Logs:Pleasantries

Pleasantries
Dramatis Personae Charles, Lucien, Flèche
In Absentia	2024-06-16 "{My X-Men fought as valiantly as your Avengers. But then, so did many others.}"
Location <NYC> Luci's Apartment - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens
Nestled just below the belfry and above the gardeners' workshop and storage rooms, this penthouse apartment is accessible only at the proprietor sufferance via a special panel in the elevator and a locked utility stairway. The whole of it is psi-shielded, and equipped with a largely unused power suppression grid as well. Spanning one and a half levels, this space could be mistaken for an extension of the conservatory below, with plentiful bookshelves and greenery spilling from every nook, but even a cursory examination will reveal the personal touches that went into its design, softening the neoclassical aesthetic of the building at large with paradoxically fastidious whimsy. The elevator shaft bridging the full level and the loft is, save for the doors, encased in the coral reef of an immense cylindrical aquarium that houses a thriving tropical community. The sitting room immediately adjoining this is bright and airy, open to the empty half of the story above, with a plush circular sectional couch, a low tea table, a sideboard and a bar, its walls covered with lush trellises where not taken up with recessed bookshelves. Opposite the oceanic entryway on the western wall, tall french doors lead to a crescent balcony with views of the waterfront and city beyond as well as the restaurant terrace and garden far below. To either side of the doors, floor to ceiling waterfall windows feed twin pools connected under a thick glass floor panel, an indoor pond lined with smooth river stones and stocked with hardy freshwater fish. On the other end of the apartment, tucked under the loft and behind the elevator shaft, is a large kitchen bracketed by a well stocked pantry on one end and a breakfast nook on the other, its culinary conveniences--even the the refrigerator and ovens--hidden behind opaque glass panels that light up at a touch with lists of their contents. An elegant floating stairway spirals up around the elevator cum aquarium, its balusters and those of the loft's railing above twined with well-trained philodendrons. The long wall of the loft showcases a variety of bows from historical and modern, humble to ornate. A no-nonsense workshop at one end of this gallery stores the less picturesque archery paraphernalia as well as a wide range of tools, striking a quaint contrast with the cozier if no less utilitarian study at the other end. Open offset doorways at either end lead to a capacious bedroom with a king sized bed, its walls graced with myriad orchids and other epiphytes in Greek sconces. The generously sized bathroom is tiled in mosaic scenes from classical mythology and has an entire corner dedicated to the antique clawfoot tub. The walk-in closet is similarly generous, with specialized storage for every imaginable accessory, and a hidden staircase leading to the belfry above and the exit below. The apartment smells warm and herby, already; this evening Lucien has made sure there is adequate Calorie available in advance. Whatever the food is is not currently in evidence aside from its rich scents, but, quiet unsurprisingly, as the elevator makes its ascent, Lucien (dressed currently in an impeccably tailored suit, silvery-grey on green) is setting tea out on the tea table. There are pastries to go with it, cinnamon-blueberry coffee cake and dainty smooth macarons. Lucien himself looks far more alive than he has any right to be, evidently quite hale despite whatever deaths or abductions he may or may not have experienced. Flèche is making herself a nuisance nearby, alternating between getting underfoot and staring very very hard at the pastries and then very very hard at Lucien -- the latter, with some very clear reproach that he is not rewarding her goodness in not eating the pastries, by feeding her pastries. When the elevator doors open, a subtle soothing warmth pours out, and Charles guides his chair out unhurriedly in its wake, not evidently any less enthralled with it than the first time he saw and heard such a thing. He's in a three-piece suit of steel blue cashmere with an Xavier's school pin at the lapel, a purple-and-blue tie subtly embossed with double helices that look like simple stripes at a casual glance, a white dress shirt in a knit so fine it's hard to identify as such without touching, and a silver framed minimalist powerchair, the wheels styled as large Xs. "Salut," he speaks this aloud as he approaches his host, but his greeting is a blossoming of the warmth around him and the wordless yet certain sense-knowledge that he is very glad to see Lucien. "{And to you as well, miss,}" this is directed at the dog. A faint flush of pink dusts Lucien's cheeks at that unspoken knowledge, no less genuine for the fact it has definitely been consciously summoned there. "{From her exuberance you'd think she'd been starved of food and affection.}" Fléche is, indeed, racing over to frisk very eagerly beside Charles's chair and then, quite pointedly, lead him back toward the pastries. "{Don't believe her lies, I promise she's been well fed and well snuggled since her return.}" He is only looking up, now, from where he's just finished pouring and prepping two cups of tea. "{It is good to see you, again.}" Charles follows the dog obligingly to the table. "{Why, and here I was thinking she is only trying to be a good hostess, after your example.}" When he's parked his chair at the end of the table he reaches out to bestow upon Fléche not pastries but a gentle scratch behind one large upright ear. "{I have grown wise to the wiliness of cats, but still fall prey to dog lies, even from less convincing ones than she. Thank you.}" This last is to Lucien. "{For the warning, and for having me. I imagine you must be even busier than ever, to say nothing of your recent ordeals.}" "{Oh, she is. She would like very much for you to be enjoying these pastries, because she has learned from experience that is the most likely time for her to get a share.}" Flèche is pressing her head into the scritching, her other ear flopping halfway over as she does. Lucien leans in when Charles nears, touching a light kiss to the older man's cheek; it comes with a flutter of comfort, gentle and cool. He takes a seat after, catacorner to Charles at the table. "{Oh, I just like to think I am gathering so much fresh material to channel later into my craft.}" There's amusement, quiet and wry, buried in Lucien's voice. "{But making time for you was certainly no problem. It will be good to have a pleasant evening's escape from the media circus or the tedium of sorting through just how much paperwork it takes to become no-longer-dead.