ArchivedLogs:Distance

Distance
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Nox, Desirée	2013-07-23 '
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. Night. So late at night that the sound of traffic outside has faded to little more than the occasional sweep of headlights through front windows, the distant sound of a car soon lost to silence. It’s a time when pedestrians are entirely absent, and therefore it is an appropriate time for a living shadow to slink through streets and alleys. Furtively, of course, but also with determination-- no one approves of this venture of hers, but Nox isn’t about to allow that to stop her. Nor is she going to be stalled by such things as closed windows and locked doors. She slips beneath the minute gap between door and frame, from the garden, a trickle of darkness at first that grows until a woman’s shadow is cast on the wall. Moving, with cautious intention, towards the glow of a light on in the study. After all...she said she’d never return here. And yet here she is, peeking into the room in question, and whispering an almost inaudible, “Lucien?” The study casts the sole glow in the lower half of the house, at the moment, soft and warm from the standing lamp in its corner and cooler from the screen of a laptop over on the futon. Lucien is not inside -- it is Desirée instead, curled up in a corner of the futon with laptop on her lap, comfortable in pale blue yoga pants and a white tank top. The teenager freezes at the sound of the voice, hands pausing over the keyboard and her eyes widening in startled look towards the door. It’s a very long stretch of quiet uncertainty before she ventures a tentative: “-- Nox?” Her brows are creasing, slowly; the shift of her hands to move her laptop off her lap to the cushion beside her is a cautious one. “Is -- that’s you, right?” “Desiree,” the voice confirms, too soft to detect whether there’s disappointment or gladness there. But Nox flows forward, keeping against the wall given the room’s lit state. She slides behind the couch as a result and ends in a position that makes her seem to peek over its top at the girl. Studying her, or seeming to, given her current lack of visible eyes. “It has been so long. You are well? You look well.” There’s the briefest of hesitations before a hand detaches from the wall and whispers over the teenager’s hair. It’s a tentative touch, reassuring Nox as to her reality. “You are here.” “It’s been a while,” Desirée agrees in a quiet voice -- still kind of cautious as she watches Nox approach. “I’m -- here, I think we live here now.” Though she doesn’t sound /entirely/ certain. “/You’re/ here, I didn’t expect -- I mean, Luci said that --” She twists around on the futon when Nox flows behind it, keeping an eye on the shadow-woman. “-- He’ll be happy to see you,” she settles on. “He should be here. In a couple minutes. Soon. Is everything OK?” “Do you? He said...oh. Oh, I know I should not be here but I...someone told me.” Nox’s hand withdraws, curling in towards her chest until it disappears into the outline. “Someone told me. About Matthieu. I would have come sooner. But. It is...there are...it is difficult, now.” Another hesitation follows. “I will not hurt you, Desiree. I promise this. I have been. Trying. To be better,” she finally says, swimming back against the wall to leave the futon, and approach the door. “I am sorry if I have frightened you.” “I didn’t say you shouldn’t be here,” Desirée answers apologetically, “I said I didn’t expect you to be. He said you weren’t coming back.” She unfolds her legs, swinging them down towards the floor. Her shoulders tense at the mention of Matt, eyes drifting aside to the window. “Yeah. I can imagine it’s difficult. Sorry. I’m -- going to make tea. Do you want tea?” She gets to her feet, smoothing wrinkles out of the soft cotton of her pants. “He should be up here soon.” “I swore I would not come back,” Nox admits, “but I loved Matthieu. When Lucien did not tell me, I...I thought, perhaps I should stay away. But...” Here she is, hands spread in an apology to match Desi’s tone of voice. “Tea? Yes. Tea, if...if you like. If you prefer, I can wait in...in the hall? Or. Upstairs. Or...” The longest hesitation of all follows. Then, softly, “Desiree, should I...would it be better for your brother? If I do not see him? To be happy is not the same as better.” “The kids are upstairs,” Desirée answers immediately, “-- They’re sleeping. Probably the -- living room is best.” Her frown deepens; she lifts a hand to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “Happy --” This word draws an uncomfortable fidget out of her. “It’d be better for Luci if --” She looks from Nox, away to the computer. In this pause there are sounds of a lock unlocking, a door opening. “-- I’m going to make tea.” She slips out the door, hastening towards the kitchen. In the hallway, locking the basement door behind himself, Lucien looks -- much as he ever does. Crisp black slacks, a white dress shirt (slightly less crisp), hair very /carefully/ tousled, expression a study in neutrality. “{I thought you’d be in bed,}” is offered to Desirée in passing; her only answer is: “{I will be soon. I’m making you tea.