Logs:Doubt

Doubt
Dramatis Personae Sam, Scott, Steve, Lucien	2024-03-17 Sure hope we can return the favor.
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. It's a lazy Sunday afternoon in Harlem, and March Madness is so close you can taste it, but right now the TV is tuned to NBA. Steve has changed since church and the Saint Patrick's Day festivities afterwards, but luckily the parade was yesterday and he is now free to watch basketball. The Brooklyn Nets didn't even exist back in his day, but that isn't dampening his enthusiasm or making him less inclined to holler when he thinks the Spurs have gotten away with a foul. His beer is not green (anymore), but he is wearing a light green t-shirt with the silhouette of a faun offering a rose to a girl, the words "Green and Growing Things" written in ornate cursive, and comfortable beaten-up medium blue jeans, Zenobia leaning against his leg and chewing on a large rubber donut. His phone chirps and he frowns down at it. (Scott --> Steve): Are you at home? I have some info we should discuss in person. "Scott Summers wants to drop by," he tells Sam, nonplussed. "Says he wants to talk to me. Sounds real serious but I think that's just how he is." At his roommate's assent he taps out a quick response. (Steve --> Scott): Roger. I'm home, you can stop by anytime this afternoon or evening. He's still composing his next message -- something about snack and beverage preferences that he's trying to phrase in terse yet casual fashion -- when Zenobia looks up just an instant before there are two solid knocks at the door. She gets up and pads over to greet whoever's waiting outside and he follows suit, ordering her to sit before pulling the door open without so much as checking the peep hole. On the doorstep is Scott, sticking his phone back in the pocket of his jeans. His bearing, his attire, his expression is almost unfussed and normal -- there are only small hints that this might be real serious. The tense set of his shoulders; his house slippers instead of boots; his companion. He lifts his chin in a nod of greeting -- "Hey. Mind if we come in?" Behind Scott is Lucien, looking considerably more disheveled than Steve has likely ever seen him. His hair is not tousled Just So, it's just mussed; there's still a faint ringing of bruises around his neck and dark on his cheek. Unlike Scott he is not in house slippers, because he has no shoes at all -- just a colorful patchwork quilt that he has draped Just So around himself and up over one shoulder. He is carrying himself as tall as ever, though, and as Steve opens the door he slips in with a small and polite inclination of head to the house's current occupants. "Gentlemen," comes in his habitual tone of quiet reserve, and that is all they get before Lucien strides off to vanish into Steve's bedroom. Sam is probably none parts Irish but that hasn't stopped him from wearing green today -- then again, he's often colorful so maybe it's just coincidence. The bold emerald of his shirt is paired with springlike yellow trousers, though he's shucked his church shoes and blazer for house slippers instead. The Nets aren't playing the Knicks today so he's feeling perfectly comfortable cheering for them and commiserating with Steve over the Totally Biased Refs. His brows hike when Steve mentions the text, but he doesn't look too concerned. He has aligned himself enough with Steve's team that he is continuing the hollering even once Steve gets up, beginning to call an indignant: "Man the Spurs gotta be paying this --" that dies away as Lucien stalks into the room. His brows crease. He looks to Steve -- then to Scott -- then lifts his brows in silent question. Steve opens his mouth, presumably to welcome their guest(s) in, but no words come out. His eyes take in Lucien's state of injury and dress, flick over to Scott, then back. He lifts one hand as his friend sweeps past him, index finger up in a "now hold on just a minute" sort of gesture that doesn't really seem to be specifically directed at either Scott or Lucien. Zenobia, untroubled by human preconceptions about normality, follows Lucien into the bedroom, wagging. Steve turns -- hand still up. Makes eye contact with Sam but has no answer except to open his hand in an understated shrug he absolutely learned from the man who just vanished into his bedroom wearing a quilt toga. He's stepping back now to wave Scott in. Closes the door behind him and locks it. "So ah..." He ruffles his hair one with hand. "...can I get you something to drink?" Scott steps in, still very casually, glancing around the room as he does. Distractedly? Sharply? It's always hard to tell. He clears his throat, a little uncomfortably -- "Uh, just water is fine, thanks." The pause that follows this is not entirely long enough to have been spent carefully choosing his words, and indeed when he speaks he is not, exactly, beating around the bush. "Sorry to trouble you both. Lucien was murdered this morning." Sam is getting up from the couch, setting his beer aside and ambling to the kitchen to fill a glass of water. It's clear that Scott's reply was not what he expected, because after it comes he's kind of freezing -- staring from Scott to Steve's closed bedroom door and then back to Scott. "Ah --" He steps closer, offers the water out. The shift in his tone is very slight, just a little more even than his baseline, but Steve can probably clock the reflexive shift to Therapist Voice as he examines Scott a little closer. "Lucien came in with you. He's just in the bedroom now, would it help if I get him?" Steve blinks. Opens his mouth -- again, no words come out. It's probably fortunate Sam beats him to the punch. In fact, at the shift of Sam's voice Steve seems to relax minutely. At least enough to close his mouth. He goes and picks up the remote. Hesitates. Turns the game way down but doesn't turn it off. "It's no trouble," he's telling Scott as he comes back over. "And if it is, we'll handle it." He glances at the door to his room, trying not to look pinched. Back at Scott. "Got any reason to expect pursuit?" Scott takes the water, but doesn't drink it at once; he shakes his head. "No," he says, his voice still matter-of-fact, as though it's Sam who's being weird. "Let him rest." Now he takes a short swig of the water, turning his torso to look at Steve's door as well. "Doubt it," he says. "Most people probably think he's dead, still. The cops, the hospital, Professor Xavier." There is the most minute pause before he adds, "Matt." "Still," Sam is echoing, and though he doesn't in any way look Caught Up with this situation he's shifting gears all the same. "And we -- shouldn't be telling those people?" He's leaning back up against the back of the couch, arms crossing against his chest. "Do you think they gonna try again?" Steve blinks at "Professor Xavier", then frowns, perhaps chewing over the implications of Scott's including him on that list. "Should make yourself comfortable," he's telling Scott evenly. "Man's particular about clothes and Lord knows mine aren't up to snuff. He might be a while." He's making himself comfortable, anyway, pulling a bottle of Tullamore Dew from under the kitchen bar counter. Comes up short before he's gotten around to actually pouring a glass. "Wait, his family thinks he's dead? Are they in danger?" Maybe he's hit a critical mass of rapid-fire questions, because he also throws in, "How is Professor Xavier involved?" Only now, at long last, is Scott's demeanor showing some real cracks. He's still holding his glass of water in both hands, rotating it in his grip with tiny, restless movements. He takes one step as though to follow Steve to the kitchen, but doesn't progress past that first step. His gaze is still trained on Steve's door. "I don't know," he says finally. What doesn't he know? This could be an answer to any of these questions, and the quick shake of his head is not much in the way of clarification. "They're saying it was an overdose. All of them," at least he is clarifying this. His eyebrows press down over his opaque glasses, drawing together in a frown. "I don't know who Lucien can trust right now," he adds, slowly. "I am being careful." "All --" Sam holds his tongue and nods at this, slowly, his eyes skating brief to Steve. "Lucien been a lot of people's go-to when they haven't known who to trust. Sure hope we can return the favor." His jaw has gone tighter, and he's letting out a slow breath as he glances back to the bedroom door. "Well. Clothes first. And then --" He might be at a loss for what's next in a situation like this; this just ends in another small breath. "One thing at time."