Logs:Ginger
| Ginger | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2024-12-06 "{And now?}" (Part of endless double crossing TP). |
| Location
<NYC> Guest Room - Le Bonne Entente - Astoria - Queens | |
This is a "standard" guest room, the smallest on offer at here, but Le Bonne Entente's standards are quite high. Careful interior design makes the most of the limited space and keeps it from looking or feeling cramped even with a queen sized bed, nightstand, and a little sitting area complete with coffee table, love seat, and chair, all upholstered in blue velvet. The walls are a pale and soothing sea blue, largely unadorned except for a few small plant sconces and the art mirrors that make most of the copious natural light streaming in through the tall sliding glass doors that lead out to the small balcony. Though the toilet tucked into the hallway corner is fully enclosed, the rest of the bathroom is enclosed in only partially frosted glass that leaves sight lines open. The closet by the front door is not large, but outfitted with a clever organization system. Across from it, the expected minibar (with some less expected but very thoughtful amenities), minifridge, and mini-microwave are cleverly concealed in a sleek sideboard in the entryway. The lights are actually on in here, albeit down fairly low. Hive is tucked in a nest of plush thick blankets in the armchair, kind of drowning in his ancient frat sweatshirt and flannel pants. He's been at work for some time -- the blueprints he's been working on are minimized to a tiny bright scale model beside him and he's picking away at a long list of project management emails. Letterkenny is playing in the background, and as time goes on the show has definitely started to steal more and more of his attention and his administrative work less and less. The knock that comes on the door -- three times, firm enough but hardly commanding -- is still a little perfunctory. Lucien is not really waiting for an answer; he keys himself in, casually dressed in slim-fit jeans, a soft hunter-green sweater over a cream button-down and bearing an unrequested tray of fresh ginger tea and hot coconut-gingery lemongrass tofu soup. He's laying these out the coffee table as he sets down an also casual, "How're ya now." Hive bats his work away, hunching lower into his den of blanket. He's pushing his sweatshirt hood back far enough on his shorn head so that he does not have to squint out from under it at Lucien and his unbidden room service. Despite himself a thin smile cracks through the scowl that had been on his face, his eyes darting from Lucien to the television. His, "-- good'n'you," does not, through his cracked-dry voice or the swell of nausea and stab of pain that spills over when he goes to take the tea, sound extremely convincing. "Mmm." Lucien stays crouched, for a moment, beside the coffee table, his eyes fixed somewhere at or past Hive's shaved head. His hand turns -- presses, gentle and uninsistent, to the back of Hive's, cupping the other man's bony fingers against the warm mug. With the touch there's a sudden flood of relief, pushing back the nausea and clearing away the pain in one swift clarifying rush. The even surface of Lucien's mind doesn't shift, much, but his eyes have gotten just a little tighter around their corners. "I'll be better when this is through." Hive's breath catches sharply. He's gone very still, for a moment, his hands tight around the mug. His eyes squeeze tight shut against the sudden relieved tears that have stung them, and where he'd gotten well used to calibrating his thoughts and movements around the haze of pain it takes a moment for him to reroute without it. "Yeah?" He sinks back in his seat, pulling up the mug for a slow sip. "When will that be? After she's out? After you find someone to replace her? After your next Court's spent a while rearranging the world to suit?" Lucien's eyes lower, the corners of his mouth twitching briefly thinner and harder. This looks vanishingly little like a smile, but the faint echo of feeling that ripples from him to Hive in the wake of the anodyne wave is lighter, warmer, something of a laugh in it though he's made no such sound. "{I suppose dying would conveniently wash your hands of all this, no?}" His fingers trail down against the back of Hive's hands as the other man lifts the mug; his own hands drop to his lap, then to the floor for him to push himself slow to his feet. "{Perhaps that's always how it ends, for us.}" "S'it shitty that it feels like kind of a relief." Hive pulls the mug close to his chest. He's looking at the tray, and the fresh hot soup atop it. "{When you first came to me with this bullshit-ass plan I thought...}" This trails off. His head bows, eyes scrunching closed in the trail of steam drifting up from the mug. "{... well, no, I thought you were fucking crazy and this shit would go nowhere.}" One of Lucien's brows arches high. He turns a hand up, fingers splayed out toward Hive. "{And now?}" "{Oh, now I know you're crazy.}" Hive's laugh is just a low raspy-hoarse hhh of a thing. "{Be fucking dead before I underestimate you again, though.} He's shifting in his chair, pulling some edges of his blanket up higher as he resettles himself. "Guess if some maniac has to be playing the board --" His eyes have strayed back to the tray, and then lower to his cup. He grips it tighter, hunching in over it. "{World could do a hell of a lot worse.}" The quick cut of Lucien's eyes to Hive's face is inscrutable. The ripple across the steady surface of his mind shivers up something very like that previous glimmer of not-exactly-laughter -- a little brighter, a little warmer, than his steady voice and steady expression allow. He slips past Hive's chair, dropping his hand briefly to the other man's shoulder. This time the touch is not just analgesic -- past the wash of relief there's a comfort there, flushing fierce and heady through Hive's ravaged system. "{Perhaps I just want you in good condition for holding up your end of this bargain,}" he says, light, as he starts toward the door. Hive reaches down to the minimized holographic display, plucking his emails back up to cast them large in front of him. His cheeks are flushed, his head shaking. "Don't believe your hype, man, you're a shitty fucking actor." This time, there is a laugh -- soft, brief. Probably brief, anyway. The quiet click of the door cuts it off in short enough order. | |
