ArchivedLogs:Some Urgency

Some Urgency
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Steve
In Absentia	2016-12-19 "Maybe we should put on some tea?"
Location <NYC> 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. Monday afternoon has the Tessier house filled with the smells of cooking. Garlicky, herby, rich and winey. Lucien is in the kitchen, just packing away one stew to freeze for the week before returning to the counter for -- more chopping. He is casually dressed, jeans and warm grey socks, green henley with sleeves neatly rolled up past his elbows. Cellphone resting near at hand on the counter, and Shostakovitch piping quietly through the house's speakers. Tagging at his heels, Flèche (looking eternally hopeful with one ear cocked) watches the counters vigilantly. Just in /case/ they drop food. Steve comes up to the house at a brisk walk, his navy peacoat unbuttoned over forest green dress shirt and camel slacks. He carries a messenger bag over one shoulder, and the shield slung across his back has been done up in Christmas colors, the red and white bands transformed to red and green, the five-pointed star into an eight-pointed Star of Bethlehem. He knocks on the door rapidly and stands back, folding his hands across his back as if to prevent himself from knocking again. There's a skitter of claws on wood, an eager deep-throated bark. Paws scrabbling against the door. Somewhat more sedately than Flèche, Lucien eventually pulls the door open, still drying his hands on a dishtowel. His gaze sweeps briefly over Steve before he steps back, gesturing the other man in with a sweep of slightly damp hand. Steve's posture relaxes visibly when he sees Lucien, and his smile at Flèche is faint but genuine. "Oh, you're cooking," he says, stepping inside. "Of course. I can -- lend a hand, if you like." He stoops to remove his shoes, and pays his toll in scritches to the dog. Then, straightening up, he shrugs out of both shield and coat. "{Again, I'm sorry to call unexpectedly, but this is a matter of urgency and delicacy.}" He draws a deep breath. "Maybe we should put on some tea?" One neat dark eyebrow lifts, the faintest hint of twitch tugging at the corner of Lucien's mouth as he finishes drying his hands properly and locks the door behind Steve. "Maybe." Only a mild note of chiding in the word. "{Steve, whose house do you think you are in?}" Fingertips resting light and brief at Steve's back in silent prompt to follow towards the kitchen -- where a kettle of water is heating, now, a steeper measured and set beside the stove next to where Lucien has been chopping vegetables. Steve tips his head down, ever so slightly sheepish but also obviously relieved. "I don't know what came over me, really." He rolls up his sleeves and washes his hands thoroughly at the sink. "I don't know how much you've seen of Jax lately, but..." He reaches for the towel where it usually hangs, then realizes it's still in Lucien's hands and nods at it imploringly. "I'm sure you know he hasn't been well." Lucien tosses the towel lightly to Steve. "Well. You do seem in some distress. I will forgive the lapse." He skirts around Steve to pluck mugs from the cabinet, filling them with water to warm them. "Seen? Not much. My brother, neither. As I've heard, he's been refusing near all his visitors." His lips compress briefly. "I had gathered he was not at his best." Steve dries his hands with excessive care before returning the towel to its customary spot. "I get to see him just by virtue of...being around." He leans back against the counter to give Lucien room to maneuver, compressing his not inconsiderable bulk with surprising ease. "He -- he tried to take his own life," he blurts at last. "Over the weekend. I went to see him in the infirmary today. He's stable, physically at least." From Lucien there is silence, for the space of a few breaths. The water continues to run, overflowing the mug he is holding and spilling down over his fingers. His eyes drop to it -- with a deliberate care he finally tips some of the water back out, sets the mugs on the counter, shuts off the water. "{-- Who knows?}" Steve hasn't moved at all, save for the sweep of his eyes as they track Lucien. "{Ryan. Their guards and watchers. At least some infirmary personnel, I presume.}" He pauses, considering. "Joshua. And S.H.I.E.L.D.'s leading staff. They are being fairly discreet." "{Infirmary personnel.