ArchivedLogs:Risk Management

Risk Management
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Nox
In Absentia	2013-03-13 '
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. *Ring ring!* It takes a few rings before Lucien answers, but he picks up before it hits voicemail. Music is playing in the background. Mahler, quiet. Lucien is quiet as well as he picks up, with a neutral-calm greeting for the unfamiliar number: "Salut, this is Lucien." It would be easy to mistake the call as the dirty type, at first. The other end of the line is very quiet, only the distant rumble of something like a train heard before the whispering begins. "Mister Tessier, hello." The connection is a poor one, leeching much of the character from Nox's voice, dampening the projection of any sort of emotion. "I hope I am not interrupting and I should not stay on the line for very long, but I wanted to make certain you were all right." "Hello?" Lucien says again, at first, the slightly confused query of someone who has not quite caught this greeting. The music quiets further. "-- Nox?" There's a pause here, too. "You are calling to make sure /I'm/ alright," he repeats, flatly. And instead of answering this: "Are you safe? Is there anything I can do to help?" "Yes," Nox confirms, on all counts. "I hadn't realized...how much attention I had received, the other night. I wanted to make sure that none of it had fallen on you. That would be...regrettable. I would feel badly." After this blatant understatement, there's a pause--filled with that rumbling noise again--before she says, "I am as safe as I can be. Healing well, thanks to your care." "I have had no troubles," Lucien denies, gently, "save concern. The thing that really did this, do you -- do your people have any means to --" He hesitates. "If it were captured, your name would be cleared." It is so very difficult to project over a crackly phone line. Nox's whispering gives no hint as to her expression, or her thoughts, when she tells him, "I knew you would be concerned and I regret that as well. This sort of attention..." She sighs, though it's barely audible. "It is a problem. Whether it can be captured or not, whether they would believe. Whether the story was seen by those responsible and whether they recognize me. It was perhaps better when I never came to the surface." "Simpler, for sure. I would not say better," Lucien answers quietly. Reluctant is his admission, "But I can certainly see why you would. If it can be captured, I -- know people who might be able to make it believed. I can be, ah, quite persuasive myself, in the right circumstances. -- Responsible? Who is responsible for such a monster?" This time, Nox's smile can just barely be heard. "I would not ask you to do that. I have told Tatters--Jill--that so long as it is no longer a threat, whether my name is cleared or no, I am happy." Another pause ensues, this one longer. "It is a very complicated story and best not shared over a phone. Is the...have you heard whether the little girl will be all right?" This time it is Lucien who brings the long pause. "If you are happy," he says at length, carefully neutral. And more silence. "She is recovering," he says to Nox. "She will recover. Thanks to you." It is a call that's practically made of silences. Nox contributes her own. It is lengthy, again. "Lucien..." And another. Then, with a sigh that's more breath than voice, she murmurs, "Good. Good...then it was worth it, yes?" without seeming entirely convinced. "Please don't be upset. For me. At me." And more silence. "I don't know," Lucien says, slow and, now, quiet almost to match Nox, "if it is too much ego or not enough that makes you imagine my upset would be solely for you." Nox makes a soft sound. Indecipherable. "I am running out of time," is clearer. "I only wanted you to not worry. Can you...where are you, now?" "Working." That is all Lucien says. Then another stretch of quiet. "Thank you," is added, only slightly stiffly. "For contacting me." "Please," Nox says before catching herself. What follows is more formal, or as formal as whispers allow. "Thank you as well. Give my best to Matt." "Please?" This at least is -- very -- swift. Less so: "I'll let him know." From afar, Nox hesitates only briefly when given the opening. "Please. When you are not working, when you are able. I would like to see you. To explain. I can...I am very good at going unseen. Somewhere it would not...harm you." "I will be home tonight," Lucien answers promptly. "Nobody has any reason to watch my home. I can go somewhere more convenient, too, if you like. I would," he says, "like to see you as well." "When will you be there?" she asks, simply. "After eleven," Lucien answers, "I will be through working. And home." Nox gently clears her throat. It sounds, like many of her vocalizations do, like a hum. "Then I will be there. Thank you, Lucien. I shouldn't keep you from work any longer. "Thank you." That's all. The phone clicks off. After eleven, he'd said on the phone, and so it is half an hour after eleven that the shadows in the garden stir, flowing over the beds and stakes like an evil wind. They avoid the path, avoid the squares of light cast by adjacent windows and then collect on the doorstep. Gradually, the woman herself resolves into a three-dimensional shape. She's here and she only hesitates for several minutes before applying knuckles to the door. Unfortunately, in her hesitation, she neglected to make those knuckles of a substance harder than velvet--the first knock is a fail. The second one is somewhat more audible, though she retreats a few feet