ArchivedLogs:Nerves

Nerves
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Melinda	2014-02-06 news, delivered.
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. Few people make phone calls on the top stair of someone else's home, as it's a bit rude - voices carrying through the doors and all. Melinda is giving it a try though, standing outside in the aftermath of chocolate rain and snow, staring at the city with her back to the door, bundled up tight. She has a purse under one arm and a reusable grocery bag hanging from the other hand. Her coat is new, too, and it looks loose - soft gray blue wool that hangs all the way down to her mid calf region. Her hair, however, looks amazing. It's thick, full, and shiny, so that even the bits that have escaped her thick braid look like they were styled to do that by a professional. Her thumb finds the send button on Lucien's contact page and sends her digital signal to his phone. Ring, Ring, Ring. Anyone home? Lucien's voice sounds crackly when he does answer the phone, on the last ring before his voicemail answers. Crackle-crackle as though on speakerphone -- which she is. "Salut, Mel." He sounds rather distractable, all things considered. "Lucien. Hi." There's a short awkward pause that is just long enough to say 'it's Mel' before continuing to another thought. "I wanted to drop by and surprise you, but thought I should call first so that you're not too surprised. Is now a good time?" "That depends." Crackle. Water runs in the background, and there is a stretch of pause. "How do you feel about brioche?" "Brioche is delicious," Melinda replies, a smile in her tone. "What are you putting on it?" Another pause. The quiet swing of an oven door opening, thumping closed again. "Apricot and a sprinkling of ginger." "Sound delightful and despite my love hate for ginger lately." Melinda shifts her weight, settling onto one hip, leaning against the railing. "Can't wait to come inside, but, I ... really should tell you about the surprise thing, first. It's kind of a big thing and I'm still trying to get my head around it. I've only known for a week or two, tops, but I really don't know how to tell people. It... often hasn't gone well, so I'm hoping forewarning you might help." "You know how I do so love surprises." Lucien's /exceedingly/ dry tone makes his deep abiding love for surprises so very plain. It might rival his anaphylactic love for sesame. "Tell me your news, then. And come over. Or come over and tell me your news. And eat brioche. With a delightful late harvest Riesling. You don't have work, do you? It is not too early for Riesling." "Oh. I'm already here," Melinda offers, turning toward the door as she speaks, glancing at the portal with a concerned expression. "And I opened. I'll probably have to talk someone through close, but I've got most of the day until then." She trails off letting the work talk linger for a breath before a quiet curse slips from her lips as she turns away again, her free hand rustling the bag at her side. "Luci. I'm... pregnant." "Already here?" There's a scrape of phone against counter, quiet footsteps against the floor. "You move quick. Is my brioche that magnetic?" Quiet amusement lilts through his voice, clearer as he switches off the speakerphone. "Aren't any of your employees competent enough to handle the work themselves? Surely by now --" Though this trails off as his locks start to thunk open. "Huh." He doesn't, admittedly, sound all that concerned. "-- known a week or two. You know, I can take care of that quite painlessly for you." His last lock thunks open; he's still wearing an apron, lightly dusted with flour, when he pulls the door open, though his hands have been washed. The sleeves of his seafoam-green sweater, soft merino wool, have been pushed up over his elbows, and his grey-black jeans fall down over grey-black socks. "It is freezing. How long have you been out there?" "I don't know; I called when I got here." Melinda inhales deeply, turning after a moment of hesitation, her brow wrinkled in concern. While the coat does its job of covering her up, it's clearly a maternity cut, allowing for even more growth in the front. She almost looks normal, for the most part, her height displacing the baby bump and stretching it lean. Under the coat, it's even less visible. Her phone is glanced at to make sure the call is ended before she slips it into her pocket. "There's a new manager. Finally. He'll be fine, but being new, he's overwhelmed and nervous about every decision." She gives him a little smile, then her gaze drops as she starts to walk inside. Lucien closes the door behind Melinda, locking it behind her once she's inside. He extends a hand, not for a hug but to relieve Melinda of her outerwear so that he can hang it in the entryway closet. "Shoes," he reminds mildly. "I do have a doorbell." The coat earns a faintly narrowed gaze as his eyes skip over its cut with /sharp/ scrutiny. Melinda is already heading over to the tray for shoes and toeing her way out of her boots, one hand gently braced against the wall. Once unshod, she unbuttons her coat and slips out of it, the shape of her body outlined underneath, soft and stretchy maternity clothes cling gracefully at least, the layers providing warmth. "I know, I just wanted to ... call. Because of the surprise factor." She licks her lips and lets them purse gently, eyes narrowed as she studies Lucien's face. Lucien takes Melinda's coat, hanging it in the closet and turning to -- stop, head tipping very faintly to one side. There's a slight uptick to the sweep of his dark-blond eyebrows, a faint-thin press of his lips as he exhales slow. His bright