ArchivedLogs:Horror Stories

Horror Stories
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Melinda
In Absentia	17 January, 2013 Tea. No gunshots.
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
{Tab}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. Through a doorway lies the kitchen which, in contrast, 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. {Tab}The master bedroom, in contrast to the paler, earthy scheme outside, is warm and rich, decorated in deep reds. The exquisitely crafted furniture is dark, with reddish undertones to the mahogany wood. The king-sized bed is stocked with an overabundance of pillows, and more cushions rest in the windowseat. One wall holds a spacious walk-in closet. A table, low to the ground, sits on a thick rug between the bed and the entrance, the right height for kneeling rather than chairs; the checked pattern carved into its surface marks it as a chessboard, though the pieces are not in evidence. The bathroom connects both to the bedroom and to the living room; it is large, done in black marble, with an overly spacious glass-walled shower and a similarly large jacuzzi bathtub. {Tab}Upstairs holds a study, in pale blues, lined with books as well around the large computer desk and smaller futon. The other two bedrooms upstairs, in strange departure from the rest of the house's style, seem decorated more with younger occupants in mind. One of them, styled largely in purples and blues, has a pair of twin beds with matching butterfly-patterned bedspreads and a similar fabric for the window curtains; a wealth of stuffed toys is neatly arranged on both. The other is very green, its bedspread green-and-black striped; the walls are covered with a host of movie posters. Also oddly, they are both painfully well-kept -- with no personal belongings in sight, they hardly seem lived in at all. Come evening, Lucien's apartment is full -- not with people but with quiet violin strains, Prokofiev playing through the house from somewhere indistinct. There is smell, too, something sweet baking in the oven. Lucien is in the living room, in plain jeans and a soft grey sweater, the collar of a green button-down neatly turned-down at its neck, curled up with bare feet tucked under him in a large armchair. He has a book on his lap, though he's ignoring it at the moment in favour of tapping at the screen of a large tablet. Also, humming softly along with the music. Melinda appears at the doorway at about the appropriate time, raising her hand to ring the doorbell. She is dressed in a mustard yellow felted wool poncho, with large wooden toggles up the front. Her hair is a little messy and caught in a grey winter cap modeled loosely after a beret. Her jeans are looser than is fashionable this season, but look comfortable and well used around the curves of her hips. On her feet, rainboots. She has an actual basket on one arm, a small checked cloth over the top, but the edge of baguette sticks out. She rings the doorbell and waits. The door is opened in short order, after a thunk of locks and rattle of safety chain. Lucien answers with a smile, small but warm, his hand sweeping to gesture Melinda in. "Good evening," he greets quiet, hand still resting on the doorknob. "Goodness. Is it raining? That is what I get for staying indoors all day." He is gesturing already to her coat. "Can I take that?" "It might rain," Melinda ammends as she steps inside. Her free hand begins to unfasten her coat and pull it easily from her shoulders, just a little jostling required so she doesn't drop her basket. "I just wanted to be prepared." After a tiny pause, she presents the basket. "Here. I stopped on my way. If you're not lactose intolerant, there is a nice camembert and figs to go with the baguette. And... well, there's also a dill havarti, because I couldn't resist." "You are quite prepared." Lucien glances out the door, looking up to the sky before closing it. "I am not, in fact, which is good because Camembert and figs sounds delightful." He takes the coat as well as the basket, opening the closet door to hang the former inside. "Shoes, please." He gestures to the closet as well, a stand nestled at its floor that holds a number of shoes already. "Thank you. I baked. Scones. Ginger and lemon." Melinda has already started to toe off the rain boots when Lucien requests it. She smiles and shrugs and deposits them by the other shoes, her socks entirely mismatched. Her sweater underneath is a cotton blend orange, with the collar of a white button down visible at the v-neck. "The scones smell