From X-Men: rEvolution
Dramatis Personae

Lucien, Matt, Steve


"Prison is quite tedious, perhaps Jackson would /appreciate/ your werewolf erotica."


<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.

It's been a clear, warm day; though the sun is starting to set, the windows in the house are still thrown open wide, a pleasant breeze drifting in from the garden. There's music piping through the downstairs of the house, gentle and clear though whatever speakers it plays from are not immediately noticeable; some mix of showtunes, /Matilda: the Musical/'s "When I Grow Up" now shifting into /Hamilton/'s "Wait For It". In the kitchen, food prep is underway -- something chocolatey currently baking in the oven; out on the stove, onions browning in a skillet. Dressed in soft white short-sleeved button-down shot through with strands of a faintly more pearlescent white, jeans, bare feet, Lucien is leaning against the edge of the counter, paying only mild attention to the stove. "-- haven't had a chance to go down there, yet," he is saying with a faint press of lips. "I imagine he's been rather flooded with visitors as -- yet. -- We'll need more basil than that. A lot more basil than that."

Steve had just stopped plucking leaves from the monstrous basil plants -- almost supernatural in their size and vigor -- occupying one entire kitchen windowsill. With Lucien's feedback, he nods gravely and reaches out to pile more into the glass bowl in his other hand, already more than half-full. He wears a new t-shirt, very pale blue, depicting a city that seems constructed of scintillating green glass, a bright rainbow arching over it (Tag's hand recognizeable in both the art style and the hyper-vivid colors), crisp, dark blue jeans, and white socks with mismatched toe-and-heel caps -- one blue and one pink. "Quite flooded, yes," his voice is quiet, here, his brows slightly furrowed. Small shake of his head. "But I'm certain he'd dearly love to see you and Matt. I'll leave you the number and email address for the office coordinating visitation -- it'll go a lot faster if you contact them ahead of time."

Matt is perched on a stool by the counter near his brother, wearing a black t-shirt with Gunnerkrigg Court's Coyote dancing across its chest and much shabbier blue jeans than the other two men. Having already set out three matching mugs in readiness, he stares idly at the round celadon teapot as if willing the tea to steep faster, his fingers drumming without rhythm on the cover of Diana Gabaldon's /Lord John and the Hellfire Club/. "{Maybe tomorrow, after school?}" He sounds tentative, and maybe just a little plaintive, too. "{Can we bring him anything?} I'm sure the pups have already brought him /essentials/, but an extra book or three can't hurt."

"{What is he allowed? What /isn't/ he allowed?}" More quietly, after this: "{ he doing any better, now they've moved him?} -- Ah, perfect. A small mountain of basil should do nicely. I figured," Lucien's tone is lighter, now, lightly amused, "even you cannot go far wrong with pesto -- there is barely any /cooking/ involved, to be honest, really only blending. The stuffed mushroom caps, though, /those/ we shall cook." He stirs at the onions on the skillet, humming quietly along with the music.

"{No weapons or communication devices. Everything else is fine -- though I'm assuming probably they'd frown on any items that are otherwise illegal to possess.}" Steve's French has gradually begun to acquire some of the Tessiers' Quebecois color, though it's still distinctly Provence. "Even those restrictions are more formality than anything else. The agent in charge and the guards are perfectly aware of Jax and Ryan's abilities. I'm sure your taste in books is superior to whoever curated the selection they've been given." He glances at Matt's book as he brings the basil leaves, now piled quite high in their bowl, over to the food processor. "{I admit this machine is a little intimidating.}" His eyebrows knit as he studies the constellation of buttons and settings. Then, after a slight hesitation. "He's...well, I didn't see him while he was in the other prison, but they're not /killing/ him here, so. There's that. But he's been so long without his powers that they're...unstable, now."

No alarms sound, but Matt perks up at some point and decants the tea into the prepared cups. "{Well, there goes my plan to get them stoned.}" This lightly as he stretches an arm across the counter to set one cup near Steve, and another near Lucien. "{Tea's ready.} And you might not think so highly of my literary taste if you knew of /everything/ I read." He slowly settles back down onto his stool, curling both hands around his own tea. His face remains placid, but his voice is small and helpless now. "How unstable? I could help with that, but...only while I'm present."

