ArchivedLogs:Messages

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Dramatis Personae Lucien, Micah	29 June 2013 Micah visits Lucien and brings promised messages.
Location <NYC> Tessier Residence - Greenwich Village
Living in the heart of Manhattan means space is precious, and as such, the yard behind this house is small. It is as exquisitely well-kept as the rest of the place, though; all available space has been meticulously cultivated and transformed into a lush retreat from the concrete and asphalt of the city. The borders of the garden are lined in a wealth of flowers, the selection chosen to provide a panoply of color in all seasons save winter. A grassy rock-bordered pathway separates these from the raised-bed vegetable garden that dominates its center. The far left corner of the garden plays host to a tiny rock-lined pond, goldfish and a pair of turtles living in its burbling water. To one side of the pond is a garden table and set of chairs and presiding over the pond, a large oak tree with a hammock underneath, its branches spreading out over the tall brick wall that screens the entire area off from the city outside. The weather is not delightful. It has been grey and intermittently drizzly all morning, and afternoon has turned that into actually raining. Storming, really, occasional claps of thunder rumbling through the Village. Despite this distinct lack of sunshine, Lucien has been out of doors! That is clearly evident from the fact he is soaking wet, dirty blonde hair plastered to his forehead, light green tee turned several shades darker and stuck to his skin, jeans weighed down with water that is, at the moment, dripping onto his otherwise immaculate kitchen floor. He has /been/ out in the garden, gods only know why; he is at the moment wiping the worst of mud off his feet with a hand towel so that dripping water is the worst his floors have to contend with. There comes a rather /loud/ knocking at the front door. Louder than Micah would typically offer, but, one must be heard over thunderstorms! Especially when one has travelled from vehicle to front door in said thunderstorm. With an umbrella, for what little good it does! The rain is coming down at odd angles and /bouncing/ back up from the ground where it has already puddled. So there is also a rather damp (though not entirely soaked) Micah at the door, his jade green button-down showing the white T-shirt underneath through spots of wet and his jeans actually soaked through near the bottoms. The umbrella is just hanging from a strap over one wrist because /useless/. Squish, squelch, squish; Lucien leaves a series of wet bare footprints from kitchen door to front door, with a detour en route to a hall closet to ditch used towel in the hamper and pick up a clean one. The fresh one is still folded in his arm when he opens the door. In lieu of greeting, he proffers towel to Micah when he lets the older man in. Micah is careful to step /just/ inside the door to avoid spreading too much mess. He accepts the towel with a grateful smile. "Afternoon, Lucien. Oh, /thanks/. The sky just /opened up/ while I was on my way over here." He seeks out an appropriate umbrella-storage location and proceeds immediately to removing wet shoes and placing them in the appropriate shoe-storage location. Then uses the towel to scruffscruff at his lightly-dripping hair. Yep, that's officially /actually/ messier than usual! "It has been doing that," Lucien agrees mildly. He glances outwards to the world outside for a brief moment, before closing the door behind Micah. "I find it rather pleasant, actually." Which might explain his own sodden state. "Can I get you --" He gestures behind him, off in the direction of the kitchen. "Anything?" “Yeah, it looks like it got you even better’n me,” Micah observes with a light laugh. “Actually wouldn’t mind a cup of somethin’ warm after all that… Surprisin’ly kinda chilly rain for all the heat we been havin’.” He has moved on to patting his clothes as dry as they are likely to get with use of a towel alone. Lucien locks the door, watching Micah's clothes-patting with a faint furrow of brow. His steps are still kind of squelchy as he makes his way back towards the kitchen, to put a kettle of water on the stove to boil. "Give me a moment," he excuses himself once the water is heating, "I need to stop dripping over -- everything." He heads out, up the stairs. Splish squish. It takes a couple minutes for him to return. Dryer, his clothes swapped out for fresh ones -- dark jeans, a light grey t-shirt. He is still running a towel over his damp hair. His other arm holds more clothes, neatly folded -- black drawstring pajama pants, a blue tee. "I can toss yours in the dryer, if you like." Micah nods at Lucien’s exit, continuing to patpat with