backwards after signaling her arrival. Lucien might perhaps have been expecting this. He's in the kitchen already when the knock sounds, tucked at the table with a squat glass in front of him, half-filled with amber liquid. Once again there is music playing. This time it's a Piccinni opera. Quiet. He gets up at the knock, slipping over towards the door. He might still be dressed for work -- black slacks, black dress shirt. His expression is neutral as he pulls the door open, looking Nox over carefully before gesturing her inside. She stands still and silent for that looking over. Outwardly, there's no sign of the injuries she came to him with but then, she is in her shadow form--the outline of a woman, without any of the specifics of form or feature that would mark her as an individual. When she moves, though, it's as fluidly as ever, flowing past him with a whisper of coolness to occupy the kitchen. For a moment it seems she might keep to the periphery of that room, flickering in and out of the shadows against the walls. But gradually she takes up a position beside the table, becoming whole, resting a hand on its surface and turning quiet eyes towards the man in black. "You know," she murmurs, "I was not going to see you again. For a time. I thought it would be better." Lucien closes the door and locks it, staying near it a moment as he watches Nox flow into the room. He returns, though, to his seat at the table. "Do you drink?" he wants to know, as he traces one forefinger around the rim of his Scotch glass. He studies Nox a long moment still. "Better for you, or for me?" "Sometimes. Rarely. Twice a year," Nox confesses, as if this were a great secret. Once Lucien is seated, she's compelled to draw the adjacent chair out and sit as well. Her hands fold together and rest on the table, serving as a focus for her gaze. After a moment, she says, "Better for you. It would be...very hard, for me. It is a little like a dream to step into this home. To be around you, to be...included. Welcomed. But there are reasons I live apart." "Reasons." Lucien does not pour Nox a drink. He does offer his, though, not in words but in a quiet nudge of fingers to slide it closer to Nox than to him. "What changed your mind?" The glass is studied for a time before Nox reaches for it. As it's picked up, she shifts from partly intangible to solid and then the marks left by her encounter with Carnage are seen. Closed, but darker streaks against the slate of her skin. She brings it to her lips, she sips and closes her eyes while setting it down again. "Mm...do you know, I have no idea how old I am. My birthday was this last Friday," she says, as if he hadn't asked a question. "I could be twenty. I could be thirty. Older, younger. How did I upset you, Lucien?" "I hope you are old enough for that Scotch." Not that he really sounds /overly/ concerned about underage drinking. It's a good Scotch, though. Smooth. Peaty. Sixteen-year single malt. Lucien reclaims the glass for another sip, but sets it down between them. "You used all the questions Matt bought you," Lucien murmurs, eyes shifting briefly out in the direction of the staircase. "Am I allowed no more then?" That she phrased that as a question was probably deliberate, as indicated by the all too brief smile turned towards him. Nox looks down after that, back to her laced fingers. "One supposes that is fair. Considering. You changed my mind. Perhaps it is a poor decision. I should be in the tunnels. I should stay there. They will be looking for me again and if they find me with you, you are at risk. Matt is at risk. All of this that you have made for yourself, it could be taken. Because I thought I had hurt you. A smaller hurt, compared to how you could be hurt." "Hurt." Lucien echoes this like it amuses him, softly, his lips twitching slightly. His finger traces around the rim of his glass again. "I know how old /I/ am," he tells Nox, at length, "and it is old enough to make my own decisions about my life, and the risks I allow into it." His eyes have been focused down on the glass, but now they lift to Nox. "And what those risks are worth to me." "Hurt, upset, offended. Created negative feelings within." Nox's hand creeps towards the glass. That was very good scotch and she finds herself in need of more of it. "Risks. I spent years in a cage. Many years, from the time I left my home until I escaped and came to the city, three years ago. The lights were never turned off, unless they were running tests. I slept rarely. I hurt often. I still have trouble remembering my life before. I cannot speak, I cannot...I cannot /be/, without the cage in the back of my mind. When I am solid, it's there. The lights. The light, and the voices through the speakers. This thing...it was theirs, I know it was theirs. I was theirs. And now my face is in the papers. It is on the TV. Do you see, Lucien?" Lucien is happy to share the Scotch. He nudges it towards Nox's creeping hand. His brows are creeping downward, inward, his lips compressing as Nox speaks. "-- in a cage," he echoes. "Tests. No, I --" His head shakes, once. "I cannot say that I see. I have heard rumours of such things but the reality --" His tone is light but his fingers are gripping down hard at the edge of the table, nailbeds pressing white. "I cannot begin to imagine. Will they come for you?" This is -- slightly less light. A little bit of steel-hard edge to his tone. "That could be you. That could be Matt. Because of me," Nox whispers shortly before claiming the glass for a larger swallow. She hisses out as she sets the glass down and moves it back towards