ArchivedLogs:Special Delivery

Special Delivery
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Tag	2013-01-28 Tag's first day on the job.
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. Through a doorway lies the kitchen which, in contrast, 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. The storm last night transformed the city from a frozen wasteland of grungy slush to a frozen wasteland of grungy slush with a fresh coat of snow on top. Unfortunately for Tag, that fresh coat of snow yields all too easily beneath the treads of his ancient bicycle tires and second-hand snow boots. His many-colored hair pokes out from beneath a vivid purple wool cap. A baby blue-and-pink plaid scarf unwinds from beneath the stand-collar of a red softshell jacket that has clearly seen better days. His dark indigo jeans--streaked with yellow lightning along the outseams--are soaked from the knees down and encrusted with road salt. The messenger bag secured to his back bulges at odd angles. He brings his bike to a stop a few feet further from the stoop of the townhouse than he had intended, and half-walks, half-trips his way up the steps to knock on the door. Unfortunately for Tag, he has a couple minutes left waiting out in the cold before the door actually opens. In contrast to the outside, Lucien's apartment is a wash of warmth. Warm heat, the warm smell of something baking. Lucien himself is kind-of-dressed, black pajama pants and a plain white undershirt, and there's a warm mug in his hand, too, as he peers out the door, a puzzled frown given to the man outside. "Hello." He blinks. Looks past Tag. Looks at Tag again. "You know you are supposed to return library books to the /library/, right?" Tag is already unslinging his pack by the time the gentleman speaks to him. He lifts his eyes slowly from the delivery slip, and his expression brightens at once. "Oh, hi!" he chirps, all weariness gone. "No--I mean, yes, I know, but I'm not returning books. I mean I'll return them, but that's not why I'm here. What I mean is--" He bites his tongue and flutters the slip in his black knit-gloved hand. "I have a delivery for one Mister Lucien Tessier." This does not clear up Lucien's puzzled expression, at least not at /first/; he looks at the slip with eyebrows raising. Comprehension dawns all at /once/, a sudden quick smile slipping across his face. "/Oh/. That messenger thing worked out for you, then. And you still have all your bones intact?" He lifts his mug, taking a small sip of its steaming tea. "For now." He looks at the ice-crusted world outside, and then takes a step back, gesturing Tag inside. "That is entertaining happenstance. Far more entertaining than if you had hunted down my address; I would have been slightly disturbed." "Thank you, Sir!" Tag steps inside, conscious of the grimy slush clinging to his boots. "Yeah, this is actually my first day, and the ice has actually saved my life once already. Some guy in an Avalon tried to turn on red way too fast and kinda spun out instead of flattening me." He retrieves a tiny clipboard and a long cardboard box from his bag. "Here you go," he says, presenting the delivery slip to Lucien on the clipboard, which has a bracket and a pen along one side, "please sign for your parcel." "Sir," Lucien echoes, quietly amused. "Mmm. Unless I am in leather, it's just Lucien." He eyes the box suspiciously, setting the mug down on a table in the entry hall. "What will you do when the streets are clear, then, I wonder." He takes the clipboard, frowning at that, too, and then wincing afterwards. "What happens if I don't accept the package. Will that bring you trouble?" "I will be able to ride faster when the streets are clear," Tag reasons, "so I could probably get out of the way...?" He shrugs. "I'll worry about it when the streets are clear. I wouldn't get in trouble in the sense of getting fired or anything, but I would have to file paperwork, which I don't normally have to do." He cocks his head at the box in his hand. "Why? Did you get this by mistake or something?" "Not mistake," Lucien allows with a thin press of lips. "Just from someone -- well. I am wary of what might be inside." He signs the slip with a grimace, crisply elegant cursive written small and neat, and hands it back to take the box instead. "Getting you fired might be lifesaving. Paperwork, though, I would not inflict that on anyone." His fingers are drumming against the side of the box. "It is cold out. I don't suppose you would care for something for the road? I baked cinnamon buns." Tag accepts the clipboard and relinquishes the box with a slight bow, but he is frowning. "Thank you, S--Lucien. You don't suppose it's /dangerous/, do you?" he asks, examining the signed slip. "Most people use couriers because we are faster or laxer than the postal service, but they still have to sign a form saying it's not a bomb or anthrax or organs or something. There are specialized couriers for that." He pauses a beat. "/Organs/, I mean! Not the other things." His cheeks flush bright--perhaps from the change in ambient temperature, perhaps not. "Um...That is very kind of you to offer. I would love a cinnamon bun. It's harder work than I remember, peddling through half-frozen slush." "I do not think it is a bomb. It might," Lucien decides, lips pursing, "be organs." He quirks an amused smile at Tag, eyebrows raising. "No specialized couriers for that? That's a shame. I can think of a person or two I would like to send special-order anthrax to. One moment." He slips away towards the kitchen, box in hand, absently removing its tape as he disappears down the hall. From the kitchen there are sounds. Puttering sounds. Tag stays in the entryway, moving very little as his boots slowly defrost into a grayish puddle. He removes his cap and pushes the red-to-yellow section of his hair out of his eyes. "Your house is /really/ nice," he says, loud enough for Lucien to hear in the kitchen. "It looks like...the fanciest library ever!" "I always wanted to live in a library," Lucien admits, from the kitchen. "That or a theatre. Which might be harder to achieve in my house." He returns in a few minutes, a foil-wrapped package in one hand and a small steel-and-black thermos in the other. The box is gone. Under his arm there is tucked, instead, a tail, grey and wolflike, with a black plug on one end. He offers the first two things towards Tag. The last stays under his arm. "Try not to get yourself hit. Nor frozen." "Well, I grew up in a book shop, but it wasn't /nearly/ as cool as this," Tag says. "And I spent part of last winter in an old condemned theatre in Baltimore. It was not very pleasant." When Lucien returns, Tag blinks and arches one magenta eyebrow at the items he carries--no telling which, though. "Wow! Thank you so much!" He accepts the thermos and foil package with a bow. "Um, should I bring this back to you here?" he asks, indicating the thermos. A slight quirk of a smile touches his lips. "Or would that be creepy and stalkerish?" "I think I would prefer my theatre to have heat," Lucien says, amused. He sets the tail down on the table, picking up the mug instead to sip at the oolong it holds -- the same as is now in Tag's thermos. "It would not be creepy and stalkerish if I told you you could," he decides. "Though I would not want to put you out of your way. Swing by with it if you are in the neighborhood again. Keep it if you aren't. He slips around past Tag, carefully skirting the grey puddle of melting slush, to open the door. "Tag, it was, yes? Take care." "You too, Lucien." Tag flahses him a smile and pockets the cinnamon bun, then steps outside /cautiously/. "I'll do my best not to get hit by a car, or frozen." He walks/skids to his bicycle and waves enthusiastically at Lucien before riding/skidding off down the street, threading a perilous passages between filthy cars and filthy snow drifts.