the towel. Not really…going anywhere that he might get wet. Despite the fact that Lucien was, actually, dripping over everything already. “Ohgosh, thanks. I…you don’t have t’go through all that trouble an’ runnin’ the dryer just for one set of things,” he protests, though not forcefully. “There a…someplace I should change?” "Yes, it is a very difficult pressing of a button. Change wherever you like. There is a bathroom just through there, if you need." Lucien gestures, a right down the hall by the kitchen. He busies himself with preparing tea. Picking out a tin, getting mugs, filling them with hot water. Preparing a basket, preparing a pot. All so much ritual. “Ha ha,” Micah replies sarcastically to Lucien’s dryer process description. Then he ducks into the bathroom indicated for a moment, returning dressed in the provided outfit with his wet clothes bundled in his arms. He makes it into the kitchen this time! Now that there is no danger of dripping. By the time he returns the water has boiled; the tea is steeping. Lucien nabs Micah's wet clothes, slipping back out into the hall to toss them into the dryer. And push a button! He makes it back in short order. "Forgive me. It was a more difficult task than anticipated. In addition to the button, I had to turn a knob." Micah has taken to leaning against a counter in Lucien's brief absence. His lips twist into a wry sort of smirk at the /ongoing/ task description. "Heavens, I hope you didn't pull anythin' in the process." The concern. It might be just shy of sincere. "Your concern is touching. I made it through. Somehow." Lucien takes the steepers out of the tea, emptying the used tea leaves into a small trash can. "How have you been?" And then, "Do you take sugar? Milk? He gestures towards the two filled mugs still on the counter. This earns a chuckle from Micah. “I knew I could count on you. An’ thanks, by the way.” He decides to answer in reverse order. “Just sugar. An’ I been okay. I mean, life is /strange/, but that’s the new normal anymore.” He shakes his head slightly with the last comment. "I do not think I can recall a time 'normal' was 'normal'." Lucien spoons a sugar into one of the cups, stirring it quickly. He sets it on the counter nearby Micah. "Though this city does seem to be trying to outdo itself at every turn." His own tea is left undoctored. He leans back against the counter, one arm crossing over his chest. "-- Strange?" "That's actually...pretty true," Micah concedes, before picking up the cup with yet another, "Thanks." He just holds onto the cup for a bit. "It is, too. Most recent oddness, Jax'n I kinda adopted a dragonfly the size of a horse. So. That's new." He grins down at the tea, watching a faint wisp of steam curl from its surface. "How have things been with you?" Lucien's eyebrows raise. For a long silent moment he just /stares/ at Micah. "Horse-sized dragonfly. Giant insect -- as in the sort at City Hall?" He reaches for his cup, finger curling around it. Micah just nods as if this is all commonplace. "Yeah, she showed up on the roof over at the Lofts, lookin' like a lost puppy. An'...well. You've met Jax'n me." He takes on a self-deprecating sort of grin and shrug. He brings his cup to his lips to blow across the surface of the hot liquid before sipping from it. Lucien didn't answer his question, but Micah hardly expected him to. He fills the space with more news from his side. "Visited Nox yesterday. She wanted me t'let you know that a Mr. Law or Ms. Basil would be bringin' you a radio. So's you all can talk if you need to. She'll just listen on the line from nine to ten at night." Lucien's fingers tighten. Hard, the nailbeds pressing white. "Murphy." It's a slow heavy word. Lucien's eyes focus down on the cup. It takes a beat longer before he lifts them to Micah, his tone oddly flat when he speaks again. "You went down. Visited her. Just yesterday?" His grip on the cup tightens still further. Micah gestures toward Lucien’s hand with his mug. “I did get the feelin’ he has that effect on folks,” he says of Murphy. “Yes, last night. They’d had all the entrances blocked up more for a while there, when things first got sticky. But we been droppin’ supplies off at the same couple of spots since then, so they moved back the passive defenses a little an’ replaced ‘em with sentries. She’s…able to be in a lot of the spots at the same time.” Lucien looks downward, when Micah gestures. His grip eases, pressure lightening a hair at a time. He lifts the cup the rest of the way, taking a small sip. "I see." It's clipped and flat, too. He takes another slow sip of tea. "Did you come to tell me that?" Micah watches Lucien with a soft sort of expression for a bit, quiet himself, just sipping at the tea. “Was the impetus of me choosin’ this particular mornin’ to call you on.” He finally lets the brow furrowing take hold that had wanted to happen for some time, betraying obvious concern. “Are you okay?” "Why would I not be?" Lucien's eyebrows lift, arching upwards towards his damp floppy mess of hair. "It's afternoon," this pedantic correction is quieter, a little offhand-distracted. "Do you have one?" he asks, then, and clarifies a moment later: "A radio. To talk to them." "Not tryin' to guess. Just. Looked not quite okay there for a minute," Micah replies with a shrug, not really managing to look less concerned. Then shakes his head in response to the radio question. "No. Ms. Basil will have one, the lawyer. In case she needs to contact her about developments. I'm s'posed t'go to her if I need t'reach Nox for some reason." "Mmm." It's quieter, now, a soft noncommittal hum in Lucien's throat. He hides his expression behind another long sip of tea; by the time he finishes and lowers the cup, his face has smoothed out back to neutral-even. "You should. Have the other. If you are helping to supply them. Gods know these days they could likely use the help." It takes a moment before his attention returns to Micah's face. "You seem," he muses, "an eminently /normal/ person to be dealing with all this strange." "It's more of a team effort. Me, Jax, a couple of other folks. Gettin' things down from the gardens an' then anythin' else they can't get hands on for themselves," Micah explains. He shakes his head at the mention of the other radio. "That ain't none of my say-so. S'all other people's plans. An' those people thought you'd be the best person for it. S'pose you got the right to say no to that as much as anythin' else. If that's really what you want." His fingers comb through his hair, which has started to curl slightly at the edges where moisture is drying away. "I get that a lot. But like you said. Normal ain't really normal." "Are the gardens still tended, then?" This, at least, makes for the slightest upward tug at the corners of Lucien's mouth; it does not quite resolve into a smile, and is soon to fade. "You would be a far more practical choice." His fingers tap slowly against the outside of his cup. "No. Nothing is, really. Is it taxing?" "Mmhmm, been watchin' over them this whole time. Did have more help before from some of Nox's folks. But. Ain't really somethin' they're safe doin' anymore." That slight upturning sparks an actual smile in response from Micah, though it is a small one. "Ain't about t'leave somethin' like that t'waste, with all the work put into it an' folks really needin' the produce." He sighs, just barely, a slightly heavier exhalation than average. "If you really feel that way, you're welcome t'bring it up with the people as are plannin' it out. Like I said...ain't none of my say-so. I think. She would appreciate hearin' from you, though." A finger taps against the side of his cup. "S'a lot of folks I worry about quite a bit. But. I wouldn't call it /taxin'/, exactly." "Mmm." Another soft noncommittal noise. "There, then, you are likely in the minority." Lucien sets his cup aside, putting it down heavily on the table. He slips around past Micah, towards the hall. "Your clothes are probably dry." That's all, quiet and mild. Micah quirks a single brow slightly, not certain exactly which one of those comments had placed which minority, but not seeking to follow up. He nods at Lucien’s exit. “Thanks again.” Lucien heads down to open the dryer, retrieve clothes -- dry, now, and toasty-warm. He folds them again more out of habit than anything else, returning the neatly folded stack to set it on the countertop beside where Micah stands. "Good-bye feels so stilted. I have almost been feeling these days I should wish people good /luck/ when I release them into the city." “Hm… Both work, I s’pose.” Micah smiles, again, a faint thing. He trades the counter his cup for the clothing. “Could always just let me hug you. Since I always think you need hugs. Whatever amount of projection that might be.” He doesn’t do much beyond taking a step forward, however. “Say hi to the siblings for me? An’ I’ll get these washed’n returned.” He tugs at the fabric of the shirt indicatively. "A good deal of projection, I believe," is mild as well. Lucien rests steepled fingers against the countertop, shaking his head once dismissively. "Keep them. They are too small for me anyway." His weight shifts, just a slighter lean against the counter, fingers pressing down harder. "I will pass it along to them." Micah presses a hand gently to Lucien’s shoulder in passing on his way toward the door, as a compromise. “Take care.” Lucien's shoulder tenses up under the touch, muscles tightening. He doesn't follow Micah out. He picks his tea back up, leaning against the counter to sip at it again.