ArchivedLogs:Acceptably Horrible

Acceptably Horrible
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Micah
In Absentia	10 February 2014 Updates on Matt and a quiet evening. (Part of the Prometheus TP.)
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. It's quiet in the Tessier household, the house still carrying the winey-rich aroma of dinner's stew, though it's fading now, and the children both put to bed. The warm smell of chocolate is overtaking the dinner smells, now, a fresh pot of cocoa recently prepared. Lucien is setting two cups of cocoa -- spiced with cinnamon and a hint of nutmeg and cayenne, his own doctored with rum as well though Micah's is non-alcoholic -- onto the coffeetable, a small plate of almond scones set there too. He's dressed comfortably. Jeans, a warm grey-black sweater over a button-down. Prokofiev plays softly through the speakers up by the ceiling as he folds himself into Matt's armchair, legs tucked up beneath himself. His fingers run slowly against the fabric of the chair's arm, forefinger just tapping there, slowly. "-- Do you imagine his doctors all knew." His voice is very soft, eyes drifting off towards the twin aquariums that flank the dining room's entryway. Tucked into a corner of the couch, Micah accepts the mug with sincere thanks, cradling it in his hands like it's /life-sustaining/. That he didn't come straight here from work is told in his downtime-clothing: thick emerald-green sweater over a paler green henley, heavy bluejeans, fluffy leaf-green socks, all layered against the cold. His hair is a little spiky from where it air dried after his after-work shower, a little mussed from being under his wool hat on the way over. "I'd be terribly surprised if they /did/. Gettin' an entire medical team on the same page usually requires a ridiculous quantity of meetin's an' e-mails an' phone calls an' pages an' /still/. Ain't 100%. /Someone/ very likely knew. But...s'hard t'say who or how many." He gives Lucien an almost apologetic look, appearing for a moment as if he's debating whether he should stay in his seat or go over to Lucien's. "It's just. He was so --" Lucien's lips thin. He leans forward to claim his own cup, settling back into his chair and tucking himself into a smaller ball. "His doctors loved him. His nurses loved him. The custodians who cleaned the floor in his room loved him. It is hard to fathom who could --" His eyes turn down into his mug, his fingers clenching tighter around it. "We live in a sick world, Micah." Micah takes one sip from his mug before setting it on the table, finally deciding on a course of action. He moves over to Lucien's chair and kneels on the floor beside it facing the other man, leaning up against the seat cushion. "Only takes one person who don't...care. Or t'whom his ability was more important than him as a person." A hand reaches up to rest on Lucien's knee. "His power'd be /mighty/ temptin' t'folks as want t'contain mutant abilities." His teeth find his lower lip and press into it. "Yes. It is. We've had...more'n enough evidence of that in the past few /weeks/, much less the past year." Leaning forward, he briefly touches his forehead to that knee, as well, before looking up. "Is there anythin' I can do?" Lucien slowly unclenches one hand from his mug, dropping it slowly to rest on Micah's back, very /carefully/ bypassing any skin contact to slowly rub fingers in between the other man's shoulderblades. "You have done so much already. From here --" His fingers press in harder, kneading slowly into the muscles at Micah's back. "In some ways it is almost a relief. A sick world is one I am well used to navigating." "It's been hard figurin' out how t'feel. 'Cause it's been...hopeful. An' a surprise, at least at first, that he was /alive/. An' it's almost been good...the confirmation that he's alive. But then...knowin' where he likely is. An' how he likely got there, it's. Turns the stomach more'n a little. Hard t'know how t'feel." Micah eventually settles into Lucien's touch. "Wish I could do more. Back t'waitin' again. For the dreams t'work. Or the drawin' t'be finished. /Then/ whatever plan they can come up with t'find 'im...much less gettin' 'im out. I just...wish I could do more." "Almost good." Lucien's fingers continue to knead slowly at Micah's back. "Only I think death may have been preferable to the last half a year in there. And when I last saw him, Micah, he /was/ inches from death. How did they even /have/ the power to halt that? As much as they might have /wanted/ to get their hands on his ability, they are not gods." He exhales heavily, lifting his cup to draw a slow pull from it. "There will be work enough to do, soon enough." His lips twitch. "Though perhaps not for you. Your husband, and his -- compatriots. Much as I might like to kill them all myself, I don't think I am that well-equipped." "I don't know. Maybe...they have a person whose special ability is /specifically/ curin' certain types of cancer? I've heard stranger things." Micah's eyes close, just for a few seconds, as Lucien's hand continues to work at his back. "I'm sure...there'll be things t'cook an' vans t'rent an' supplies t'buy soon enough. But I meant. For you. Or for Matt...though, that's gonna be...kinda impossible right now. So, mostly you." His hand squeezes gently at Lucien's knee. "This's been a lot. T'take in." "Perhaps." Lucien works at Micah's muscles steadily, firm and slow. "There are certainly are unusual abilities out there. As -- New York this week has seen." He drinks again from his cup, slow and deep before lowering it to the arm of his chair. He shakes his head once. "More rum in this cocoa, perhaps." There's a lighter note to his tone. Almost amused, really. "There's a point after which your nerves just -- oversaturate. Too much pleasure, too much pain, either way they cannot really handle much past a certain level of input. Anything past it becomes