}” The computer? Nox’s head turns in that direction too, as if the softly glowing screen has the answer she’d been looking for. The lock is heard--and with it, the woman’s scattering into indistinct shadows against the wall. Not to hide so much as to follow the teenager, to make certain that this is an approved arrival and not-- Lucien. There he is, and where Desiree passes by, Nox pauses. Invisible at first, simply studying the man, and the door he’s come through. That study goes on long enough that he may well have time to turn away and venture off to whatever task might call him at this hour, after...the last several. But then the haze collects itself into a more recognizable shape and steps from the wall. Hair, eyes, shoulders, the rest just trailing wisps, Nox positions herself where he can see her. “Lucien?” Lucien is turning away, after he’s locked the door, starting to head down the hall towards the stairs up until that shape gathers itself. His steps freeze; he rotates slowly slightly more towards the wall. His eyes flick upwards, from wisps to shoulders to eyes. There is a long moment where he studies her right /back/ in silence. “{I did not think you would return,}” eventually comes, softly. “I had not meant to. Until I heard. You did not tell me and I know why but...how could I stay away? Your Matthieu.” Nox speaks rather more quickly than is normal for her. Better to rush an excuse, rather than be ordered out? She drifts closer, gradually resolving legs to make the movement seem more natural. “{I will go if you tell me to. But you were strange when I saw you below and I have worried. Because I love you,}” she says, picking her way through the French with far more care. “Ah.” Just that, at first, small and thoughtful. “Did Jackson tell you? Micah?” His lips compress for a brief moment, the slow downward tip of his head coming with a quiet-soft exhalation. “You had your own weight of cares to bear already.” At his side, one hand gives a small twitch of motion. Aborted motion, a brief impulse to reach up that is curtailed to leave just a small hitch of fingers before his hand drops back downward. “{Was it hard, to make the trip up here? I have -- also,}” his words come in a quiet measured murmur, “{worried. Last I saw you, I -- have been none too sanguine that things are /well/ with you.}” “It was Murphy Law,” Nox whispers. Who else? It might have been wiser to keep that name to herself but it doesn’t occur to the woman--one of the many downsides to a disintegrating mind. “He is trying to. To bring internet to the sewers. Should those who live upstairs have to move down. We caught him. We...disagreed. He left.” She’s coming closer, eyes fixed on that aborted movement. Her own hand lifts in response, palm up, solid and offering. “No one saw me,” she says, for the difficulty of the trip. As for the last... Well. Her eyes search his, brows arched in concern. “{I have been losing myself. Lucien. When...when I should be thinking. Of what you need. What is best? Should I go? Stay away? Desiree, she said...]” “/Ah/,” is just a touch crisper, at this name. “-- I could imagine the internet quite useful for those already there,” is a more distant murmur, “it can be invaluable for keeping in communication with -- well.” A very small twitch-tug at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose that only becomes relevant if you have people on the outside you care to remain in contact /with/. Perhaps its value is limited, then.” There is not much to /find/, when searching his eyes; they meet hers steadily, quiet placid green. “{You have been losing yourself,}” he echoes, “{when you should be thinking of how to keep yourself.}” The mention of Desirée draws his gaze to the kitchen; after a pause he turns aside from his path to the stairs, beckoning Nox to follow as he heads instead to living room. “{What is best? It is best if --}” There is a moment of quiet; he doesn’t take a seat, instead turning to his aquariums to sprinkle a small amount of food at the top of each. His hand rests against the lid of one, watching the bright fish inside, illuminated by a dim strip of light in the hood. “{It is best if you take the time to tend to your own needs. Your family needs you, Nox. /Whole/.}” For a moment Nox simply stands there, hand remaining out. Then it lowers to be lost at her side when she moves to follow, ghosting along into the living room. Quiet, at first, just listening. And, admittedly, watching every move he makes with the grave attention of a serious critic. “Family. Yes,” she says after a time. “She had said yours is here. The children. Upstairs.” She creates a hand again to touch fingertips to softly glowing glass. No marks are left behind. “They need you. Mine need me...need the shadows. That is where I forget myself. Lucien...” Her head turns. In the faint light, she’s made herself more solid; she’s had to become solid, and her eyes reflect tiny points of that light at him. “Before I go, I will ask. Matthieu...losing him. Being alone. Is there anything I can give you? That you need. Through it.” Behind them, Desirée