"There are few enough people who know, and I intend to keep it that way."
NYC - Mount Sinai Hospital
Monday night's calamity at the Met Gala came with several high profile victims with varying levels of injury -- some treated for only minor smoke inhalation and released quickly, some still convalescing in rooms brimming over with cards and flowers and gifts from well-wishers. The most high profile of all of them, though, is currently tucked away in a comfortable private room with fairly little fuss or outward tokens of support. In here there is not much, save for, currently, a small quartz crystal on the bedside table. Lucien sits by the bedside, dressed neatly in grey slacks and vest, a deep pink button-down, impeccably tied tie, a small white sachet dangling from a length of twine that has been looped almost carelessly over his fingers. His expression is a little distant, and has been for some time now. When he does eventually move it is to lean forward, very carefully slip the sachet beneath Ryan's pillow before moving to the room's sole window -- though its blinds are drawn -- and study it with a small and pensive frown.
There's a quiet knock at the door, which opens a moment later to admit Isra -- probably a mildly alarming sight for anyone who wasn't expecting to see a doorway so utterly /filled/ by a colorful gargoyle. She's wearing a leaf green wrap dress with an asymmetrical hem and carrying a black canvas satchel with a crescent moon screen printed onto it. Her skin is a gradient of iridescent blue-purple splashed with drifts of fine silver spots that glimmer in the sunlight, highlighting rather than hiding the sharp angles of her inhuman body. The membranes of her immense batlike wings are night-black and spangled with silver stars that seem to twinkle as she moves. The caprine horns that spiral back from her temples and the heavy sharp talons that tip her fingers, toes, and each digit of her wings gleam a bright polished silver.
She hesitates on the threshold when she sees Lucien, but then comes in all the same, closing the door behind her. "Good day," she speaks softly, her voice low and oddly doubled--a melodious alto with a deep bass echo, "I hope I am not interrupting." The alien blankness of her expression holds fast when her eyes find Ryan, though her tail lashes quick beneath the hem of her dress and her ears press back to lie nearly flat against her hairless head. She reaches into a side pocket of her satchel and pulls out a smooth round pendant of a stylized eye rendered in brilliant cobalt blue glass, and lays it beside the crystal on the table. "No change?" she asks without looking back at Lucien.
Lucien has drawn the blind slightly back to peer out the window. For a time he doesn't respond, still and quiet even after Isra has spoken. Eventually he lets the shades fall back into place, hands clasping behind his back. "You are not interrupting." His head tips ever so slightly upward, his own voice quiet and even. "There is little enough to interrupt."
Isra does not speak for a time. Does not seem to do much of anything, only watches Ryan. Her eyes have ceased to blink, which lends them a surreal, predatory quality even though they are arguably the most human-looking part of her. The thrash of her tail slows and then stills, save for an occasional twitch at the tip. After a while, "You were there." This, at least, is not a question. She finally looks up at him again, her gaze searching. "Were you injured?"
Lucien turns from the window, skirting around Isra to settle himself back into the seat at Ryan's bedside. He leans forward, elbows on his knees and his chin resting on the knuckles of laced fingertips. "I was there." A muscle twitches briefly in his cheek. "I was unharmed. Jackson saw to it that the worst of the blast was contained. I suspect many more would have died if not for his efforts." There is a crispness to his words, though his expression is unchanged. Eyes just fixed on Ryan. His fingers press -- just a bit tighter. "He does not yet know."
Isra nods, somewhat mechanically--down, then back up. "It does not startle me to hear that." Her ears flick forward, then back again, her head cocking ever so slightly to one side. "Do you mean that he does not know Ryan's prognosis? That he does not know Ryan has survived at all?"
"The latter." Lucien's gaze does not waver. "There are few enough people who know, and I intend to keep it that way. I just --" The breath he draws in is slow, and not entirely steady. "Had not intended to to keep it from /him/."
"It seems wise, given the lengths someone took to kill him." Isra's voice has grown even quieter, the lower voice more prominent and eerie than before. "As for Jackson..." Her head tilts the other direction, and her hands close over the rails of Ryan's bed, talons clicking against each other. "How long do you expect they will hold him?" Her tail starts to whip again, but then her eyes narrow ever so slightly and it stops, quite deliberately still.
"Given that just this morning someone has claimed responsibility for this particular act of terrorism --" Lucien breaks off. His brows pull slightly together, a small tightening running through his shoulders. "I cannot say. We can make it very unpleasant for them if they drag this out, but that is no guarantee. I do not know the last time I ever trusted in the good /sense/ of a law enforcement agency, but if they have any at all, he will be out presently." His next breath is steadier. His eyes lift to Isra. "How are the children faring?"
A low, quiet rumble rises from Isra's chest, barely audible. "I would not accuse the NYPD of possessing any sense whatsoever, and even less of /using/ any sense they might happen to discover." Her tail starts swishing again, jerky and agitated, though not as violently as before. She turns and looks back at Lucien, unblinking green eyes fixed firmly in the vicinity of his tie knot. "They are crushed." Her tone is neutral in jarring juxtaposition to her words. "Spencer stayed home yesterday. His school showed an admirable level of compassion and he probably only went today because of the vigil they put together." Her wings pull in tighter against her back. "They need their father. They need..." She uncurls one hand from the rail--it seems to take a tremendous effort--and reaches, hesitantly, to touch Ryan's hand, which looks small and soft and vulnerable beside her long-fingered claw. She shakes her head, brows wrinkling. "Apologies. They fare as well as anyone has right expect, under the circumstances."
Lucien nods once, slowly. His head bows slowly, gaze settling on Ryan's hand -- on Isra's clawed one beside it. "It says nothing good about our world that I have come to expect as much, from them." There is a small tightening in his jaw -- hard, for a moment, before he rises. "Thank you. Please do keep me posted, and I will --" His fingers curl into a loose fist at his side, thumb rubbing in a few short twitches against the smooth black ring that he wears. "Do what I can."
"They have lost so much, already," Isra's voice is nearly all bass now. She withdraws her hand, fanning and flexing the talons and bringing them together again with a series of soft clicks. Turns aside to fix Lucien with a direct, but very brief, look. "Thank /you./ I will look after them as best I can. Only..." Her ears lay back flat again. "...do not be surprised if Spencer starts turning up places. Unintended." Her gaze drops to his ring, and her ears flick, tail tip twitching. "So you always seem to do. I hope you will find time to look after yourself, too."
Lucien flicks his thumb against his ring briefly again. He draws in a slow breath, returns Isra's look for a moment. After a pause -- only a very small thoughtful hum, a very small inclining of his head. He slips back out of the room, shutting the door to leave Isra -- not-quite-alone to the quiet.