delicious. I really don't think I'm all that prepared. I just stopped out places. You.. well, you /made/ things." The emphasis she adds makes it sound infinitely better. "I did, but then --" Lucien turns his hand upwards, leading the way down the hall further into the house with the basket slung over one arm, "I live here. It takes less preparation. One minute." He stops at a door to one side, knocking quietly and then sticking his head in. "There is food," he tells the room beyond. "Tea. Scones. Camembert and figs." Whatever he says next he says in French, receives an answer in the same. He closes the door again, gesturing Melinda through the living room and to the kitchen. "How have you been?" "Oh, it's been a hellish week or so," Melinda unconsciously reaches up to rub at the hollow of her left eye, hand dropping almost immediately. She follows Lucien, but not too closely, especially when he ducks his head in a room he's obviously not going all of the way into. She turns toward the kitchen. "You really want me to believe that making scones only too one minute? Man, it takes that long to clean and then zest the lemon." She rolls a shoulder. "I told the boss I need the night off and my phone is absolutely off. I think I'm only getting free time because I found a new dishwasher." "Are they hard to find?" Lucien wonders, quiet. He sets the basket down on a table, opening the cloth to examine its contents. "Making scones," he allows, lifting out the cheeses onto a plate, "may have taken slightly longer than a minute. But I had the day off. I have not seen you all year. What has been particularly hellish about this week?" "Oh, I don't know." Melinda begins, one hand lifting to rub at her neck. "Kind of started out with a shooting at the event I was working, followed by hours of talking with the cops, then well, there was the incident in the bagel shop," She stops before the set of her jaw gets too tight. Instead, she leans against a counter and takes a deep breath. When calm again, she laughs dryly "God, I thought you were going to tell me you were stuck in some sort of time loop or warp zone nonsense, then I remembered that it was January." "A shooting?" This gives Lucien pause, freezing with one hand on the baguette and looking back at Melinda. His eyebrows raise, eyes slightly wider in surprise. "Your coffeeshop must be a much rougher place than I am used to," is casually flip, but, "Were you alright?" is not, Lucien's green eyes flicking over Melinda carefully. "Did the bagel shop involve firearms, too?" His lips twitch, slightly. "There might be a time warp. I make no guarantees. I certainly lose track in here, often." "No, I was in Tompkin's Park with Food not Bombs and some asshole fucked up a mugging." Melinda's tone is dry, dry, dry as she explains quickly what happened, arms folding unhappily over her chest. "Montagues is safe. Please don't worry about that." She draws in a deep breath and notices his gaze when he looks her over. "Yeah, I'm fine. The gun was never pointed at me." She unwinds one arm to scritch at her neck. "The bagel shop involved a stupid store owner/manager and a crazy old woman with a broom, looking to pick on the last customers through the door when they needed a mutant to bash. No guns." "Food not Bombs. Are they the punk ones? Your hair should be more neon for that," Lucien informs Melinda, straight-faced. He setst he bread on a cutting board, replacing the cloth on the basket once the cheese and figs are properly arranged. He is just moving to get a pair of oven mitts when he stops, at Melinda's last words, freezing with eyebrows raising and his gaze flicking over her again. "Ah." He drops his eyes back to the oven, lips slightly compressed. "To bash. I did not realize you --" He frowns, opening the oven door and sliding out a tray of scones. "It sounds like a rough week." "I'm not. My companion might of been, but I never bothered to ask. It didn't stop the store employees from chasing us from their establishments with threats and a broom." Melinda sinks into dryness once more. "Seriously. It was nothing anyway. Just some moving pictures. If they were Harry Potter fans, they would have been thrilled." Her shoulders slump as her attention follows Lucien to the oven. "Plus half the staff as the flu, so I've been covering every single day since what feels like the beginning of the year. I am sorry for being so busy." "Moving pictures," Lucien echoes with a slight twitch of lips, setting the tray right down on the countertop. "I see. As mutants go, that seems fairly harmless. Did