green eyes sweep down over Melinda. Back up to her face. "You've only known for a week or two." His soft-gentle words are slow, like he is trying to puzzle this /out/. "There were zombies, Lucien," Melinda responds, half of her mouth seeming to take refuge in the corner of her cheek. "Yeah, I might had caught it in the first few weeks, but my mind was a mess in more ways than one and trying to remember if I menstrated next week or the week before wasn't really high on my list of priorities. And there were literally no other symptoms other than that - which is a story in and of itself." The explanation starts to trickle out, initially, gathering strength as she steps forward, somewhat passionate now about this explanation, not to be harsh to Lucien, but because she needs to say it. "But there were also zombies and by the time it finally sunk in that maybe I needed a pregnancy test, coming by one while not endangering lives on supply runs seemed difficult. But I did get one, when all this cleared up, and it came out negative." Her gaze starts veering off to the right as she continues, losing energy quickly. "Then, I thought there was something wrong with me - like I was dying - because I kept getting these shooting pains through my abdomen, but by the time I got in to see a proper doctor - something I will admit to putting off for no good reason aside from stress and fear, there was this... big... surprise waiting for me." She shakes her head and then brings that intense stare of hers back to Lucien's face. "Yes, Melinda." Lucien shuts the closet door, trailing back into the kitchen. To get out two wine glasses. And a bottle of Riesling. A corkscrew. "I /do/ recall the zombies. Quite clearly. I was here for that, you know." His tone is still mild. Mild as he says this, and /exceedingly/ mild as he continues: "I can see how apocalypse excuses you from personal responsibility. What do you intend to do now?" Melinda instead heads for the couch, settling into a corner and pulling her legs up to elevate them a little. "Sorry. I'll keep the verbalizations to a minimum." She takes a moment to collect herself before replying simply, "I'm keeping it. By the time I found out, it was beyond my personal window of fetal development toterminate. I struggled for a while to terminate anyway, but I couldn't." She shifts once more to put her feet on the floor and closes her eyes as she presses back into the cushioning behind her. In answer to this, Lucien is only silent. Lips pressing thinner, eyebrows pressing down into a furrowed line. He uncorks the wine, pours a modest serving into both goblets. His brows are still pulled in together as he checks the time on his phone. He slips off his apron, hanging it over the oven door, and rolls his sleeves back down, slipping his phone back into his pocket. His brows are /still/ pulled in together as he brings both glasses of Riesling in to the living room, offering one to Melinda and settling in to the opposite side of the couch with one leg tucked in underneath himself to face her. Still silent. Melinda takes the glass and focuses on the liquid inside before pulling it down to her lap. She turns a little to watch him, shifting more to face him when he sits. She cradles her head against the cushions on the back of the couch, her torso curving to settle into the space between. "I think I'm going to be okay. I have an arrangement with the owner of Montagues for maternity leave. Tove has agreed to be a live in nanny for when I return to work. I have friends... who are far more excited about this than I am, and as time goes on - or as I am more infused with hormones - I am more at peace, too." She reaches out with her free hand and stuffs a throw pillow in between her hip and the couch, trying to support herself a little more. "I can understand if you can't agree with or support my decision, but I kind of wanted to get this out of the way, while I'm still me... and not some over inflated, hormonal monster, with too many mood swings and not enough sleep to function properly. "I cannot." This answer comes unhesitant, when Melinda finishes speaking. Lucien's fingers are curled loosely around the slender stem of his goblet, his bright green eyes calm and steady on her. "The sorts of decisions you need to come to /peace/ with are not the sort to make in the first place. But then, I have also never been much for --" He absently swirls the wine in his glass, lifting it to take a small sip with his eyes half-lidding. With a small pleased hum as he rolls the wine over his tongue and down his throat. "-- Regrets." "I understand and appreciate your honesty." Melinda settles heavier against her support pillow, uninspired to drink just yet. "I don't have regrets, though. I feel like I made the correct decision for me, in the setting and with the information, in the time frame given. I'm trying to gain a measure of peace - because like my new manager, while I can handle it, I'm nervous and overwhelmed by the new responsibility." She closes her eyes and brings the wine to her nose to sniff at it only. There's a beginning of a wrinkle on her nose before she moves her hand to settle the glass on an end table. "Where does this leave us? Are you able to enjoy spending time with me still, up until the baby comes, or should I be looking into other plans for my birthday?" "You know little enough of my own history," Lucien murmurs quietly into his own glass, "that I will forgive you, this once, asking my opinion on bringing new life into this world." There's a gentleness to his softly-accented tones that it would be easy to mistake for warmth. His eyes slip closed, a moment, as he sips at his wine, slow. Savouring it. "{And I had thought the world out /there/ had gone mad.