Logs:Preemptive

Preemptive
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Matt, Flèche
In Absentia	2019-12-21 "{I quite like my bias, in fact.}"
Location <PRV> 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. The Tessier's house smells rich and warm and festive. The mistletoe and pine garlands hung liberally about the house brighten the air; the ube cake roll cooling on a wire rake on the counter sweetens it. The oven is still on; Lucien has just slipped a tray of squash in it to roast before turning back to the stove. On one burner a saucepan of what will soon be eggnog is simmering; from another he is just removing maple-candied walnuts to tip them out of their cast-iron pan and into a bowl. Immediately turn around to the sink to start washing the pan -- despite the many dishes he's juggling (there's a goose that's already gone into the oven before the squash; hazelnut cookie dough set out on a tray and waiting to go in later; potatoes half-prepped and waiting their turn on the stove --) there's very little extraneous mess left in his wake in the kitchen. The sleeves of his deep green henley are rolled up above his elbows and he's singing as he works, quietly, along with Hozier -- who is playing much less quietly through their sound system. "--You don't have to sing it nice, but honey sing it strong." Unsurprisingly, he is singing it nice. The front door opens and closes, and a moment later one sleek, excited mutt bounds into the kitchen to snuffle around for dropped morsels. Flèche's glossy coat still carries a whisper of crisp, chill air from outside as she leans affectionately against Lucien's leg. Matt follow her in at a delay, smiling brightly, his cheeks just a touch red and his hair all askew from his excursion outside, just in time to join in the part of the chorus exhorting the listener to "sing!" He does not sing it particularly nice, but he does sing it strong. He circles the island and snags a dish towel on his way, silently offering with an outstretched hand to the pan from his brother once he is done washing it. "{Oh! You found a pup. What an excellent specimen, too. You really outdid yourself with this one.}" Lucien is brightly effusive when the pup gallumphs in, shifting the pan from the dishrag he's been holding it in to his off-hand so that he can lean down and pet the pup with his comparatively drier hand. He straightens again to finish the washing, soaping the pan off, scrubbing it clean of its sugary coating. It's only when he hands it off to Matt that he looks down at his hand with a frown -- light glistening burn lines pressed into his fingers where they had held the still-too-hot metal before the water cooled it. There's a fluttering shift across the surface of his mind -- only then do his eyes widen, a very delayed, very faint wince -- before a similar shift evens the sting of pain back out again. "Mmm." He's running his fingers under cool water, glancing to the stove, to the still-to-be-prepared food set out on the counter. "{At least I don't use my fingers for much.} Did you have a good walk?" Flèche plops her skinny butt down with entirely more force than necessary, presenting her head eagerly to Lucien. Matt looks very pleased with himself, as well. "{She's certainly the finest pup I saw out there, and I assure you there was plenty of competition.}" He accepts the pan, bright green eyes widening just a moment after his brothers'. "{Oh, dear!}" Even while he towels off the clean pan, he peers at Lucien's hand under the faucet, brows furrowed with concern. "{Is it bad enough I should get burn gel and dressing? I will help you with the remainder of this, of course. I'm sorry to have taken so long, for it was an exceedingly pleasant walk, on so bright and clear a day.}" He sets the pan down beside the mixing bowl containing the cookie dough. "Don't belittle your fingers, you do so many marvelous things with them. Typing, scritching pups, making cookies..." "I do not begrudge you enjoying the apricity. Not generally, and certainly not today, of all days." Lucien shakes the excess water from his hand, turns it over to examine it. Glistening water against glistening skin, his brows drawing slightly inward as he turns his fingers just so. Something ripples in his mind, probing delicately at the injury and then withdrawing. "I type on my phone more often than not," he answers dismissively, turning his attention back to the eggnog, "and I imagine Flèche would be just as happy for scritches with three fingers -- with stumps of fingers -- with toes -- as with a full and functioning hand." He is, absently, rubbing one foot against the dog's flank as he talks. "{As long as my voice stays in shape I think this house will run fine. My fingers serve for very little around. Playing violin quite poorly, I suppose, and you'd count it a blessing if they stopped that.}" Matt returns to Lucien's side and squints critically at the wounded hand. It isn't until after the biokinetic diagnostic has run its course that he actually takes hold of his brother's hand and turns it this way and that. The keen alertness at the front of his mind cannot altogether hide the steady, heavy worry underneath of it. "{I don't think you play it all that poorly. In any case you I have faith you'd improve with practice, and I would not mind in the least.}" He releases the hand in question, his worries largely assuaged. "I doubt if this will stop you doing any of those things, but it'll heal faster if properly dressed. {May I?}" "{It's fine. I'm fine,}" Lucien insists, gently extricating his hand from his brother's. "{I need this. At least, if you want to eat this evening.}" His lips have compressed; the slow pinched furrow creasing his forehead is probably not due to the eggnog innocuously mulling on the stove. "{You have a bias. I play it quite poorly. It could get better, I suppose, but who has the time.}" He has vegetables to chop, the pensive look not leaving his face. "{I suppose I might, if I slept a bit less. I could cut back an hour, now and again. Wednesday evenings, perhaps. Or Sundays. Add some practice.}" "{Very well, but I do so wish you'd let me help.}" Matt looks sorely tempted, for a moment, to just wrest the chopping from his brother's hands, but manages to restrain himself. He steps out of Lucien's way, leaning on the counter. "{I never said I was not biased. I quite like my bias, in fact.}" He props his head up in the palm of one hand. "{Certainly you could.} Or, I could pick up a little more work around the house and to make time for your practice." "{You took the dog for a walk.}" Lucien inclines his head down to Flèche, where she is now prancing hopefully about his ankles. "{That was a considerable help. You might continue to be useful by taking her away to cuddle with.}" His hand is quick and steady as he works, its recent striping of injury not seeming to impede dexterity overmuch. "{I doubt you would even notice much if I adjusted my schedule so slightly. I have been sleeping more than adequately. I could stand to shed an hour here or there.}" Matt clicks softly against the inside of his cheek, calling Flèche to his side and dropping one hand to scritch behind the floppier of her ears. He does not, however, whisk her away just yet. "{I would not likely notice, and I don't mean to say at all that you couldn't manage just fine on a bit less sleep.}" His smile is soft, and just a little faint. "{I only mean that you don't have to. I keep trying to pick up a bit more here and there--I want to, regardless of whether you could use the time for violin practice--but you're so good at pre-empting me.}" "{Pre-empt you?}" Lucien raises one slender dark eyebrow. "{Perhaps you ought to be slicker.}" His words are punctuated by the steady staccato thwack of his blade against the cutting board. "{You won't be, of course.}" A light scrape, cubed potatoes sliding off into a waiting bowl. "{I'm rather adroit at this. You could walk the dog more, if you like? I'm not really sure what else I need help with. I've got well practiced at my routine. Half of it gets done while you are at work anyway.}" Matt's eyes narrow, bright green irises gleaming uncannily in the slanting light. "Brat." But there's no heat in this--more an off-handed statement than a complaint. "{I've no wish to disrupt your routine, only--I let you do so much for me. It isn't fair to you.}" He tilts his head, considering. "{I could certainly wash up after the meals more often, and I shall--if I must--be slicker about it.}" "{I'm sorry,}" Lucien is stepping aside to scrub his cutting board down, as Matt speaks, all polite guilelessness in his tone. "{what is it you were going to wash up, exactly?}"