you at least successfully acquire your bagels?" He fills a kettle with water, setting it on the stove, and meanwhile fills a black cast-iron teapot with hot water. "Mmm." His brows furrow, head dipping. "It seems the season for it. I have been striving to keep it out of this house. Have you escaped unscathed, then?" "Yes. I seem to be immune." Melinda nods, easing as time goes on. "Oh, that's the funny part of the tale. The manager was hooking us up with free food on account of our stress about the shooting right before he flipped the switch and started hating us." She shakes her head. "We got a couple of drinks and a bag of sandwiches with dessert as... the shit hit the fan. It was like insane troll logic." She reaches up and removes the pony tail tie from her hair and lets her tresses fall around her ears and face. Then she begins smoothing and combing her hair into something more presentable. "Now that you've heard my horror stories, how has your year been thus far?" "Good," Lucien says, glancing to Melinda with a wry curl of smile. "I would not want plague brought into my house." He starts setting out dishes, plates and small green cast-iron teacups on black saucers. His eyes drift back to Melinda as he sets the table, watching as she smoothes out her hair. "That does sound a bit extreme. People do tend towards extremes when you bring up mutants, though. My year has --" He drifts off as he drifts over to a tall free-standing cabinet, opening it up to reveal all its shelves stocked with tins and tins of tea. "Camembert," he is murmuring, "I think Dragonwell would pair well. I have no horror stories to tell. Not this year, as yet." "Good lord, that is amazing." All stress and tension is forgotten as Lucien opens up his cabinet to fetch some tea. She moves close and pulls the door open a little wider, eyes dancing across the labels. Her lips curl very slowly into a smile when she closes her eyes and just takes in the general aroma of the cabinet. "I thought the cabinet at work was wonderful. This... this while not encompassing the sheer volume" or bulk, in a restaurant's case, "it definitely decimates the competition in quality and variety." She glances over at her host, speaking quietly. "Don't have horror stories. Stay amazing like this." Lucien glances towards Melinda as he plucks a tin of tea off a shelf of green teas, teeth flashing quick in a warm, easy smile. "I am glad you approve. It took a while for us to build this collection up." He opens the tin, shaking the leaves inside and holding it out to Melinda for a sample of the aroma. "I do plan for my year to encompass a good deal of tea. The world sometimes creates horror stories all on its own, then. But they turn out alright, if you can come home to --" His fingers flick towards the tea cabinet. "Can I move in?" Melinda asks, brows rising as she inhales the gentle aroma. "I'll sweep? I'll pay rent? I just," She inhales deeply and looks back to the cabinet. "I almost feel I need to pay homage to this shrine now that I know it exists." She lays a hand on her heart as she closes the cabinet doors and backs away reverently. "Never mind about the moving in thing. It's probably best - for me anyway - not to live so close. I wouldn't want to take it for granted at all." She turns back to face Lucien. "I'm afraid your tea may have brought out the dramatic in me. Please forgive me this lapse in self control." This earns a laugh, soft and amused while Lucien closes the cabinet door and heads back to the counter. He pours the water out of the pot, spooning tea leaves into its basket. "Goodness, yes, because if there is one thing I hate it is theatrics. You need not move in. You can just visit more often. Provided," he allows, "you do not get distracted with gunfights and angry broom-wielders." "Oh, I could not handle any more of that bullshit, pardon my American." Melinda shakes her head and gives a shudder. "I'm maxed out. If this - any of this - happens again, I'm moving into a cave and only commuting to the city to see you and drink tea." "I hear upstate has some delightful caves," Lucien informs Melinda solemnly. "Lovely views. Trees. A dearth of gunfire." He takes the kettle from the stove just as it starts whistling, waiting for the boiling to subside before pouring it over the leaves in the teapot. "No tea, though. It would be a tedious commute. Let us just hope that after starting the year off with, ah, a bang, the rest is smoother sailing." The rest of the evening, at least, will be smoother. Tea. Camembert. Scones. Not a single gunshot to be found.