Logs:Worries
| Worries | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-05-10 "{I'm so sorry I let you down.}" |
| Location
<???> Lucien's Safehouse | |
This is an airy one-room condo in a historic building, once an aristocrat's mansion, that has undergone multiple rounds of renovation that both preserve and add to its eccentric character. It is comfortably appointed, its modern furnishes and decorations giving a nod to Old World color without courting luxury. A small balcony overlooks charming cobblestone streets and a prettily tended park across the way. It's around breakfast time -- petit déjeuner here, the French being degenerates who refuse to speak properly -- that there's a knock at the door. Outside, visibly suppressing the urge to shift his weight impatiently from one foot to the other, is Steve. He's dressed casual in a Mets ballcap, aviator shades, a short-sleeve seersucker button down in thin blue-and-white stripes that ought to be slimming (and yet), slightly relaxed medium wash jeans, and black combat boots. He's packed only a lightweight tactical sling bag -- you know it's "tactical" because every single surface is covered with pockets and MOLLE loops -- and the iconic, internationally recognizable shield that utterly destroys his already dubious attempt at incognito. It takes a short while before the door opens. It isn't Lucien who opens it, but an elegantly dressed middle-aged woman who looks Steve up and down with a small lift of eyebrows before calling over her shoulder: "{If this is your grocery boy he has come a long way.}" She is checking Steve out -- or maybe his muscles, or maybe his shield -- one more time with a Highly Interested up-down flick of her eyes before sweeping away in a very faint cloud of citron and ginger scent. "{The farm is a ways from --}" Lucien trails off as he comes into sight. He's in jeans, a soft grey short-sleeved button down, his hair and eyes both currently a warm brown; his accent has shifted along with his appearance, rapid and Parisian, currently. He's holding a plate that he's been drying, and the absent circular motion of his dishcloth freezes when he sees Steve at the door. "{Goodness, but this is a much pleasant delivery than the milk and eggs anyway. Please,}" he's gesturing Steve inside, albeit not with a touch of worry. "{Tell me Paris is not about to be attacked by aliens or homicidal robots.}" Steve subtly straightens his posture, and blushes as he hastily removes both sunglasses and cap, tucking the first into his shirt pocket and the other into the crook of his arm. "{Good day, Ma'am, and begging your pardon, if I'm interrupting.}" He's making an attempt at Parisian formality that comes out something like cultured Québécois with a rustic Provençal accent. "{I know I ought to have sent word, but I was concerned...}" He darts a furtive glance at Lucien's guest. "{Oh, no alien invasion or robot takeover. As far as I'm aware, they do not tell me everything.}" Once inside he looks a bit at a loss what to do with himself. "{But I can run out to the market if you are in dire need of eggs and milk?}" "{I was just on my way out.}" The woman is just plucking a purse off the kitchen table and returning to the entrance to slip on her shoes, dropping light air-kisses on either of Lucien's cheeks. "{There must be a story here and I will be dying to hear it at our next meeting.}" This time she is heading out for real. Lucien closes the door behind her, and giving Steve a more thorough looking-over. His words lapse easily back into his typically coarser Joual. "{Concerned? Are things quite all right in New York? I've been doing --}" His lips press thin. "{Entirely adequately. The eggs and milk will be here soon. Do you need to eat? I have some egg left.}" "{Have a good day, Ma'am.}" Only after Lucien's (other) guest departs does Steve stoop to remove his boots. He's shifting his French to match his friend's as he straightens up. "{I was in Antarctica when things went sideways in Freaktown...}" His jaw sets hard. "{Well. City was a madhouse when I got back and it was still a madhouse when I left. But I'm not here to drag you back to help! God knows I've been an awful enough friend as it is.}" He folds Lucien carefully into a hug that's nevertheless kind of crushing. "{I'm so sorry I let you down.}" "{How far into Antarctica? DJ is very hopeful we have dinosaurs there, if you find any you will have to let him know.}" Lucien has lowered the plate and his gaze both. "{And I can only imagine. Taylor was quite beloved to many. Jackson and Ryan knew him since he was quite young, you know, are they --}" He closes his mouth. Opens his eyes wider, going tense in Steve's arms until he relents and lifts an arm to tentatively pat his friend on the back. "{What on earth are you talking about? I would have gone quite mad these months if not for your support.}" "{I'm not familiar enough with Antarctic geography to say how far, but it's funny you should mention...}" Steve shakes his head, quick and dismissive. Avengers gossip can wait. "{They've been pouring their anger and grief into the protests. A lot of people have. It's like after Dawson was killed, but -- more.}" He releases Lucien, only a little self-consciously. "{Even if it weren't for all these missions lately, my support still wouldn't have been enough.}" He looks down, shamed. "{You are my family, and when you needed me most... I should have looked into things more closely. Encouraged you to stay where all your friends and family could support you, not half-way across the world with most of them thinking you were dead.}" There's a faint wrinkle forming between Lucien's brows as he steps back. His eyes are fixed steadily on Steve's shamefaced expression, a critical appraisal in his own. "{My family,}" he says, slow and careful, "{has not been at its most supportive lately, if you recall.}" He is slowly moving back, his head slightly bowed as he slips back to the kitchen to set the plate down and retrieve his skillet from where it's been hung up to dry. "{What exactly do you think you ought to have investigated more closely?