slips out of the kitchen, a tray with two mugs of tea, sugar, a small pitcher of milk, set down on the coffeetable. There’s a moment where she turns to watch the two, but she slips away to close herself into the study again. Lucien glances over, watching this. Then watching Nox. “The sewers have shadows in plenty already. They need /you/. I --” His eyes shift away from Nox, back to the aquarium. His gaze follows the serene drift of the dark seahorse through the water. “Nox, I was expecting his death for quite a long while,” eventually comes in mild-gentle response, as he straightens away from the aquarium. “If you lose yourself in the shadows,” his eyes turn back towards her, thoughtful, “does it help? To come up here? To be up here?” Nox also looks over, though before she can form a smile--or notice that there are only two mugs--the teenager is gone again. “When you came below, Lucien,” she says as she turns back to him, “you were different. Not a man who...who had been expecting. I thought...I thought you were displeased. But. You are allowed. To grieve. To feel.” The question earns silence of her own, as she makes arms for the sole purpose of curling them around herself. “It helps to remember. I think of. When I came to read to him. And you asked if you could join us. I think of the opera. Of you singing to us because of a silly game. Shadows are things. In memories, I am...a person.” “Allowed,” Lucien echoes softly, “yes. I imagine I am.” He watches the curl of her arms around herself; at a delay, he takes a half-step towards her. His hand lifts, fingers reaching tentatively for her shoulder. “You are a person here, too. Even if it can be difficult to remember.” That shoulder bears up under his hand, from cloud to velvety solid to support its weight. Nox tilts her head as well, until she can stroke her cheek over his knuckles. But her arms remain around herself. “Yes. I am.” When her head lifts again, her eyes opening, she finds that smile she’d tried to shape for Desiree. It’s a sad but steady thing. “I am glad the children are here. I would not...endanger them. I will keep my word, now. I promise.” Lucien’s fingers squeeze down gently against her shoulder, when it firms; it comes as ever with a familiar soothing touch of cool. “And what of yourself?” His eyes are still steady-calm, watching that sad smile with a continued -- nothing, really, an unruffled placidity to the quiet composure of his expression. “Matt, I was long expecting to lose. /You/, I --” He exhales, slow. “-- am losing all the same, it seems.” With a stronger touch, comes a stronger sense, a peek past the sorrow--confusion, mingled with a foggy determination to stay whole and clear and solid. The coolness helps. The soothing. Nox closes her eyes again, briefly, focusing only on that--lost for a moment in memory instead of reality--before she looks up to study the smooth glass expression that remains unchanged on his face. “Sometimes,” she whispers, “I think I never had you. Every. Every time. We see each other. I fight through the space. You keep around yourself. Every time. When I want to...to hold you. To know you, and...to be what people are. To each other.” A tremor goes through her. With it, so too go the feelings when her shoulder disintegrates beneath his hand and she becomes just a shadow again. Not unruffled, but as unreadable as he has been. “But you have...family with you. Now. To tend. To do as you must. And I am not whole, as you said. I should go, Lucien.” Lucien’s hand drops, trailing through shadow to fall back to his side, where his fingers curl slowly inward towards his palm, a slow motion too loose at its end to be really a fist. More like trying to cup in his palm a handful of -- nothing, really; shadows do not well lend themselves to being held in grip. “{I do not keep it,}” comes out as a bare whisper, as he turns aside to move a few feet away, stoop by the coffeetable. He looks at the tea set out without touching it. “{It keeps me.}” “What people are.” His arms rest against his knees, a slow swallow rolling down his throat. “If those are the things you want,” has returned to his soft even murmur, “perhaps you never did. Have me. /You/ are a person, Nox; I am not certain that I --” This trails off into quiet. He closes his eyes, inhaling the fragrant steam of the tea. “You have family, as well. I hope -- {more than anything, that they can hold you together where I cannot.}” “I understand.” This whisper sounds behind him, around him. When Lucien turned away, Nox slides into the shadows that cling to the edges of the room. “I think. Lucien.” This time, touch isn’t needed to feel the emotion she’s slipped into his name. Even in a murmur, her heart’s in those two syllables. Briefly, nearly invisible hands stroke over his hair, equally invisible fingers curl against his cheek. The pad of a finger might run over his lips. Then there’s nothing. The room seems empty; Nox has gone. Through those small nearly-invisible touches, there are brief faint echoes of the same soft coolness. Then there's nothing, and nothing continues; a long stretch of unmoving silence until long after the tea has gone cold.