him. "Yes. That was the choice I would have made for you. Because I know. Because I know how useful you would be to them. And Matt...if they had him..." Her hands lift to fold over her face this time. Her edges grow hazy again. "Now that they know where I am, perhaps. Probably. I was not so useful as some." Lucien picks up the bottle of Scotch and refills the glass. He takes a bit of a deeper gulp this time before setting it on the table and sliding it towards Nox. "On the streets there were always rumours. People who fell between the cracks and never reappear. It seems to me, though, that the safest route in that case is to not slip into obscurity. There is safety, no doubt, underground. But there's safety, too, in the knowledge that those above ground would /notice/ you." Quieter: "Would miss you if you were gone." "They have a great deal of other things to concern themselves with at the moment. I might be...will probably be...lower on that list. But if I were to be visible, even if I were not being hunted as a suspected murderer, they would make a note of you. They would /watch/. Why risk that?" Her eyes are on his face. Nox lowers her hands not to reach for the glass but to reach for Lucien's hand, to frame it between her palms. Indistinct at first, then her touch firms. "I would miss you too. And this. And you. But you deserve better, Lucien," she tells him softly. The touch surprises Lucien. This is evident not just in his sudden brief widening of eyes, but in the echoed feeling that leaks from him to Nox. It's a muddled mix of signal, jumbled together and hard to pick through; a little bit of alcohol-buzz, a lot of exhaustion, a little sore ache in muscles, another sort of ache altogether as he consciously /registers/ the touch. And clamps down abruptly on that leak of sensation to stem it entirely, wincing slightly but turning his hand to curl fingers around hers. "Oh, the list of things I deserve is long," he says, with a slight twitch of lips, "and you are likely not on it, that is true enough." His gaze falls to Nox's hands around his. "The world holds a great deal of terrible. Shutting the good out for fear of the risks it brings is one path, certainly, but I would rather take the good where I find it. It is rare enough to find." It's no simple task to get a bead on Nox's emotions. Her touch fades in, it fades out, and her feelings go with it. But there is genuine fear there, the sick and gnawing sort of fear that has deep roots, years worth of growth. It's strongest, most easily felt. Woven through that, so delicate and fragile it might disappear with a hard look, is a tracery of care, attraction, and fascination. She's listening inwardly for what is heard in return, until they're cut off without warning. Her fingers twitch under his then and her expression shades towards concern as she studies his face. "Why do you have such a poor opinion of yourself?" is what she asks, when it occurs to her that she should speak in the silence that follows. "I have an exceedingly high opinion of myself," Lucien answers this on a breath of laughter. "It's just also a realistic one. My strengths are many. A strong moral compass has never been among them." His other hand moves to rest over Nox's. There's a faint trickle of something warm and soothing that accompanies his touch, but this tapers off soon. "Why do you?" Soothing is a dangerous thing. Nox closes her eyes while it lasts, sinking into it until she threatens to disappear again, at least on the mental radar. When she comes back from that, mind and touch firming, her smile is slow. Faint. "Because it is easier to flee a cell in body than in mind, one supposes. You should be sleeping, not sitting here with me." But she doesn't pull away, doesn't sever contact to keep him from feeling that she doesn't wish to go. "I am rather nocturnal, by profession if not by nature. I keep an odd schedule." Lucien doesn't pull away, either, studying Nox's face quietly. "Some things," he agrees, softer, "are hard to leave behind, no matter how far you flee." There, he wins a pulse of amusement. Nox's smile deepens. "I think I might have once preferred the daytime but no longer." She quiets then, returning that study and content with the silence. The fear remains but it's softer now. Finally, she says, "But you are tired. Will you rest? We can sit. Listen to the music. Rest. I will have to go, there is...but I can stay a little while." "I am resting," Lucien says in answer. One of his hands withdraws, to pick up his glass for another sip of Scotch. "There is --?" His eyebrows raise, questioningly. He tops the glass off, again, but then stands. He doesn't let go of Nox's hand, but tugs gently towards the living room. "When do you rest?" "Jill might need me. Soon." But she's reluctant to expand on that. Nox stands and allows herself to be tugged, drifting along a step behind into the living room. "Mostly I rest during the day. A little here, a little there. I did not sleep very much, the night I was here," she admits, "but I did enjoy the bed. Normally I...my room is very dark. I fill it. I am not very good at being human anymore." "Funny," Lucien murmurs, moving to the couch to seat himself, and tug Nox down along with him. "You seem more human than so many I deal with. What does it mean to be human? I have seen humans do some truly appalling things. I am not sure it is worthy of emulation." "I had to teach myself. First, when I left home. Then again. It helps to have others to care for." She settles beside him, posture pristine--but then relaxing after a moment, leaning on his hand, letting her shoulder