}" Lucien echoes this with a small frown. He is moving methodically now, as the water starts to boil. Getting a potholder, shutting off the stove, filling the steeper. "If it starts to spread any farther /within/ S.H.I.E.L.D. it is only a matter of time before it makes it to the press. And that --" He has crumpled the potholder tightly into his fist before he smooths it out to hang it back up. "-- Would be sub-optimal." "They're pretty serious about their information security, and would not have allowed any loose lips to tend to him. Even so, I don't imagine Fury expects to be able to keep it under wraps forever." Steve stares at the tea steeper fixedly, watching the tea leaves dance and unfurl within it. "Just long enough for Jax to tell his family -- or the media, I guess -- on his own terms." "It is some small mercy they've kept it quiet thus far. His family --" For a moment Lucien breaks into quiet. His hands brace heavily against the counter's edge, eyes fixed down on the screen of his phone. "-- has been through enough. But if we are to get ahead of how this will be presented in the media --" There's a distinct tension creeping in to the set of his shoulders. More quietly: "{You've seen him?}" Steve nods. Then, a beat later, he adds, "{Yes, I have. Just a couple of hours ago.}" His broad shoulders hunch inward. "It was as though all the fight had left him." His head shakes. "Well, not all. But /most./ I don't think he has the energy to worry about the media right now. I should have asked him..." "I will do his worrying for him, then. I cannot imagine that a slew of intrusive paparazzi questions and tabloid speculation is what he wants to return to, at any rate. And perhaps --" Though here, too, now, quiet. Lucien straightens shortly afterwards, tipping out the mugs and decanting the tea into them. "{Thank you for telling me.}" He holds one of the mugs out to Steve, watching the other man's face pensively. "{Is there anything I can do for /you/?}" "No, certainly not." Steve agrees, still watching Lucien's hands moreso than his face. "{It's nothing.} The media angle did occur to me, though not until after I'd left him, and I knew you'd know how to manage that." He does finally meet the other man's eyes at the question. "{You're doing it now.}" This as he accepts the tea, wrapping both hands around it as though he were cold. Then he straightens, quite abruptly. "Wait. Did you say 'return to'?" Lucien settles back against the counter -- if only for a moment. He straightens again shortly, picking up his own tea and moving aside with it to the bench seat at the breakfast nook. "I said that, yes." Steve turns to follow Lucien, though he does not sit down, merely stands on the other side of the breakfast table. His eyes are wide and unblinking, his voice low and cautious. "Are they getting released?" Lucien's fingers wrap tightly around his mug. He lifts it near his face, eyes fluttering half-closed in the fragrant steam that rises. "I do not have a date." His head tips down; the swallow he takes is small. "Yet." "But the prospect of it happening at all, in the foreseeable future -- surely..." Steve seems to subside again. "Surely it would bring them some solace to know." He also takes a sip of his tea, silent for just a moment. "{You made it happen, then.}" Lucien exhales one quiet chuff. His eyes close the rest of the way, head giving a small shake as he sips his tea again. "{I had a considerable amount of help, Captain.}" He leans back against the cushioned back of the bench, the set of his shoulders sagging minutely as he opens his eyes again. "{But it is happening. I only regret it was not sooner.} What solace it might bring them --" Along the line of his jaw, a small tension. "I do not know. It can be a cruelty as much as a blessing, in bondage. To have an end dangled -- but still out of reach." Steve closes his eyes. "{No one ever accomplishes anything in this world without help, but all the same -- you made it happen.}" Opens them again, steady, if a little damp. "Good man. And perhaps you are right, but....it is /hope./ No, it is a promise of an end -- of a beginning, of going /home/. That is powerful." "{Yes.}" Lucien's agreement comes in only a bare whisper. "{Home. That -- is powerful.}" He lifts his mug again, takes another long swallow of tea. His eyes drift to the counter -- his cutting boards, food still waiting to be prepared. "I should see if he will see me. There will be -- a lot of work to be done." Steve nods, nursing his tea. "If he refuses," he says at length, "I can hand-deliver a letter -- probably the most secure way to getting any information to him, honestly, barring telepathy." His gaze follows Lucien's. "You know that I am ready to work, too. Always." He sets down his mug. "Just tell me what to chop."