Logs:Weak

Weak
cn: non-graphic references to rape and murder
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt, Steve
In Absentia Elie	2024-08-10 "Gods, you are so dramatic."
Location <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem
This is a third-story walkup in an aging historic building which, while not entirely crumbling, has a certain worn and shabby look, its plumbing and fixtures often in need of repair. The apartment has two small bedrooms, but makes up for it with capacious common areas. A single long space serves as living room and dining room combined, is semi-open to the kitchen, and has a surprisingly large bathroom with an antique claw-footed tub. Tall, drafty windows let out onto the fire escape from the living room and both bedrooms, and let in excellent light from the southern exposure. The sleek art deco motif that runs through the living room furniture, while not strictly matching, has clearly been worked to coordinate. The dining set, coffee and end tables have been crafted with complementary geometric patterning, ebony accents providing a dark contrast to the warmer swirls of maple burl that feature most prominently. The sofa, love seat, and chair fill out the rest of the living room, a matching set upholstered in plush burgundy. The numerous lamps do not all match, some of them clearly temporary supplement for the inadequate overhead lighting. Steve has his elbows braced on his knees and his fingers laced together, but even this much hunching doesn't really make him look small. He's wearing a red t-shirt with bold black text that reads, "Never Fear" in flowing script and "Brooklyn's Here!" in blackletter, and comfortable faded blue jeans. "Yeah, that works. I'm gonna have to loop my lines til I can say them with a straight face, but it sure beats the hell outta me extemporizing. I'm terrible at insults when I'm mad." He scrubs his face with both hands, and Zenobia looks tempted to go and comfort him, but stays at their guest's side instead, leaning her muscular bulk against his leg. "Thank you, truly. Can I get you some more tea? Something stronger?" "There is plenty enough to be mad about." Lucien looks comfortable, in a soft green-and-grey vertically striped button down and jeans, but he has not been particularly relaxed this afternoon. Far more focused on business and less on anything else than has been usual between them in the past. He is easy with Zenobia, at least, leaning down to thump her broad side. "Oh, no, I think I am quite set, thank you. We do still need to go over just a little bit of upcoming scheduling -- there is a reporter at the Bugle who has been trying to pin several of you down for weeks. I am not actually sure how much headway I will make with Natasha but I do think you and Stark ought to sit down with her." There's a knock at the door, though it's evidently a mere courtesy, since the door opens a moment later regardless of Steve's reply or lack thereof. Matt is wearing a white tee shirt with a red and black geometric logo beside the words "Veridian Dynamics", under which a line of smaller letters read "Don't cross us. Ever. Seriously. Just don't.", black cargo shorts, and black athletic sandals. "Terribly sorry for crashing in here so early, but I thought you'd not mind." He wiggles his feet out of his sandals and a squarish bottle of Bushmills (single malt) (10 year) out of his "Roll for Initiative" satchel. "But I brought a peace offering, just in case!" He stills when he sees Lucien, though his bright friendly smile is unchanged. "Oh! Fancy running into you here." "Sure, put her on my calendar. Though I would pay real money to watch someone interview Clint and Nat, together." Steve frowns at the knock. Rises, flips his shield up into his hand. Zenobia is less suspicious, and beelines for the door with only delirious excitement for Additional Guest. Steve himself hastens toward the door when it starts to open unbidden, stepping smoothly between it and Lucien. His stance relaxes the moment he recognizes the intruder. "Ah, geez." He shakes his head and lowers his shield. "You should text. I know the stereotypes, but you know I love texts. S'like getting an instant telegram in your pocket." He looks between the two Tessiers, and clamps his teeth down on his lower lip. "You fellas gonna be cool?" "-- How much real money." Lucien has all the Avengers' calendars open in front of him and is giving this an amused if vague consideration. He gives the knock only a brief regard, more of his attention on the email he is composing, but his eyes snap towards the door sharp as Matt slips in. The tension in him is brief, not so much in his posture (already impeccably upright) but only the faintest of clench to his jaw, the faintest tightening at his eyes, a fiercer intensity