ArchivedLogs:Expectations

Expectations
Dramatis Personae Iolaus, Lucien	2013-07-04 '
Location <NYC> Strand Books - East Village
The Strand manages to pack a whole lot of character into one bookstore, but they have a lot of space to fit it in. They advertise themselves as having eighteen miles of books, and whether or not that is true, it certainly is true that they have an enormous number of shelves packed into their rows and rows and rows of books. A book-lover's haven, this East Village landmark boasts an enormous collection of volumes of all types among their stacks, crammed into the narrow aisles. Well-known for their rare and out-of-print collection, they have many hard to find volumes tucked away in their labyrinth of shelves as well. The bookstore is more crowded than most Thursdays, with a holiday giving so many a day off. But here in the back, tucked among the rare books and first editions there are fewer people. A store employee, hawkishly watching to make sure nobody desecrates the volumes largely kept away behind glass cases. A grey-haired woman giving a thoughtful frown to the shelves. And far away on the other side, Lucien, neat-dressed in pale slacks, paler shirt, polished shoes. He is contemplating one of the cases with his hands folded behind his back and a neutral quiet expression on his face. There is, darkening the line of his jaw, a large puffy bruise splotched in unseemly purple. Iolaus, today, is seemingly unescorted as he steps into the Strand and begins to make his way into the back of the store, nimbly ducking around people with a warm, apologetic smile as he bumps through the crowd in the packed room. He is dressed somewhat casually, in a black not-quite-dress shirt that hangs, untucked, at his waist. A pair of grey-black jeans and a belt completes the ensamble, with just a hint of dark blue visible in the inner lining of his pockets. Iolaus does not immediately recognize Lucien as he steps almost right past him and straight to the book-guard at the counter. "Excuse me, miss," he says, voice as quiet as if it was a library, not a bookstore, that he is in. "Can you check to see if you still have the edition of 'Pebble in the Sky' by Asimov in stock?" Lucien glances up only briefly, taking a half-step closer to the shelves he stands in front of. There is not much discernible change in his expression as the other man passes; a quick flick of glance, a quiet return to his browsing. He gives the case careful consideration a moment longer before moving on to the next, a few steps further from the counter. The woman behind the counter gives Iolaus a brief glance before she looks down at the computer in front of her. A few moments of typing, and she instructs, "Yes. Should be on the shelves." Iolaus gives her a warm smile and a thanks before he turns to begin moving along the shelves, eyes scanning for the correct section. He finds Lucien first, and his eyes widen with suprise. "Lucien?" he asks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion before lifting. "It looks like you got on the wrong end of someone's fist," he says, hand rising towards the other man's face in what is clearly a gesture of affectionate concern. Lucien turns, at the sound of his name; there is a quick warm smile that flits across his face, warming the previous neutral-cool of his green eyes. "Iolaus." His head turns, but only very slightly, the faintest downward angle towards the hand that Iolaus reaches towards him. "These things happen," comes in light amused reply: "You know what a rough neighborhood I live in." If Iolaus's hand does make contact, it comes with a subtle-threaded flush of warmth, soft and gentle. "Have you been well? Busy, perhaps?" Iolaus' hand runs along Lucien's cheek in a way both affectionate and measuring. The stroke of his fingers against Lucien's cheek is initially a soft movement of fingers on skin, sliding over his cheek, but it slowly fades to a gentle probing of experienced fingertips, tracing along the muscles and bone underneath, little circles and lines that map out the structure underneath his skin. "Very rough. The pollen from your garden must be incredible." he says, tone light and teasing. "Busy, yes. Always a safe bet." A pause, and his eyes scan over Lucien's face. "And how-- {how have you been... feeling?