ArchivedLogs:Maudlin

Maudlin
Dramatis Personae Jim, Lucien	2013-10-17 '
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. The Lofts has been quite full, now, with the host of refugees scattered throughout, and though this time proved much more /successful/ than most in that -- no deaths! No gruesome injuries left! -- there is still a wealth of /people/. People locked away from the world for a while, people with no belongings, people with a host of trauma to process. Through this simple material security is important. Food, clothing, clean showers, safe sleeping space. Through this a certain level of mental comfort has been helpful, too, in calming frazzled nerves, in returning people to a place where they /can/ cope with settling back into life. To this end Lucien, in between helping in the kitchen, has been turning his skills to what he does best. Clothing /on/, this time, but where he goes and spends time in quiet conversation with this rescuee or that a certain level of /calm/ seems to follow, a quieter more stable baseline from which to figure out next steps. At the moment he is here in Lighthaus, more casually dressed than is his norm -- jeans, a soft grey v-neck t-shirt -- tucked into a beanbag chair by the window, quietly conversing with another young man, tall and slim and boyish, freckled face and a hint of dimples lending him a younger look still than his late-ish twenties might otherwise carry. There's a plate between them, a few wraps tucked onto it; many have been constructed in the kitchen for the group's lunch. The other man eats slowly; Lucien does not eat at all. With so many people churning in and out of one Loft apartment or another, it would be harder to discern whether Jim had actually gone home yet or not if he weren't wearing the same clothes that he'd worn during the raid - green with a faded image of a turtle on the front. His contribution has been more of a quiet, steady reassurance; rather than sleep, he's spent much of his time on the roof above, providing a leafy shade and silent company to those small numbers of escapees that come and go seeking refuge from the crowds inside. Here and there, low words, kind of hearty /pats/ on the back, vaguely off-color dryhumor, he has a rented station wagon parked at the curb to run odd errands - which he's returning from at the moment. A grocery bag is shoved under one arm, a few lengths of baguette and the sprigs of some sort of leafy green Food Item sticking out the top, he just lets himself into the apartment - for the moment his eyes are directed downward to FROWN at a hole in the lower front of his shirt, which he's cramming a free thumb through. Lucien glances up when the door opens; /many/ people glance up when the door opens, habitually wired still to treat each entry as a potential threat. The brief ripple of tension subsides as quickly as it came, recognition ticking people back into their normal routines. Lucien pushes himself to his feet with a quiet murmured word to his companion, moving towards the door to hold a hand out for Groceries like they're his /due/. Which as a semi-permanent member of Food Crew perhaps they are. "Was that a bullet?" He's eying the hole dispassionately, a bland calculating sort of assessment. "Kinda," Jim grimaces like he doesn't KNOW, placing a hand over the hole and compressing it down. There is no sign of blood around the site, nor pain to his features, and he gladly makes his contribution to the Domestic God acting through Lucien, handing over the grocery bag. It frees up his hands to cram into his pockets. That lurksome forward slouching posture that suggests he's probably going to hover along behind if Lucien heads towards the kitchen. Where he belongs. "...'s it going down here." "Kinda a bullet." Lucien echoes this blandly, too, eying the hole a moment longer but not pressing when Jim seems to at least be functioning as per usual. He turns, heading towards the kitchen (where he belongs) in a quiet efficiency of motion, automatically starting to unload the grocery back with little thought in the process. One thing here, one thing there, he has learned this kitchen like it is his own. "As might be expected, I suppose. Better than last time, perhaps. Have you yet slept?" "Pff, have you?" Jim strolls along behind Lucien, all scarred and gray and vaguely rough-bark-crotchety to complete a balance of beast to Lucien's beauty. Absently reaching up to open, hold open and close cabinets behind Lucien's meticulous storing of foodwares. "I don't really need sleep much these days, if I've been eating right. Fucking houseplant." Where 'eating right' is also breathing and sunbathing and scarfing down on lesser plants. But periodically, and at increasing increments, he slows. Looks long at the side of Lucien's bland expression. Then returns to movement. "Certainly. I do not function well without. And Jackson has been quite /diligent/ about ensuring," there's a very /slight/ press of lips together, here, briefly thinner, his voice continuing just as level-steady as ever, "that his people are in proper functional condition." He waves a baguette in Jim's direction before stashing it. "Whatever that means to them." "Yeah, he's a bastard that way," Jim responds vaguely, scrubbing the side of his whiskery jaw. It probably says something that, without really noticing, he flexes a backwards lean minutely, like he's half prepared to /duck/ under Lucien's baguette-waving should it escalate into some variety of foodFencing maneuver. To the background movements of bustling, practical movements and the clump of cans set on shelf surface, when he speaks again it's low. Even. With eyes fixed only on the currently-opened fridge's interior, "...she didn't make it out, man." In answer to this there is silence. Only the briefest hitch of movement before Lucien's diligent unpacking continues. Steady. Methodical. "Are they certain?" finally breaks his quiet, his voice -- still the same neutral-level as before. "There are many facilities." It's not said with any hope, so much as just -- flat. Thoughtful. He folds the now-emptied shopping back with crisp precise motions. Pressing closed the fridge door to reseal the vacuum, Jim only continues that same long gaze at Lucien, standing heavy and unmoving. Letting the silence answer. The crumple of the shopping bag is prominent between them. Lucien lets the silence hang, for one breath and then another. And then nods, accepting this answer. His palm presses the flattened shopping bag flatter against the counter. "I am sorry. Do your people yet know?" His eyes are also instictively travelling, questioning, to Micah's bedroom door. And then away. Back to the shopping back. His expression remains unchanged. "You're the first," Jim says, eyes dropped to Lucien's hand. The shopping bag beneath it. "Ah." Lucien's fingers press in a slow line along the creases of paper bag, flattening them neater. "Thank you for letting me know." He folds the bag in half, stepping aside to tuck it into the side of the recycling bin. "She meant a lot to all of you. I have no doubt that if you need time to talk to her family, someone could take over errand-running. I have a car and a license." "Hahhh thanks but no thanks." Jim doesn't have anything in his mouth, but his lower mandible gyrates for a moment like he's chewing something. Fishing a tongue in a back molar maybe, making an unhappy grin somewhat to himself while shaking his head, "Already rented mine, no reason not to use it." He's coming away from the fridge, shoving hands back in his pockets. "So." That 'so' seems to be in place of an actual 'goodbye', it would seem. As Jim is aiming his meander towards the door where a bag of dirty laundry is waiting. Lucien doesn't answer this with an actual goodbye any more than he is offered one. Only an accepting tip of head, and then he returns to the living room to settle back onto his beanbag, continuing his previous conversation smoothly where it left off.