in their (just faintly more uncanny than before) vivid green. It passes as he turns back to his emails. "Perhaps a touch of time as well to brush up on good privacy hygiene online," he's adding mildly, "there are all manner of ne'er-do-wells who will parlay careless hints about your private life into inappropriate attentions." Matt sinks down onto one knee to greet Zenobia, then rises smoothly to hug Steve, as well. "Really, dear, could you not feel the temperature drop when I walked in?" He drapes himself across one of the armchairs, studying Lucien with a fierce intensity of his own. "I am glad you found our way back to us, darling. I never once doubted that you could." His breezy tone, just this side of flippant, strikes an odd contrast with his intent expression. "It just so happens I had some chess problems I was hoping to pick your brain about, but I shouldn't like to displace sensitive matters of planetary defense." His smile curves hard and rueful when he smiles up at Steve again. "But if nothing else, we can be cool." His eyes skip back to Lucien. "We're good at that, no?" "Luci is -- working." Steve receives the embrace only a little stiffly. To Lucien, flustered, "I'm sorry, if you don't want him hovering I will send him on a snipe hunt." He doesn't immediately resume his seat, eyeing the Tessiers worriedly, maybe getting ready to dispense a quest. "If you actually want to catch up," he ventures, unsure, "the superhero schedule won't take that long to sort out." After a distinctly awkward pause he allows, "I'd sure love to just talk, if that's..." He lets out the breath. "If that's not in the cards, I -- can be cool, too." "My apologies," Lucien murmurs (coolly), "I had somewhat foolishly assumed that it would be taken as read that I prefer not to share space with anyone who's raped and killed me. If you like I could provide you a list for the future, but it would be quite brief." One eyebrow does arch, high, and despite himself he's flicking a brief and curious glance toward his brother. "Isn't chess your forte?" "Gods, you are so dramatic." Matt sighs (dramatically), but this doesn't, actually, sound like a criticism. "But if you must, I will away! No fetch quests needed." He pushes himself languidly upright, his smile returning light and easy at the question. "Of course, but it is a devilishly complex game, and I'd be a poor player indeed if I didn't..." There's a reluctance buried deep in the thoughtful hum of his hesitation. "...acknowledge my weak squares." Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it again. "Alright, Matt, c'mon..." He's circled around to the armchair Matt claimed, and looks like he's very seriously weighing the pros and cons of bodily scooping up the smaller man. "You're hurting him. You can't just --" His eyes dart between the brothers several times in growing bafflement at this exchange. "-- are you seriously asking him about chess?" He takes a knee beside the armchair and squints suspiciously at Matt's eyes, but tactfully refrains from actually asking him what he's on. Lucien doesn't exactly flinch at this not-a-criticism, but his eyes lower, nostrils flaring through a slow exhale. "I am am actor," he replies, soft and tired. He closes the laptop and sits up, sits back, lifting a hang to rub slowly at the bridge of his nose. "Chess takes priority over most things in his life, you may have gathered." His hand drops again only slowly, palm dragging down one side of his face. "And last we played he quite thoroughly trounced me. Where exactly do you think I could strengthen your game," this is to Matt, finally, his hand dropping back to his lap, "-- where exactly do you think I ought to?" Matt finally deigns to notice Steve is trying to eject him. "Am I hurting him?" This sounds sincere enough, but Steve probably knows by now to take that impression with a grain of salt. "He is a splendid actor, and not merely on the stage. See there, I have piqued his interest after all." His steady gaze ticks back to his brother, and his voice softens. "I fancied myself so very brilliant I quite failed to notice how much priority you placed on your game, and with such skill for marshaling your men." There is bitterness here, but grudging admiration as well. "More fool I. But however little regard you have for me, and however justified, I thought you'd still rather I outplay Mother." He quirks a sharp smile. "Seeing as you saw fit to kill her. I imagine he left out that bit," he adds as an aside to Steve. "She is an uninventive player, and yet..." His hand turns up, just a touch resigned. "Well, it's a bit much to say she's mastered the use of the rook, but she's more adroit than I, at any rate. It has become more and more apparent how much that hobbles me, and how well you must have managed it