ArchivedLogs:Graphology

Graphology
Dramatis Personae Jim, Lucien	2014-07-23 Following up on the mystery of the letter.
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. The type of knocking Jim brings is a little out of place at the door of the Tessier household. A little harder, a little briefer and a little too lazy all in one. ...also, not so foreign as to be unknown. Even without foot-kicks or the shoulder-thump of him trying to just walk on in, as he did when visiting those of the once-Lofts, now-Commons. The house is quiet when Lucien opens the door. Children shipped off to summercamps save for Sera, upstairs still asleep and too /sick/ to make it to hers today, he has relative peace in the house. Had relative peace in the house. He answers the door in casual attire, black jeans and white short-sleeved button-down, feet bare against the pristine wood floor. "{Good morning,}" greets Jim in quiet French as he pulls the door open, gesturing inside. "Would you care for some -- tea? Juice? I have muffins." With a flare of nostrils, Jim investigates the household aroma for signs of coffee, most likely. Switching eyes up and down Lucien's form, "What kinda muffin." Maybe he's hoping to catch Lucien out into saying they're raspberry-/arsenic/. He's dressed at least in some semblance of non-hobo, to keep the neighbors from thinking the Tessiers are taking in panhandlers, cargo shorts and a blue button down, overgrown hair brushed and pulled back in a pony tail and MAYBE he grudgingly trimmed his beard down. Under one arm is a leatherbound portfolio, not /designer/ but new and functional and most likely purchased for (AT?) him by Hive. He enters, scraping toes at opposite heels to climb out of his shoes, "The kids?" There is not even a shred of coffee-smell around Lucien's house, alas. Not even a hint that coffee ever /has/ been in Lucien's house. Just a warm banana-chocolate smell in the kitchen and the citrusy aroma of fresh-squeezed orange juice. "-- I have banana walnut and chocolate chip," he answers Jim, slipping in towards the kitchen to gesture Jim after him. "Desi is at class, Gaétan is at camp. Sera is asleep, still." He glances over Jim with a small frown. "With what lies ahead of you today you may as well have something good for breakfast." Jim's scarred and flesh-dented features have carried a haggard wear long before there were burns of sculptor's fingers influencing them - it makes the signs of strain difficult to find. But they're there - the rapid way he /shoves/ his shoes aside once loose of them. The flat way he's not blinking, following along behind Lucien with a clap of hand against his stomach, "Be a fool to say no." He doesn't say anything about last meals. It sort of says itself. "You throw a few more in a doggy bag, be a lot better on a road trip than Dunkin off the freeway." He doesn't tag along too close - the fish need to be summarily glanced at and /rejected/, the chairs, the couch… those features that have changed since last he'd been here, before the necessary rehaul that came with the zombies and riots. And where Lucien branches off for the kitchen, Jim takes a separate path to a table. Coffee table, if there is one. Dining table if not. Where he promptly begins TOUCHING things, staking them up and moving them aside to make room for the portfolio. Flipping it open. Beginning to spread out the large glossy faces of photographs. Lucien disappears into the kitchen, faint clinking noises, cabinets opening. Eventually he returns, one banana muffin on a plate, a tall glass of orange juice. Two tupperwares filled with other muffins nestled in them. "Jax and Ryan cannot eat the banana," he tells Jim, "but they can have the chocolate chip." He sets this all down on the table, the glass on a coaster, arms curling around his chest. His eyes flick from Jim's face down to the coffee table, flitting from photograph to photograph. "So back in the 80's, there was this whole," the plate only makes it a few inches towards the table before it transitions into Jim's custody, holding it beneath his face to deal the muffin a perfunctory /sniff/ as he finishes spreading out the photographs. They would be familiar to Lucien, in abstract - extreme close-ups of the letter he'd not so long ago given Jim - each image has different notes and measurements, aperture and finial lines circled, labeled, notable ligature points amongst the cursive, the contradiction or consistency between the directions of the base lines, "Battery of studies done to prove graphology is a token bag of pseudoscience /dogshit/. Phrenology-head-lumps