From X-Men: rEvolution
Dramatis Personae

Ion, Lucien, Matt


"{You dying slow that's not impressive.}"


<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.

All the ground-levels windows of the house are open to the balmy night, and the soporific strains of Silly Wizard's 'The Pearl' play quietly in the living room. Matt is asleep in his armchair, in a white t-shirt with a large filigree heart bracketed by ornate capital As in ace of hearts fashion and black pajama pants covered with little red hearts. His smooth head is uncovered, flopped at somewhat uncomfortable-looking angle against his left shoulder. A hard-bound library book lies open in his lap, its pages fluttering in the breeze.

The faucet has been running in the kitchen, though it shuts off now. Lucien is not quite dressed for bed, though he's no longer properly dressed for company either, only a sleeveless undershirt paired with his faded old jeans. He's absently rubbing the last traces of dishwater-damp from his hands as he returns to the living room, pausing with a small tightening of jaw by Matt's chair. Gently, he shifts his brother's head, tucks a pillow comfortably beneath it before picking up his own book from where it's been left on the coffee table beside an abandoned squat glass of scotch. Settling down onto the floor by the foot of Matt's chair, he lets the book fall open to its bookmark, eyes turning slowly down to the page.

There's a skip in the music, brief before it resumes. A presence, energetic, overactive, jangling at Matt's sleeping brain. A thunk somewhere in the basement, another skip, and now an Ion, jeans and scuffed blood-spattered boots and rather chewed-up Mongrels vest over a torn and kind of filthy undershirt. Knuckles torn, too, dimpled bruising along an arm, half-moon gouges freshly scabbing beneath an eye, a heavy length of pipe tucked into his belt. "{Damn, boy.}" He sounds pleased -- there's a sharp exhale, a relieved loosing of tension in the sudden grin that brightens his face. "{Reading still and everything, you aren't doing half bad, huh?}"

Matt stirs a little at Lucien's touch, then considerably more when Ion enters the range of his senses. He rouses sluggishly, only blinking his eyes open just as their guest appears in the living room. "Ion! Bonsoir." His smile is a bit tired but no less bright, though it quickly fades into a concerned frown. "{I am doing no so bad.}" His Spanish is even sloppier than usual. "{But you, you are hurt! Do you need uh...}" He struggles briefly for the word, then gives up and just signs 'first aid.'

Lucien's tension clamps hard and tight in sharp counterpoint to Ion's, though it is only truly noticeable to his brother: a gathering ripple along his mind, a focused hypervigilance that doesn't /quite/ ease even once their visitor makes himself more clearly known. Outwardly his smile is small, if polite. He tucks his bookmark neatly back into its pages right where it had been, sets the book back on the table. "{Ion. What a welcome surprise.}" The sweep of his gaze is quick, head to toe over the Mongrel. "{Would you care for a drink? We have a decent selection.}"

"Tch." Ion's cheek sucks against his teeth, one hand dismissively waving away -- perhaps everything that Matt has said. He takes the room at an easy lope, coming up beside Matt's armchair to plant a staticky kiss to the top of his bald head. Then reach down and swipe Lucien's drink from the table. "{/You/ ain't reading boy, you sleeping, zero points. I don't mean you you dying slow that's not impressive. Your brother now,}" here he's gulping down Luci's scotch, dropping a hand (just as staticky, and past the discharge bringing with it an overcharged spill of worry and exhaustion, guilt and sore aching muscles, bruises and bright eager energy keyed so taut it feels near to snapping) to jostle at Lucien's shoulder, "{he dying /fast/. And reading here calm as any-fucking-thing. That take some discipline, yeah?}" He eyes the empty glass a little wistfully. "{This shit damn good, you got more?}"

Matt's smile returns, softer than before, though there's little mirth behind it. His power stretches out and sinks into Lucien's, coaxing from him a trickle of calm. This effort stutters with the shock from Ion, but resumes quickly and more vigorously, as if the discharge has jolted him fully awake. He opens his mouth when Ion reaches for Lucien, but is too slow to speak. Instead he tightens his grip on Lucien's powers like one pulling back on a dog's leash in anticipation of a lunge, redoubling the calm. "{Luci, get me a ginger ale while you're up, please?}" he says firmly, evenly. To Ion again, a bit petulantly, "{I /was/ reading. I hope you've good news.}"

Under Ion's hand, Lucien's shoulder tenses, muscles pulling momentarily into harder definition. A reflexive (hungry) (angry) /snap/ of pain uncoils whipcrack-sharp from his mind -- and goes nowhere, or at least, does not follow through to its intended target. Instead of Ion, the ripple of impulse slams up against the clenched restraint of Matt's mind, crashing and fragmenting on the bulwark of his brother's abilities, the fury behind it dissipating as quick as it had surfaced.