}" "{I know you believe that.}" Steve puts his hands palm-out in front of him in what he probably hopes is a reassuring way, though it kind of just looks like he's getting ready to gently fend off an attack. "{As much as I trust you, it was hard for me to believe but I did, and I don't regret that. But I should have considered that your physical and mental state at the time might have distorted your memory.}" He waits until Lucien has turned back to face him before following him to the kitchen. Makes a point of not crowding him and just leans against the door frame. "{I talked to Matt and your mother, they're worried sick about you. I could have helped clear this up, if not right from the start then at least after you felt well enough and safe enough to deal with it. But -- you do now, right?}" Lucien stills, his eyes fixed down on the skillet in his hands. For a slow breath he is quiet, his fingers clenching harder against the handle of the pan. When he does start moving again it's a touch more stiff, a touch more deliberate. "{It was,}" he allows, much softer, "{a difficult night. That much I remember quite clear.}" He's drawing a bowl of eggs closer to him across the countertop, plucking one of the last two eggs out to crack it into a ramekin. "{Did you tell them where I am?}" "{I'm sorry,}" Steve says gently. "{I know this won't make remembering that any less horrific, and I'm not asking you to just -- get over it. That's why they haven't come, themselves.}" He raises his hands again, though more relaxed this time. "{I wouldn't have let them, anyway. They only know you are in Paris. One francophone in a city of millions, and an incognito actor to boot. You're safe.}" He straightens up and looks like he wants to step closer to Lucien, but ultimately doesn't. "{Hey. I'm not forcing you. I just want you to get the help you need. We can figure out a way for you to be safe in the meantime, whatever that looks like for you. They want you safe, too, but I'm not here for them.}" He swallows. "{I'm here for you.}" Lucien's eyes stay fixed downward. He drops a pat of butter into the pan and watches fixedly as it starts to heat. "{What did they tell you?}" He raps the first egg against the counter, pulling the shell apart one-handed to let its innards slide down to sizzle in the pan. Then the second. "{What help do you think I need?}" Steve subsides back against the door frame. "{They said that night Matt found out you'd killed Mad -- your mother, and got into it with you.}" He sounds shockingly matter-of-fact about the matricide. Hardly even seems to register it as anything more than marginalia. "{I imagine you must have just let him wale on you, or else he would've been the one with bruises to show for it. Then afterwards you shot up, and overdosed, and by the time they found you it was too late.}" He looks down at the spotless floor. "{Think they want to work that out with you. They didn't even know you were alive, much less what your actual mental state is now. Your ma seemed pretty convinced you were still unwell...}" He hesitates. Frowns. "{I suppose a mother knows.}" "{He is my brother.}" Lucien's reply comes soft and steady. "{How could I lift a hand to him.}" He's cracking some salt and pepper over the eggs, a sprinkle of garlic, grating a bit of cheese. He is quiet as the eggs sizzle in the pan, his fingers clenched hard around the handle of his spatula. "{They did not know I was alive because I asked that they not know it. Did you --}" There's no accusation in his voice, but the unsteady tremor of betrayal in his tone rings all the louder for it. He draws in a slow breath, carefully and neatly flips the eggs. His eyes flick up sharp when another knock comes at the door, but he's relaxing almost as soon as he's tensed. "Oh -- oh. Do you mind?" He's nodding toward the door, reluctant to leave the frying eggs. "{That will be the groceries, I believe.}" "{I know. Heck, I've been avoiding too much conversation with any of them for fear they'd see right through me.}" Steve runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. "{Wasn't too hard, with all these whack-a-mole missions Fury keeps handing us. Irony is they didn't see through me, after all. Your ma just talked some sense into me, but I'm looking to help on your terms.}" He almost instinctively steps between Lucien and the front door, and is a little slower to relax. "{Groceries, right. But if and when you're really in danger -- come hell or high water, I will protect you.}" He's veering away to answer the door, but adds over his shoulder, a little abashed, "{Not to fear, I'll bring in your groceries, too.}" "{Mmm. I have long believed that.}" There's a soft regret in this admission. Behind Steve the stove clicks off. There's an opening and closing of a door -- a cabinet, perhaps, the noise quiet and padded. By the time Steve returns to the kitchen it is -- simply empty, as is the rest of the very small apartment. No Lucien, just a plate of eggs, perfectly over-easy, fresh and hot on the counter. Steve returns with groceries, frowning as he sets them on the counter. Turns around, frowns deeper. Peers into the (open) (empty) bathroom. "Luci?" There's an edge of rising panic as he rushes out onto the balcony and looks down. He straightens up with some small relief but a good deal more confusion, looking up and to either side to see whether someone could conceivably jump to the balcony of another unit. Slips back inside. "{Luci! I told you, I'm not going to force you to go back -- or anywhere you don't want.}" He returns to the kitchen and checks the pantry, pushing his hand through his hair in utter bewilderment. "{What the fuck?}" He pulls out his phone, hands shaking hard, and starts composing a text to "Robin Rogers". A text comes through before Steve has finished writing his.
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