floor bathroom has been running for a while, and at length Steve emerges in a sky blue athletic t-shirt and gray athletic pants -- both Lucien's, neither as tight as one might expect -- his hair spiky-damp and his eyes still bloodshot. There's a subtle slump and a much less subtle tension in his broad shoulders as he somewhat automatically drifts into the kitchen in search of food. Was there food here when Steve arrived? There certainly is now, a spicy peanutty vegetable stew heating on the stove though the kitchen shows little other evidence of recent food prep. Lucien, casual in jeans and a soft blue henley, is not at the stove but the bar, just replacing several bottles -- irish whiskey, some smaller bottles of bitters -- on the shelf. The cocktail glass he hands Steve is still chill to the touch, faint citrus notes mixing with the alcohol. "You'll like this," is all he says before fetching a bowl to set beside the stove. Something eases in the set of Steve's shoulders, and he accepts the glass with a small nod. "Thank you, my friend." He does not question what the drink is, but lifts it for a sip. Raises his brows and nods again, deeper, appreciative. "You're right. You usually are, about such things." He sets the beverage down on a coaster at the breakfast nook and ladles as much stew as can reasonably fit into the bowl before returning to sit down. "Guessing the news is lying about the action already?" "Oh, they are trying." Lucien has not taken any food for himself, but he does have a hefty measure of Scotch in a glass of his own. He takes this to sit across from Steve, hands curled tight around the glass. "Some of the NYPD's dutiful parrots are printing their line about unprovoked attacks against humans. There is ample video circulating to the contrary. Though," he admits, slightly drier, here, "if you ask me, showing up in one of those white cross jackets is provocation all by itself." Steve crosses himself and promptly digs into his stew, appetite evidently undimmed by a long day of protesting and the chemical weapons that ended it. Somewhere in the middle of this he indicates the bowl and, mouth too full to speak, starts to give the "OK" gesture and immediately switches to thumbs-up instead. When he finally pauses for breath and booze, he nods his assent. "I keep trying to mobilize more Care Bears, for de-escalation if nothing else, but..." His head shakes once, quick. "Always harder to get enough support for the mutant actions, and after the pigs shot that kid..." His jaw tenses hard. "Well. Allies are getting a bit more scarce, as if we were the ones in danger." Lucien downs a large swallow of his scotch as Steve eats, then almost immediately lifts the glass for a second -- slightly more measured than the first, though the extreme deliberation with which he sets the glass down suggests this restraint has taken somewhat of an effort. "Whatever the name suggests, I doubt many of your Care Bears have fur and claws. I imagine they are at considerably less risk than that poor boy. Police propaganda aside, this -- entire ordeal has gotten some in Congress talking about actual action against Prometheus. If the pressure stays on, perhaps something may even actually come of it." He starts to lift his glass again, but sets it right back down. "-- little help though that would be to Jackson, currently." Steve's eyes track his friend's hands as he refills his glass, his gaze distant and thoughtful. "Exactly none of us do. The few mutants are -- well, there's Polaris, but I think giving an interview on national television was probably more of a giveaway than the hair." He's slowed down on both food and drink, though it seems to take an effort on both counts. "I'll try to work on folks individually, but we're shorthanded already." His lips compress. "God grant they'll do something soon. And once they do, that might make it ah... politically expedient to dismiss Jax's charges, right?" He's trying and failing to sound level, and his next drink is once more a gulp. Lucien drains his cup in lieu of answer, getting up and taking his time about refilling it. His eyes are fixed on his glass as he returns to drop heavily back into his seat. "I expect that political expedience may mean finding useful scapegoats to blame for the worst of the horrors." His mouth twists slightly downward before he takes another swallow of Scotch. "Scapegoats on both sides, if they can manage it." Steve sucks in a sharp breath and very deliberately lets go of his glass, balling his fist and extending the fingers again. "Shit," is for a moment all he can manage. "Jax makes a darned appealing hero. They'd need someone like you to spin him far enough in the other direction to scapegoat. And if it goes to trial..." He scrubs a hand up over his face. "Well. He definitely did it. They'll try to make him roll over on his team, won't they? This is madness." "They will try. I doubt they will meet with much success." Lucien's grim expression does not suggest he draws much comfort from this faith in Jax. "If I were spinning it I might focus on the high casualty rate his team and many of their intended rescuees suffered, on some of these raids. -- At the hands of Prometheus, of course, but the American public is very primed to blame the victims of state-sanctioned murders. Moreso if those murders happened during the commission of terrorist acts." Lucien doesn't quite manage to lift his eyes to Steve, though there's an abortive attempt before his next drink. The tightness in his voice makes his words come out more clipped than his usual soft calm. "-- if I do my job correctly, this will be tried in the court of public opinion well before they can get him in front of a judge. I want them to fear the war they will unleash if they make a martyr out of him." "Thank God you're not spinning it for them, then." Steve salutes Lucien with his glass and drains half of what remains in it. "They haven't been doing a great job with their narrative on this case." His brows furrow. "Though now I think of it, maybe that's because you're pre-empting them at every turn." He goes kind of quiet, kind of still, his face pale and his breathing quick. "They should fear it." Low and dangerous. His eyes flick over Lucien. The frown deepens. "I'm sorry. You've already got so much on your plate, and this is...a lot. If there's any way I can help -- whether with Jax's situation or your sanity? You know I'm good for it." "I cannot foresee every eventuality, but I am trying." Lucien blinks hard, and slowly lifts his gaze from his cup to meet Steve's. "I --" His fingers press white against the side of his glass, then deliberately ease. "My sanity will survive as intact as ever it has been. Jackson..." His brows pinch together briefly. "How would you feel about a little terrorism of your own?" "Well, it's working." There is a stubborn insistence in Steve's tone that dares Lucien to argue otherwise. "I'll keep going out there as long as we need people to yell about this and people to take care of those yelling about it, but..." He looks up directly into Lucien's eyes for just a moment -- the same precise shade of icy blue as his own -- expression and body language alike difficult to read beyond sheer intensity. "I'm ready." This time when he tenses it is full of both potential and intent, as if he means to jump to the proposed terrorism right on the spot. Then he settles back down and blushes, stirring what remains of his stew. "I will be ready, once I've told Sam whatever is safe to tell him and made arrangements for Zen." Lucien does not argue otherwise. He does take another pull from his glass, setting it back down on a coaster with a heavy thud. He evinces no surprise at Steve's willingness to commit as-yet-unspecified terrorism, only inclining his head in acceptance. "We will need to consult with Ryan and his people. I do believe that Captain America breaching one of these facilities would meet with quite a different reaction than Jackson has endured." Steve nods, just once up and down, decisive. "In full uniform. Why, I'll --" He shuts his mouth firmly, takes a deep breath, then starts again. "-- I'll do whatever you and Ryan think best. I'll storm the gates of Hell itself if that's what it takes to end this atrocity." The steely determination does not fade from his eyes, but his voice is softer when he adds, "And free Jax."