touch his arm. Nox keeps her head down though, against the flutter of sudden nerves. "People do appalling things. Monsters come in many shapes. Will you answer a question for me, Lucien?" "You taught yourself well." Lucien's arm leans back up against hers, a solid weight of muscle that is nevertheless somewhat hesitant before it settles into the touch. His glass rests on his knee, fingers gripping it rather tighter than is really necessary. "What is it you want to know?" If he hesitated before relaxing at the brush of an arm, it might well throw him for a loop when she turns her head and lifts her chin to set it on his shoulder. This gives Nox an excellent view of his profile. It also helps with hearing her, for once. Her smile is a fragile thing. "Everything." Lucien's fingers grip the glass tighter still, at this. A shiver of tension runs up his form, and then eases away. His head bows, and in profile there is tension here too; in the slightly clenched line of his jaw, in the taught muscle that jumps in his cheek. It might be anger but it resolves afterwards into a smile, if a small one. A slight twitch of lips, soon to fade. "That," he says with a slight turn of his head, a slight glance flicked towards Nox, "is not a question." "No, it was an answer." Nox observes all of these tiny signs, these shifts. In the end, they lead her to straighten again. The pad of her thumb strokes the back of his hand before fading away from that grip. "The question was whether you want me to know you. Whether you would rather I ask no questions." After a brief hesitation, she adds quietly, "You do not seem restful." Lucien's head stays tipped downwards. He looks into the scotch glass, and lifts it to drain half of it in one long swallow. His hand moves, when hers fades away, turning up, fingers curling like trying to hold on to that fading grip. He's quiet a long moment. "It is harder when you ask questions than with most people," he says eventually. "You actually are listening to the answers." Nox is quiet for a time. Then her hand returns, sliding across his shoulders and applying gentle pressure, as if she meant to guide him towards her--and that must be her intent because her other arm is there, stretched a little. She's offering herself as something to nestle against. "Just rest," she murmurs, "I have never minded the quiet." Lucien doesn't resist this guiding. He is a little stiff to move; it takes him a moment before he seems comfortable in this nestling, "There's music," he points out, though the music is quiet as well. "What do you think about, when it is quiet?" He's settling up against her, his eyes slowly closing. "Often I do not think at all," Nox hums, amused. Her arm curls up, her hand brushes over his hair. This is all she has to offer, so far as soothing goes. "I just am. Sometimes I think of what must be done and plan it in my mind. Sometimes, of what I saw or heard that day. Not so very different from others, one supposes." "One supposes." Lucien is slowly relaxing under the brushing. Slowly. Gradual shifts of muscle out of tension and into comfort. "Do you have a plan now?" His voice has gotten quieter. "For this?" She smooths his hair down before letting her hand wander to his neck, his shoulder. The petting continues to chase any residual tension away. "No," Nox admits, "I am improvising. I have never...this is new to me. For the rest...my plan is to not think about it until I must." This draws a laugh from Lucien. The tension is easing, for sure, his smile small as Nox's hand smooths down over him. "I am not sure if you are aware," he says seriously, "but your plan is missing, well, the plan part." It's lightly teasing. His eyes don't open. His hand slips out to find her free one, curl around it slowly. "And yet it seems to be going well," Nox counters with another soft hum. Her roving hand comes to rest on his shoulder, her head tilting to settle cheek to hair. Her free hand is taken and moves only to gently press Lucien's fingers. "And yet." Lucien quiets, here. His breathing is slow. Careful. Like perhaps if he moves too much something will fall apart. His fingers squeeze lightly against hers. There's a whisper-soft trickle of feeling that leaks from his touch. Content and nervous all at once. "I should sleep," he says, very quietly. That feeling has an echo, a whisper of the same from Nox. It has, at least, supplanted the fear. She remains utterly still--as one does, when around a creature that might spook. "I can stay until you're asleep. If you would like." For a long stretch of silence, Lucien just rests up against Nox, his thumb tracing slowly along her knuckles. There's a moment at her offer when the nervousness climbs higher. The content counterbalances it again before long. "It would not be a bother? Things are rather, ah. Hectic for you just now --" But he sounds hopeful. As that emotion peeks, Nox's unclaimed hand moves again to skim over his shoulder. Petting. Her smile can be felt as much as heard. "It would not be a bother. You should sleep. I'll stay. All will be all, and all manner of things will be well," she murmurs, turning her head just enough that her cheek rubs against his hair. "Sleep, Lucien." Lucien lapses back into quiet. Eyes closed. Relaxing. The quiet lingers. It takes a considerable while before his breathing starts to even out, his posture melting down into something less simply relaxed and more just unconscious. And she stays, throughout, until certain that he'll remain that way. Then Nox simply fades--but not before very carefully, very gently, and very sneakily pressing her lips to his forehead.