"Prison is quite tedious, perhaps Jackson would /appreciate/ your werewolf erotica." Lucien tips a plate of diced garlic and halved cashews into the pan with the onions, stirring them briefly before joining Steve at the food processor. "This, now, this is quite simple, really. It does all the work /for/ you, see. You put in what you like -- in this case, most all that basil, these avocados, a /generous/ amount of garlic -- that's a matter of taste, but it is hard to go wrong with garlic. Squeeze in some lemon juice -- to taste as well, but I'd add an entire two lemons for this much pesto -- sprinkle some salt, crack some pepper. Then a splash of oil to make sure it blends correctly. Press the button and in half a second it will turn it into pesto just like magic." He gestures to the ingredients laid out on the counter -- neatly separated from those intended for the stuffed mushroom caps -- leaning back against the counter and bracing his palms against the countertop. "You need to make sure the cover is locked in securely before it will turn on, though. It will refuse to let you even /press/ the button otherwise. And a good thing, too. The blender lets you turn on, cover or no." His eyes skate across to his brother after this, fingers tightening -- just slightly -- against the counter. "{Ah -- but. If his powers were -- off. Then unstable or no, he must not -- have much --}" He trails off with this, though, eyes dropping briefly to the ground. Instead: "Have his doctors seen him?"

Steve's eyebrows lift up, up, up. "Werewolf..." He blushes fiercely, glances at Matt. "Wait, are there really books about. That." Though the words come out in the form of a question, he does not imbue them with interrogative intonation. His eyes dart from one component to another as Lucien narrates their usage, brows furrowed in almost comically intense concentration, though he spares a moment to sip at his tea. "Basil, avocados, garlic, lemons, salt, pepper, oil," he recites quietly, setting the basil aside to slice open an avocado. In this, at least, he seems quite confident. "{No, and he's got quite a bit of control over his light exposure. He hasn't set his cell on fire.}" Brief, pregnant pause. "{Or anything.} But yes, Doctor McCoy has been to check on them."

"There are /so/ many books about that." Matt hides his smile behind his cup. "Oh, and I found out the author of /Howl of Justice/ also wrote a vampire novel entitled /Thrall of Midnight/." He drops one hand to the book on the table in front of him, palm smoothing over the cover and fingertips playing along the fore edge. "{If he's absorbed more than he can handle, I can help him bleed it off safely,}" he sounds suddenly more calm and self-assured. "And, if they know his abilities quite so well, I'm sure they're housing him somewhere with fantastic fire suppression."

Lucien reaches out to claim his own cup, easing back down against the counter once his hands have wrapped around it. "-- Ah, forgive me, and the pine nuts we toasted. If I am making it for Jackson I substitute walnuts, he rather prefers them. It is a matter of preference, really. There are so many ways to make pesto, but as long as there is an inordinate amount of basil and a good helping of garlic you should have a solid foundation. And yes," his lips twitch faintly as he lifts his cup, "the werewolf erotica genre is quite /expansive/. The /gay/ werewolf erotica genre is quite expansive. If you delve into the right sections of the internet, I am led to understand, the gay werewolf Captain America genre has its own devoted following." He says this quite solemnly, before sipping at his tea. "{I would quite appreciate that contact information. We would dearly love to see him. It has been -- too long.}"

"Until I've been proven wrong, I'm just going to assume that those are particularly outstanding representations of their genre." Steve has, by now, loaded the food processor all the rest of the ingredients. "{Ah, thank you.}" Lifts the bowl of toasted pine nuts and dumps it in on top of the somewhat random mess of greenery in the food processor. He replaces the plastic cap with excessive care, but does not yet switch the motor on. The look that he levels at Lucien is difficult to read. "I've been warned away from those sections of the Internet, but social media has buffetted me about enough that I've still encountered 'fics' that place me in sometimes eerily on-point 'OTPs'." The tug at the corner of his lip is distinctly amusement now, and he turns the food processor on -- just long enough to marvel at its terrifying efficiency. Switches it off again, blinking at the green paste coating the inside of the processor bowl. "{That was more dramatic than the other times I've seen such machines in action. And of course, I'll write it down for you presently.}"