means you're a serial-killer kind of dogshit." Lucien's eyes linger on the photographs. Then up to Jim's face. Back down to the photographs. He remains quiet, though. An /expectant/ sort of quiet, brows slightly raised as Jim speaks as though quietly prompting him to /continue/. Jim does, after taking a bite of muffin, - one finger flicking up from the baked good to /gesture/ at the photographs, "So I could tell you s' probably written by someone right handed. Or someone probably female. Or." Holding the plate with one hand and the muffin with the other, he has to utilize a knuckle rolled away from his component hand to swat aside a photograph to show the one beneath it, where there is a zoomed in photograph of a different hand written script, this one drawn on and circled first in red photograph ink… then a few in white to match the others. To look between this picture and the one to the left of it, there are, here and there, a few small X's drawn, where the letters, though different in some proportion, seem to harbor a similarity in style. "I could tell you," reaching back into the portfolio, he withdraws a book - a new hardcover copy of 'Mirror, Mirror: Finding my True Reflection'. And drops it heavily in the middle of all of it. And, setting aside his plate to retrieve his juice, he flips open the book to the inside cover, where it's been signed, a note written above it saying 'To James, thank you for your support of the printed page! It's harder to sign e-books.' It would only take a glance to see it's the original version of that which is marked in red in the photograph. It's signed 'Regards, Neve Leone.' "I got a match." Lucien's eyes narrow on the cover of the book -- then on the words inside. A muscle twinges faintly in his jaw, his gaze slipping from the book to the photograph of the letter. Eventually he lowers to take a seat on the couch in front of the coffee table, one hand rubbing slowly against his jaw. "It would, I suppose, be a hopelessly naïve question to wonder what connection Themis House's spokesperson might have to my brother, at this --" His lips thin, his palm sliding briefly to cover his mouth. Then dropping to rest his hand on his knee. "-- stage in his life." "I could hazard a few guesses." Only Jim can sound quite so flat-disgusted while drinking wholesome orange juice. It all blandly feels like the usual momentum of Jim's conversational pattern, watching Lucien's hand make it's slow journey to his side and then back to the book again, save some dragging moment just here, where his jaw churns through one more rotation than it needs. Juice-slurp. He finishes it off with a second swig, the clench falling off. Going back in for the rest of the muffin - picking it up and baring teeth at the side of it like an apple, he speaks against the side of the muffin-grain, "Normally this'd be your teaser show. Before I started digging in with Themis background." The silence falls here. Not softly. It comes like a flat unspoken sentence. Lucien's hand squeezes in against his knee. His eyes lift back to Jim, resting there with a heavy silent acknowledgment. "Normally." He relaxes his grip, slowly lowering his gaze back to the photographs. "Bring my brother home safe," he finally says, soft, "and you can ask him yourself." "Bet your ass." Also looking down at the photographs - a mystery taken, investigated, /spent/ of its worth - for a moment they are both studying the same thing. And though their positioning hasn't changed, it only for this brief moment gives the sense of standing side by side at the table. With a thump of hand on the table, Jim breaks it first. Draws away from the table to shuffle up the photographs and tuck them back into the portfolio, "Thanks for the juice. And uh." Scooping the muffin containers up from the table with his free arm, they are also effectively indicated as part of his statement. Waggle. Faded-denim blue, his eyes settle on Lucien's like a stormy sky meeting a emerald horizon. Jaw tightening, there's a moment of regard. Then he puts out a hand, "Pick up my check on Thursday." Lucien meets Jim's hand with his own, firm-grip, head tipping in acknowledgment. "It will be here waiting for you." Likely with a rather enormous bonus, if his brother is there with him to deliver it. Clap. Hands are met with equal solidity. Jim's, after so long wood and bark, as of flesh and sinew and bone as Lucien's. Chk- he lets go with a baring of side teeth, clicking them like a camera shutter. "Later, 'gater." And he's off, towards the door. Photographs and muffins in tow.