ArchivedLogs:Here, Now

Here, Now
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Nox
In Absentia	2013-05-28 '
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. Even while occupying the status of trauma victim, Nox has been the most polite of house guests. She keeps to her designated space, never leaves dishes in the sink (because she hasn't appeared to eat anything) and doesn't make noise. She /has/ gradually taken over more and more of the closet, however. Upon first arriving, she filled perhaps a corner of it, a black and white huddled mass that barely stirred in spite of Lucien's comings and goings. With rest, gradually that darkness began to claim more space. Within a day she was able to respond to questions--when she was not "sleeping", which was often. Within two, she would speak to whomever visited, be it Lucien or Matt. On the third day, she was bold enough to venture out to see Iolaus but the trip exhausted her and for a full day after that, she was impossible to rouse. Now, in the wee hours of Monday morning, she discovers herself strong enough to venture out into the house itself. Still eschewing human form, it is the white-scarred shadow cat that creeps on its belly from the closet, black eyes huge in the darkness. Equally immense ears strain for sounds elsewhere. But it isn't these physical markers of sensory intake that give her the most information. What should be long, fluffy fur extends into grey tendrils that work through the shadows of the house. As a townhouse, it's simple enough to tap into the darkness of each room--it's nowhere near as large as her sewers. Within seconds she has an idea of who is home, and where they are. And when Lucien is discovered, she slides in that direction to find her host. Lucien is awake, despite the hour. He looks, really, like he hasn't yet slept, dressed still like he's been out. Black jeans, a white dress shirt (kind of rumpled.) He's tucked into Matt's favourite armchair in the living room, a bottle of Scotch on the table in front of him, a squat glass of the same in his arm. Book in hand -- Shyam Selvadurai's /Funny Boy/. Matt is there, too, though he's sound asleep, nestled deep into a cozy pile of blankets on the couch. Lucien's attention miiight be just as much on him as it is on his book. The Noxcat appears on the arm of the couch, first. Her head dips and it seems she nuzzles at what remains of his hair before her eyes shift to the man in the chair. So solemn a look. She's able to pass weightless over the sleeping man on her way to the armchair, small curls and twists of shadow left in her wake as she eases down to the floor, then up again to squeeze--without sense of her moving against him--beneath the book-bearing arm. Her destination: his lap, where she finally takes on enough substance to be felt as she stretches up along his chest to wedge her smaller head in beneath his chin. There her eyes close and a low vibration travels through her, like a silent purr. Matt shifts slightly at the nuzzling, but doesn't really stir so much as just nuzzle /back/ and then burrow back down into his blankets. Mmm, sleeps. Lucien's eyes shift, at the motion. He doesn't move, though. He watches the cat and her nuzzling, watches her weightless travelling. Shifts his arm slightly, even though he does not need to, to let her squeeze beneath. He lifts his hand to knock back the rest of his Scotch, so that when he sets the glass back down on the arm of the chair it will be less catastrophic if it accidentally tips. His freed hand shifts to rub fingers against the top of Noxcat's head. "Did you ever have pets?" he wonders, quietly. Velvet and satin--false fur and scarring provide a pleasant surface for fingers to play over, however unwelcome the latter is. They're less raised than they were only days ago but still stark in color against all of that black. The vibration deepens with his touch. Nox welcomes it; her tail curls loose around his wrist to encourage the continuing caresses. "No," she whispers eventually. "Maybe. None that I remember. I took...riding lessons? But they were not pets. The horses. Did you?" "Never." Lucien's fingers continue to scratch at Nox's head. Unconsciously they tend to linger, tracing patterns lightly against the web of scarring. "Fish. They do not take quite as well to petting. Although some will come to be touched. It is not quite the same." His fingers rub now gently at the back of her neck. "Horses can be pets. Rather more upkeep than most. Did you ever /want/ pets?" "Perhaps I did." Which is to say, she can't remember. The confession is almost more felt than heard, vibrations becoming humming and humming shaping words. It's difficult to tell when Nox relaxes, when she is at ease, but this seems a likely sign. The tips of her ears tickle his chin as she tucks her head down, exposing more of her neck to that same treatment. "I can imagine you with a cat." She pauses, considering the image after already speaking it. When she murmurs again, it's with a light trace of humor, "...a proper cat. Not this false one." "Really? Mmm." Lucien considers this as his fingers trace downwards. Against her neck, back up to the top of her head. Behind her ears. "I think I like this one better. Real cats tend to be far more contrary." His lips twitch upwards, as he glances around his neat living room. "Also, they shed. Matt thought we should get a lizard. Or a snake." Nox stretches again under his fingers. This time that squirming lead to a gradual change of shape, each light touch creating a level of comfort that teases her into something a little more human. Still small, still all but weightless, but ever so slowly resolving into a proper Nox. It makes it easier for her to slide an arm over his shoulder, to develop fingers of her own to play through real hair. To touch in return for being touched. Only her eyes remain the same, still too large, and too solemn. "Snakes and lizards shed as well. And...far more fragile. In captivity. Why are you not sleeping, Lucien? Has..." Her gaze slides briefly towards Matt, the rest of the question unspoken but implied. Has he taken a turn? "But they shed neatly. Into terrariums. Contained. Not all over my furniture." When Nox shifts, so does Lucien's touch. Not so much /scritching/ now though it's still definitively /petting/, hand tracing against her side in slow caress. His chin tucks downward, resting against the top of her head. "Fragile we can handle. You should see the care that goes into a marine aquarium. Seahorses are quite delicate." His head turns, cheek now resting against her so that his eyes can shift to his brother. "No," he assures her. "He is only sleeping. I came in late from work. It is just -- sometimes nice. To sit. Enjoy --" He hesitates a moment. "-- the quiet." His hand continues to trace against her side. Occasionally it slides up against her arm, fingers running against her shoulder, then back down. "You are up." It is not phrased as a question, but there is a note of questioning in his tone all the same. Hopeful questioning. The word on Matt is good. Work...less so. Something like a fist forms inside of her chest but Nox is still too tender, too tired, to cling to it for very long. One arm is joined by the other, raising under his palm so she can hold him properly, choosing Lucien over that lurch in emotion. "I...think so, yes. Doctor Saavedro said I should rest but I was...if I stay. Too long. In the dark. I forget more than I care to," she murmurs. "So it was time. There is...more reason to remember, now. Even the bad. Perhaps...especially the bad." Nox curls her fingers, their tips brushing through the short, fine hairs at the nape of his neck. "I did not think I would see you again. Lucien." "/More/ reason? Why now?" Lucien's arm tightens just slightly around Nox at that clenching inside her. His cheek continues to press to the top of her head. "I mean. Someone has to remember, certainly. This kind of thing -- will continue to happen. If it is forgotten." His jaw tightens, briefly, but then relaxes again. His head tips forward, hard bones of his spine pressing up against the fingers she brushes against his neck. "Perhaps you almost did not. But that was then. You are here now." "Twice now. Twice humans have put me in cages for their own purposes. If I forget, if I hide, it will happen. Again. And again. To me. The people I love." Nox turns her head, slowly so as not to disturb him, surely so as to be able to press her lips to the pulse that throbs so strong within his throat--unlike hers, which is slender, smooth, but completely without that sign of life. It draws her. "I am here now. But Anole? He will carry it with him. Masque, his injuries...Marrow, hers..." A chord of cold, deep anger shivers inside of her. It takes her a moment to push it away--and it becomes easier when it's swamped with an equally deep sense of shame. "...you...saw me. As I am. Truly am." "It might happen again. And again. Even if you remember," Lucien is perhaps not the most /reassuring/ of comfort-givers. "But you will fight it." And, quiet but more firm: "We will fight it." His hand squeezes more strongly at her shoulder, and a slow swallow rolls down his throat, against her lips. "Yes. These things -- they will carry forever. And they will fight it, too." He quiets, and his hold eases, slightly. His fingers return to their slow gentle tracing against her arm. Her side. Her back. "I saw you." It is a simple quiet statement. "And /I/ am here, now." There's comfort to be had in honest. It might not be reassurance but Nox will accept that honesty. "When I forget, I am...easier to control. I will.../we/ will. Yes. No more broken." This time, the unspoken answer found in his reply causes a shiver. It feels different from the humming of earlier. It sends her huddling into his embrace, trying to erase the space between them. "Thank you. For not thinking me a monster," she whispers before finding the control over self and emotions to touch a kiss to his skin again. Then she turns her cheek to his heartbeat. This makes Lucien laugh. It's a quiet laugh, a soft breath of sound that does not hold a good deal of amusement. "Oh, I think we are all broken in our own ways. But so is everyone. Sometimes you just need to find /their/ breaking points and --" Another breath, short and sharp. His arm curls more snugly around her, holding her close against his chest. "I have seen monsters," he murmurs, against her head. "What I saw in that place was not a monster. At least," he continues, a little more dryly, "at least not /inside/ the cage." Nox closes her eyes. Her fingers, having grown temporarily still, resume their light stroking of the hair at his nape. It's a sensory pleasure lost to her and now found again. It soothes. "The labs had a purpose, at least," she murmurs in turn. "When I could think, I would think that...perhaps it was at least...helping. In a way. This was senseless. All of it. And them...the way they shouted at us. The way they /hated/ us." Carefully, so as not to jar his chin, she draws her head back. Just enough to be able to share a look. "Would you...we can speak of something else. If it is...perhaps it is better. To be here now. Just this." "Is it better? I do not know. Everyone is helped in different ways. What is better for me --" Lucien hums, soft and low in his throat. "May be different for you." He settles back into the chair. For a moment his gaze is drawn aside, as Matt stirs in his chair, but when his brother quiets again so does he. For a moment. "I am not sure it is hate. For some of them, perhaps. It might be better if it was. Hate takes more investment." His eyes shift, over to his aquariums. Watching the colourful fish inside. "Do you hate them?" "The fish?" Nox knows full well to whom Lucien is referring. She's simply avoiding an answer for a moment. When he turns his attention elsewhere, she tucks her head to his shoulder and reaches with curled fingers to stroke the hollow beneath his cheekbone, the line of his jaw. She moves her hand as if she were intent on memorizing his face. The fish are ignored. Matt's stirring only strengthens her silence. Finally, long after he asked, she whispers, "I do not know what I feel towards them. What is better for you?" This earns another breath. The line of is jaw tightens, and his eyes close for a moment. One arm uncurls from around her and he shifts, leaning carefully forward to reclaim his Scotch bottle, pour another inch of whisky. "Oh," he says, "I would not recommend my coping methods highly. They all tend towards destruction." The connection between what he says and what he /does/ is all too clear. Nox turns her head--a little too much by human standards--to study the glass, to watch the pouring the whiskey. No sooner has he said the word "destruction" than she's developed a third arm, a third hand, and they reach for that glass. Her fingers curl over his to prevent its approach to his mouth. "Mine...has been as destructive. We should. Think of new ones. Perhaps." She pauses, her eyes studying his for his reaction to this. "Together?" Lucien's eyes meet hers, and in their steady calm for a moment there is not much to read. Not much reaction past a calm appraisal, his fingers tightening around the glass. But this breaks into a tight scrunch and his head tips forward to rest his forehead against hers. "{Perhaps,}" he agrees, very softly, "{together, we should.}"