}" he asks, pausing for a moment to search for a word. The quiet flush of warmth pulls just a bit stronger, the longer Iolaus's fingers remain. Lucien's jaw tenses very faintly beneath the probing; gentle or not, likely un/pleasant/ on dark bruised flesh. His smile lingers, though. "I will have a delightful crop of berries this year, I think. Next year I am putting in a hive." At the question there is a still firmer pull -- warmth, happiness, comfort; it's still not /overt/ but it is growing. "Slightly bruised," Lucien answers with gentle amusement. "Though perhaps in my ego moreso than my jaw. You cancelled and never rescheduled." Iolaus gives the other man a vaguely confused look, and his hand drops to trail fingers along Lucien's throat, chest, before dropping back to his side. "I thought you could use some time off of work, considering. And from me, especially." His look is an apologetic one, and he gives Lucien a shy little smile. "Please don't take it as an insult, Lucien. It is only because I consider you a good friend. If it was just business, I would not have cancelled." Lucien's eyes slip closed, his posture shifting very faintly into the touch. Only once Iolaus's hand drops away does he rock his weight back onto his heels. "Did you know," he says with a quiet thoughtfulness, "that in times of crisis -- disaster, loss -- they advise a swift return to routine. A day, perhaps, to get affairs in order but then -- life as usual, if you can return to it. There is a sort of stability to be found in -- normalcy." Iolaus pauses to digest this for a moment, eyes flicking over Lucien's face the way a police detective might eye someone as they shine a spotlight on their face. He chews on the inside of his lip, a slight bending in of his cheek an indication, before he nods, once. "In that case, Lucien," Iolaus says, softly. "What are your plans for this evening?" he asks, a smile spreading lightly on his face. Lucien exhales a quiet laugh, soft amusement in his face. "Today is a holiday, Iolaus. Most people," he says with a lighter note in his voice, "have plans with family. Friends. Is your evening free?" "I was supposed to be in the lab, but my research can wait. It is not urgent, by any means. Just playing around with an idea that I had. And paperwork, of course, but that is more my life than a particular assignment that needs to be done," Iolaus says, wryly. "I have no real plans." A pause, and he looks over the other man. "But I am free more than tonight, Lucien, if you do." Lucien's lips curl upwards, smile widening. He slips his phone out of his pocket, flipping open its calendar. It is rather /packed/ with varying coloured blocks; there is not an abundance of wide unblocked chunks there. He pages through an entire week before tipping the screen to Iolaus, two unbooked stretches available in the following one. "What does your schedule look like after the eleventh?" Iolaus looks down at Lucien's calendar with a bemused look. "Your schedule seems almost busier than mine, my friend." He reaches into a pocket and tugs out his own cellphone, flicking through it for a moment. "I am free on the evening on the twelveth, and I could be free... the fifteenth." He looks up at Lucien, eyes scanning over his face. "Assuming my friend is still willing to sponsor me, of course." "Seven-thirty," Lucien says. "On the fifteenth. I am free all night." He taps at his phone, adding in a new appointment. "He has seemed more than amenable," he adds, lightly, "-- You have quite generous friends. You could not, perhaps, spend the holiday with him?" "Indeed, he is. He has been very good to me, and I owe him more favors than I care to count." A brief pause as Iolaus looks, consideringly, at Lucien. "I suspect he will be working. He is as busy as I am, most days, I think. But..." Iolaus trails off and shrugs his shoulders. "Perhaps I will give him a call." Perhaps. "He and Matt got along well, at his clinic after that -- terrible police ordeal," Lucien says in quiet musing, but then laughs softly: "Then again. I know few people Matt did not get on with. You should call him. He seemed pleasant." Iolaus' smile fades slightly, and he nods, a slow movement of his head. "I should. It has been a week or so since I've seen him." He nods again, and reaches out to squeeze Lucien's shoulder. "Alright. I will see you on the fifteenth, then, Lucien. Give my best to Desiree, Gaetan, and Sera." The doctor gives Lucien another once-over with his eyes, hesitates, then leans forward to brush lips against Luien's cheek in a soft kiss. Lucien's eyes slip closed again, at this kiss. His head turns afterwards; he chases this kiss with another, properly on the lips but chaste and soft out of respect for being in public. This one comes with a distinct flutter, warm and fuzzy-happy but faintly weak stomach-butterflies