meaningless. I am starting to think the world -- means to just inundate us to the point where --" He looks down into his cocoa. "How long /does/ it tend to take Jackson to marshal his team?" "Could get you another drink," Micah agrees in all seriousness. He rests his head in against Lucien's lap once more, just sitting and listening. "I'm not...rightly sure. Usually the bulk of it's in /findin'/ the place. Once they do, they usually set up ahead of time with... I don't think Hive's gonna be able t'help this time. Which'll make /everythin'/ dif'rent." He sighs heavily. "I just keep thinkin' things'll settle down soon. But they don't, really. S'been...a little less bad recently, though. Past couple of weeks. An'...honestly, findin' out about our missin' an' presumed dead folks has been /good/. It's just...promisin' a lot more ugly. An'...lettin' us know about ugly we didn't know was there before." "Can they even do it without Hive? His abilities seem like they would be rather integral." Lucien's brows raise at this news. "Did you manage to drag him to a doctor." He drains his cup, leaning forward over Micah to set it back on the table before sitting back again. "There is always more ugly. There will always be more ugly. How anyone could think this is a world to --" His lips press together, an abrupt look of disgust crossing his expression. His fingers tap lightly against Micah's shoulder. "I think I do need that drink." “I honestly don't know. If they can /find/ it? Prob'ly. Just...seems less likely they could do it without killin' folks. They usually...don't kill folks in the process. 'Cause Hive can subdue 'em.” Micah nods at the question. “Well, less me draggin' an' more Jax orderin'. But I went with 'im.” He lifts back up onto his knees with the tap, ready to move with additional direction. “Was there more cocoa in the pot? Otherwise y'can have mine. I'll just have t'add the rum to it.” "I have a difficult time imagining Jackson doing much killing," Lucien muses, eyes closing like -- perhaps he is trying to. One eye cracks back open, though. "Ah. You went with him. Delightful." He sounds dry, about this. "You may wish to stay with him when he hears back." He shakes his head when Micah lifts back up. "You drink your cocoa, Micah. Sit. Calm down. I will have my rum plain." "No...not any. Not on purpose. I just don't know how they'll pull it off without... But I ain't the strategist on these things by any stretch. Maybe they'll come up with all kindsa things I ain't thought of. Micah nods confirmation of going with Hive. "We don't know nothin' yet. But I been speculatin' nothin' good with well...you've seen. You'll have t'ask him about any test results once they're in, though. Ain't mine t'tell. An' I did offer to tag along for any follow-ups." He moves aside slightly to retrieve his mug and clear space if Lucien intends to fetch his own drink. "I don't need to ask. I've already scanned his brain enough to know what they will -- well. I don't know /precisely/," Lucien admits. "But I have seen enough to know it is nothing --" He shakes his head once as he unfolds himself from the chair, scooping up his empty mug as he squeezes Micah's shoulder once. He heads off to the kitchen, returning in short order with his mug washed and a new glass, a fresh squat one filled with rum instead. He settles back into the chair, legs tucked up beneath himself once more. "{Thank you.} For coming. Telling me -- this. My -- apologies, I do not think I make very good company, tonight." Micah just nods, Lucien's input only serving to further support his suspicions. He curls up at the base of the chair, off to one side so that Lucien has access to get in and out of it. His hands wrap around the mug of cocoa once more so that he can sip at it. As Lucien returns, his eyes track the other man back to his seat. “You're...more'n welcome. Figure I owe y'keepin' updated sharpish, at least. After bein' the one t'spring stuff on you since that dream. An'...not bein' able t'follow up on that quite like I'd /thought/ at the time.” His expression is a bit wry at this. “Don't need t'apologise. I don't need constant entertainment. Don't mind sittin' quiet. But I can get goin' if y'don't want the bother of other folks bein' about?” Reaching up, he pats a hand against Lucien's knee softly. Lucien's eyes shift away, drifting towards his bookshelves and then back down to Micah with a wistful expression. "It is not a bother. I like the quiet. I even like the quiet with company, just. My idea of pleasant company does not always overlap with others'. It seems impertinent to ask someone to stay only to sit here and not talk. But if you do not mind it," he says, softly, "I should rather appreciate if you did. For some time longer, at least. There /is/ still cocoa on the stove. And scones. And /many/ books." “I like quiet. S'nice sometimes. 'Specially on account of it don't happen too often. But I like lots of people'n bother, too, so it works out.” Micah chuckles, his hand squeezing gently at Lucien's knee. “'Sides, y'keep feedin' me. Don't have much t'complain about there.” Between the shelf-ward look and the mention of books, Micah's head tilts to one side. “Want I should grab you a book? Or read you one. Or...you read me one. I know sometimes it's soothin'. T'read somethin' out loud. Gettin' up t'grab a scone anyhow.” "Around your home I imagine it is rarer still." Lucien swallows a mouthful of rum, nestling back into his chair with his eyes closing. "You read. I'm not overly fussed about what. Just -- pick something -- that is not horrible." His lips twitch faintly. "Unless it is a fairy tale. Those are acceptably horrible." Micah collects scone and cocoa and keeps them situated distant from any book pages. Then he scans the shelf and returns with a collection of fairy tales. Short enough stories to actually be able to complete at least one, if not more, before the night is through.