"{Discipline? Goodness, no, just an insatiable literary addiction. You'd be surprised how many ills take a back seat to a strong enough dependence.}" With a soft breath, a slow roll of shoulders, Lucien pushes himself to his feet. "{If you /do/ come with good news, my friend, I will send you off with an entire bottle.}" For now, though, he's taking the empty glass off to the kitchen. Returning presently with two glasses, and a cold bottle of ginger ale cloudy with ginger bits tucked under his arm.

Ion has moved on, now, tromping over to the aquariums to lean down and stare into them. "{Sea dragon still looking out for your tiny kingdom here? Shit, he so fancy. Oh damn!}" His eyes light when Lucien returns with the drinks; he takes his in a hurry. "{Lifesaver. Been a damn /night/, I tell you. No joke, though, you're looking goddamn worlds better than some of the people I been trying to round up -- fuck.}" He takes a long swallow of whisky, one eye scrunching as his smile dims. "{Can't keep this shit in stock fast enough, you know? And these motherfuckers in Washington I hear they ain't even trying to make sure any fucking insurance covers -- fff. Not that it'd help half our people.}" He rubs the side of his glass absently against his crescent-scabbed cheek. "{But you, you come with me?}" Like he's suddenly remembering. "{We got our own little clinic open back up tonight, get you fixed right the hell up.}"

Matt's fingers dig into the arms of his chair and his jaw clenches tight--but only for a moment. His grip on Lucien's power eases, though he never relinquishes it altogether. Even so, he slumps back against the pillow Lucien had tucked beside him earlier, letting out the breath he had held, if briefly. "{Mistral is the most fancy guardian.}" His smile is more genuine and also more weary as he watches Ion. "{But then, it /is/ a very fancy kingdom. Thank you.}" This as he takes the ginger ale from his brother, turning it over gently to stir up the gingery sediment on the bottom. "{Oh! That's wonderful! You will go, of course.}" This last, with the faintest lift of an eyebrow at Lucien, is ostensibly phrased as a question, but the intonation sounds more like a command.

"{Speaking of fancy dragons, there actually /is/ a red Mandarin dragonet in there now. We've yet to name him. I doubt much he will usurp Mistral's kingdom, he's quite shy.}" Lucien swirls his own drink in its glass, leaning against the back of Matt's chair and watching Ion at the aquarium. His eyes trace down over the younger man's clothes, lips thinning before he takes a swallow of whisky. "{It does look like you've had a rough time of it. Do you have many more customers to collect? Will you need a hand with it at all? All things considered, I'm feeling quite well.}" There's a very small twitch at the corner of his mouth and he is quick to follow this up with: "{-- but well glad you are here, nevertheless. I will come, certainly.}"

"{Shit, a dragon for real?}" Excited, Ion leans closer to peer more intently into the water. "{Boy they /all/ look fancy which one's that?}" He shakes his head at Lucien's question, though it comes with a slump of shoulders. "{This shit it hit everybody different, right? Some people carry on a good while with treatment, some people fuck. A couple we didn't even get in time, families still hanging onto them like maybe I can come bring them back. You, man, I just want to get you there and well before you try and take chunk off my face too. Don't you worry, I'm quick as fuck. Can handle a little more cranky tonight.}"

"{He's probably milling around near the bottom. Red and blue stripes, very bright.}" Matt opens his ginger ale and sips at it slowly. Draws a deep breath and lets it back out, shaky and rough. "{The politicians, the drug companies, and the insurance companies would all sooner let people die than compromise their profit margins.}" He curls his legs up onto the cushion of the chair as if suddenly cold in the pleasant night breeze. "{You and the Mongrels are the lifesavers.}" A smile creeps across his face, mischievous despite his exhaustion, but ultimately he just adds, "{Take care of my brother, please--and take care of /yourself/.}"