as easily attributable to the kiss as any tweak of mutation. "The fifteenth," he agrees quietly, squeezing Iolaus's hand gently. But then his brows pull into a frown. "Iolaus --" There's a hesitant questioning in his tone but he stops there, lips compressing and his question unspoken. Iolaus is eager for the second kiss, leaning into it with a press of lips against lips. Chaste, certainly, but needy for a connection that is much purer than mere lust or desire. His hand laces with Lucien's, fingers entwining with the other man. When Lucien frowns, Iolaus' face turns towards concern, and his grip on Lucien's hand strengthens a little bit, as if to remind the younger man of his presence. "Yes, Lucien?" A pause, and he leans in to press another kiss to the side of Lucien's face, voice lowering in volume. "Ask me anything, Luci'." Lucien's fingers curl almost absently through Iolaus's, a loose light contact that continues the quiet pulse of warmth. "You are a doctor. Have you -- dealt," Lucien asks slowly, "much with death?" Iolaus' smile fades and he looks down at the ground for several moments before he looks back up at Lucien. "More than I would like. Not as much as some, certainly, but... not every patient can be saved, no matter what you do. And sometimes, there is very little that can be done." He says, and his thumb skims over the back of the other man's hand. Iolaus' voice is soft and even, and his eyes dart over Lucien's face for several momements, flicking from eye to eye and around his expression. "There are so many expectations," Lucien says in a neutral-even tone, "built up around death. The ritual there. I think I have neglected --" He chuffs out a soft rush of air through his nose. "All of them. They seem important, to some." Iolaus nods, slowly. "There are. Different cultures have different views on it. Some say it is to help the dead get into heaven, or to content their spirit. Others believe it should be a celebration of their life, and a method of comfort to their friends and family." The doctor looks over Lucien's face, considering, silent for a moment. "Do you think some of them would help comfort you?" "Me?" The question seems to puzzle Lucien entirely. "Matt is gone," is his simple bland answer. "I believe some of his friends might have --" His hand turns upward, fingers spreading. "Had expectations surrounding the --" His voice is dry when he says, "Commemoration of such an event." This gives Iolaus some pause, and he squeezes Lucien's hand a little bit tighter for a moment, and he takes a step closer to the other man. "Alright." Iolaus says, eventually, nodding once. "I can see how they might." A pause, and he glances around the shelves for a second before focusing his attention back on Matt. "If it's just for them... I think a party is in order." "It seems bizarre," Lucien admits this in a slightly distant tone. "Funerals I suppose I understand. They serve a /practical/ purpose, more or less. But there was no /body/ to --" His jaw tightens here, slightly, tense and hard. "{Fucking hospital,}" is a lower mutter in French. "Party. Right." Iolaus' other hand reaches up to run over the side of Lucien's face, the desire to comfort spilling from him. "A place where he can be celebrated. It seems to me he would have liked that a lot more than the somber kind of place where everyone has to sit and listen. What do you think?" he asks, hand not leaving the other man's, nor his cheek. "Perhaps." Lucien's lips press together thinly. For a moment he is still, and then he pulls back with a small quick smile. "I should get what I came for and -- have a good holiday, Iolaus," he says, quietly. "I will see you next week." "You as well, Lucien. Please let me know if you would like some help organizing it." Iolaus says, softly. He lets go of Lucien's hand and drops both back to his side only reluctantly, and the smile he gives the other man is both affectionate and regretful. "I will see you, soon. Be well, Lucien." A pause. "Call me if you need anything, any time." Lucien's head tips in a nod. He gives Iolaus one last small smile, and then slips away to the counter. The woman there seems somewhat surprised when he asks after the /Alice in Wonderland/, but the rest of their conversation devolves into just the rote exchange of money. Iolaus watches Lucien for several moments after he turns away with an odd expression on his face before he shakes his head and turns back to the bookshelves. Reading the spines, at least, seems to provide him some comfort, and his expression fades slowly back to neutral.