}" His eyes open again, fixing back on Melinda. "What peace is there to find in this world?" "For me, there is peace in completion of a task, a good book, a slow cooked meal, a clean house. I find it in the little things whenever possible, and quite often in the bottom of a cup of tea." Melinda lets the other topics die, crossing her arms over her chest and meeting Lucien's gaze. "I know it's only a calm between storms, but I look for it anyway." She shifts her weight, moving her elbow onto the edge of the back of the couch, adjusting her lean until she is comfortable again, throw pillow moved into her lap for the time being. "And if you /know/ it is merely a lull before those storms batter in again --" There's a buzzing in Lucien's pocket. He pulls out his phone to glance at it with a small frown, and rises, setting his goblet down to trail off to the kitchen with only a brief pause in his words, "-- what gives you the right to toss an unconsenting life to be battered by them." He slips an oven mitt onto one hand, pulls one of the shelves only partially out, enough that he can lean partially /in/ to the oven with a small dish of glaze, a small pastry brush to glaze the tops of three small loaves in the oven. He slides them back in, resets his timer. Not for all that /long/, apparently, because he doesn't return to sit down, just lean with one shoulder propped against the doorway after he's set his glaze down and de-oven-mitted himself. His phone is held loosely in one hand, arms curled just as loose across his chest and head tipped to rest temple against doorframe. "Reproduction, I admit, is nigh-unfathomable to me, though. What you do with your own body is, of course, your prerogative. What you do with someone /else's/ --" His eyes lower. Melinda sits there in silence, pillow hugged to her chest. Her eyes do not follow him, instead stare at the other end of the couch unfocused. She continues to listen in silence, slowly getting up as he finishes with the oven and finishes his thought. "You know, I hadn't realized what other people meant until right about now what they meant when they started treating me like I was fragile because I became pregnant, but I think I get it now. There's a part of me that is irrationally quivering in rage, ready to commit to violence because of what you just said. Other parts are desperate to run away crying for the same reason. I'm having a very hard time figuring out what ... feels right." The strain is evident in the furrowing of her brows and the narrowing of her eyes, her hands still clinging to her pillow. "But to answer your question, I figure it's like this: there's a biological imperative that most of the time runs along side our more civilized notions and generally, we accept and rationalize them tidily. And normally, I would agree with you. It's stupid for me, a single female with a minimal, danger ridden community to procreate. Unfortunately, the mashing of two bodies ended up inspiring life, despite the barriers that were put up. Now, I'm finding myself dragged further away from the nice, civilized rationalizations and thrust deeper into a ridiculous evolutionary desire to survive, if not in my life, then in that of my biological progeny. For me, right now, it's not about rights. It's about protecting this tiny, unconsenting life until it is old enough and civilized enough to make its own decisions about its own right to life." Eyes refocus back on Lucien a moment later, jaw set, teeth clenched. She takes a deep breath and a step back. "I apologize, because I am very much... not myself right now. Beg your pardon, but I should probably go... call a cab." "Do you feel fragile, then?" It's a quiet thoughtful musing; Lucien doesn't move from his post in the doorway, his eyes focused over on Melinda. "This world is not kind to the fragile. And children --" He exhales heavily, eyes shifting briefly towards the door. Then back. "This is Greenwich. You needn't call. Throw a stone, you'll hit ten cabs." He tips his hand out towards the hallway, the front door beyond. His eyes lower, lashes slowly falling to halfway shade them. Softer: "I am sure Lighthaus will be well more than up to the task of birthdays. Jackson's care with --" He hesitates, draws a slow breath. Lifts his eyes, a little wider -- drawing them over Melinda's form and up to her face. "-- cakes is beyond compare." "You just... go directly for the pain, don't you? And what? Anything we had is now over because I ..." Melinda just stares at him for a moment, tears leaking from her eyes. "Okay. I... won't bother you again." She then hands him the pillow and turns away to collect her things, stomp into her boots and slip on her coat. "Everyone has their strengths, Melinda." The very corner of Lucien's mouth twitches, faintly, his fingertips tightening against the edges of his phone. "People often forget mine run both ways." The phone in his hand begins to buzz again. He straightens, inhaling slowly as he does, and turns to rest the pillow down in Matt's armchair before he slips back into the kitchen to tend his bread. And leave Melinda to let herself out. "Well, fuck you and your strengths. I cared about you more than just the quality of your fucking hugs." Melinda calls out as she tugs her coat into place and pulls her purse strap up to her shoulder. "And I still care, you asshole. I'm just trying to leave before I ruin anything else." She opens the door and closes it behind her. In the kitchen, Lucien doesn't answer. He tends his brioche. The house fills up with silence, and the apricot-ginger smell of warm fresh-baked bread.