}" Charles gives a small sigh at the contact, his eyes fluttering momentarily not quite shut. In addition to the expected pain and exhaustion, Lucien can discern the neurological markers of his psionic shields tightening and then relaxing in almost the same instant. After this minute flicker, the warmth of his presence pulls toward Lucien in a gentle reflexive way that Charles probably could suppress but does not. "{If there is any assistance I can provide in that endeavor, please do not hesitate to ask. I have performed...comparable services, but it was a simpler matter before the digitization of bureaucracy.} Solving problems with sheer financial shock and awe, however, works as well now as then, if on a different magnitude." He is eyeing the tea with considerably more interest than the pastries. "{Is she, in fact, entitled a share for the pastries?}" Lucien's setting a small plate on the edge of the table; Flèche's eyes track it assiduously. "{She can have a few morsels, but only on her plate and only on the floor. I don't like to encourage harrying my guests at the table itself.}" He sets a plate in front of Charles, a small slice of cake and two macarons, before taking a serving for himself. "{And please, do not trouble yourself, I am quite adroit at navigating red tape, it's just -- }" Lucien's hand flutters in an absent dismissal. "{These things can be sped along but not done away with altogether, and in the meantime trying to convince my bank that I exist --}" He breaks off with a small huff of breath and apologetic shake of his head. "{Apologies, you did not come here to hear my complaints about bureaucracy. I am hardly the only one these past months have been trying for -- how have you and yours weathered --}" He glances brief toward the windows, the panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline beyond and the extensive scaffolding marking its newest wounds. "{Well. All of this.}" Charles arches his brows at the apology, and his reply comes not in words but a rapid cascade of overheard thoughts -- or the impression of overheard thoughts, stripped of specific meaning and imbued instead with the understanding this is what batters his mind all day, on the good days. It's elegantly tailored to convey the exhaustion that comes of this constant inundation without actually overwhelming Lucien's mind, and held up in stark relief to what he's experiencing right now. The silence here is softened by the susurrus of aquatic life, Lucien's own quiet mind well within reach, titillatingly open yet safely encoded against the casual brush of his telepathy. << Young man. >> These thoughts are verbal only for the flavor of the words twined in and through and around his faintly amused gratitude. << {I assure you, if I did not wish to hear, I'd not have asked.} >> He picks up the plate and samples his morsels without looking too taken in by Fléche's mournful stare, his appreciation flowing bright and easy to Lucien, as well. When he trades the plate for his cup he sips very slowly, letting the tea mellow the recollections he's not sharing with Lucien, even if their shadows are faintly sensible. "{There is much that I regret, and even a few lives are too many to mourn.} As for the Brood --" He draws a steadying breath against the << (I could feel them) >> that whispers faint and shaky behind his words. "Blast, I oughtn't to have been so cavalier with your mind, knowing you'd been imprisoned by them." His warmth wavers as he conquers first the protective urge to curl in tighter around Lucien's mind and then the also protective urge to pull away. "{I was more or less incapacitated for the duration, but at least the duration was brief. My X-Men fought as valiantly as your Avengers. But then, so did many others.}" The quiet hum in Lucien's throat at that mental warmth is only barely audible, but Charles can feel its echoes rippling in soft pleasure at the touch. "My apologies," he says again, though it's lighter this time, warmer. "{I spend so very much time around people who ask those kinds of questions because they ought.}" His eyes have lowered, his hands curling around the warm matte surface of his teacup. They squeeze a little tighter at mention of the Brood, and there's a shifting, subtle but palpable, that stills the calm surface of his mind even further. "{I cannot rate their hospitality very highly. I am sorry -- I cannot even begin to imagine what that felt like on your end.}" His thumb brushes slow at the cup. "{Whatever myths the police like to sell us, in times of crisis I think quite a good many people feel the very strong urge to help. "{I can barely imagine it, myself.}" Charles manages, without touching on the concept of the invading aliens again, to suggest a rueful "would give zero stars if I could" review. << Do you need Foucault? >> He makes a small show of rifling through his mental library for a first edition of Surveiller et Punir (nonsense, he knows where everything is), but his actual offer of comfort is more measured. His shields shift and rearrange organically -- << (cribbed this from you, actually) >> -- until his warmth becomes sensorily responsive in its gentle envelopment, echoing Lucien's stimming even if it does not in any way have the same effect on Charles himself. "{I have carried on trying to apply your lessons in steering, also. I admit I've not made a great deal of progress on my own, but I've not run aground, either.}" Lucien's thumb continues its circling; the steadying ripples this makes through his nerves harmonizes with Charles's offered comfort. << Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal, >> is rising light and amused to the surface of his mind. He's less amused with his not-actually-a-question, "Rasheed?" His brows have raised slightly, and he sips now, slow, at his tea. "{You will have to fill me in on your progress there.}" After another sip he sets down his cup. He sets aside a small mouthful of cake on Flèche's plate on the floor, and with a gesture banishes the dog (happily licking crumbs off her chops) to a comfortable dog bed near the large windows. He's leaning closer to Charles, reaching out to rest one warm hand against the older man's. "{But, later, perhaps. I think we have a good deal of pleasure to get through before we'll have time for business.}" Charles nods abstractedly, the thoughts churning behind his relaxed psionic shields illegible to Lucien, though the new tension that attends them speaks very eloquently. And briefly. In the very next moment it's shoved unceremoniously aside at Lucien's touch. This time he lets some of his thoughts spill over, startled and grateful and embarrassed. << {I was quite enjoying the tea and conversation but oh...} >> The words unravel into pleasure that shivers through his touch-starved body. Their bright ripples pull at Lucien as Charles furls one intricate stained glass shield after another after another, his desire blazing. << {I'm confident I will enjoy ravishing you, as well.} >>