all this time." Steve darts a not entirely opaque glance at Lucien, but if it's out of anything other than concern, it does not show. "Sure, but I don't think he's acting. Wait, killed her -- she seems pretty spritely for a dead woman..." His eyes narrow further. "...are you still talking about chess? I thought she didn't like to play." He pushes his fingers through his hair. "Not sure I'm comfortable sending you off alone like this. Maybe you can chill in my room with Zen for a while? I got soft blankets and pretty art." "He isn't high." Lucien's voice is curt. "And no more insane than usual." He is starting to pack up his things, snapping the laptop shut and sliding it into its slim case. "My apologies, I am far too dull-witted to penetrate the layers of insufferable pretension you are wrapping around your actual point. Why on earth do you imagine I ought to care about whatever petty dramas you two are engaged in? You cut me out of your lives -- in rather dramatic fashion, I might remind you." The sharper edge is flattening out of his voice but he's still visibly tense, hands just slightly unsteady as he tries to zip his case back up. "If you've come here to gloat then gloat. If you've come here that I might rescue you from your terrible lot, you deserve her. If you've come here because there's actual trouble --" His lips compress, and he darts another glance towards Matt, brow starting to crease in some deeper concern before he studiously irons that wrinkle away, too. "I'm not high." Matt's clipped retort comes very nearly but not quite in sync with Lucien's. "I'm not gloating, and I certainly don't need to be rescued." He leans forward in his seat, spreading both hands palm-up before him. "This isn't even about me, but I could hardly expect you to believe that. I'm trying to figure out--" His already faint smile is fading and he cycles rapidly through several expressions of earnest entreaty before finally just letting it go blank. His piercing eyes cut aside to Steve before returning to his brother. "She's planning to kill someone, and--" The words come out flat, and he vacillates for an instant more before blurting out the rest. "--she doesn't want me to know." Chastened in stereo, Steve raises his hands and leaves off trying to tripsit Matt. Zenobia, meanwhile, has returned to Lucien's side, setting her massive head in his lap and looking up at him with worry in her soulful eyes. At Matt's revelation Steve's eyes go wide with...horror? Not as much horror as he would be exhibiting if he heard this news under different circumstances, probably. Maybe he's grown inured to all the accusations of murder. More likely he thinks -- or at least hopes -- both Tessiers are delusional now. "Fellas," he says gently, "I don't understand what's going on between you and your mother and all the...chess, and I doubt either of you want to talk to me about it anyway. But I do love you both, that's God's honest truth, and I want to help however you'll let me." He chews on his lower lip. "If there are folks you would feel comfortable talking to, I can arrange to get you to them safely." Lucien stills, fingers squeezing down hard at the zipper pull. His expression has gone very blank, for a moment, but by the time he's looking back to Steve it's warmed with amusement. "Oh, please don't trouble yourself. I'm certain he can't possibly mean our lovely mother wishes anyone harm." He is standing up, now, albeit more leisurely than his earlier haste. Picks up his bag, tucks his phone into his pocket. "I'm sure Matt is just mocking my recent descent into -- what was I? Delusional? Overly dramatic?" He's fluttering one hand vague and dismissive at this. "I will get back to you about the scheduling, Steve." As he drifts towards the door he's dropping a hand, in passing, to clap at Matt's shoulder in a casual squeeze, and with the brief flit of contact there's a not at all subtle wrench of quite manufactured fear, cold-sick and clenching tight. "I know the suggestion won't sit well with you, Matthieu, but have you considered giving up chess? You seem a bit outmatched, these days." Matt does not reply at all. He just glowers at Lucien, his teeth grinding slow. He does not flinch at the touch, but Lucien's sense can pick up the terror that had been there even before his artful addition. Beneath these--beneath the nausea and pain and fatigue and annoyance, too--a bewildered and displaced love is straining for the contact. It's eclipsed in an instant along with everything else by the swell of raw breathtaking rage that attends his futile reflex to defend himself with a power that will not answer. "You might want to check yourself, darling." He lapses into a sharp cold hook of a smile without turning to watch his brother go. "You're running out of material."