View source for Logs:Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to do it.

{{ Logs
| cast = [[Leo]], [[Lucien]]
| summary = ''Do you think she would be better off with him out of her life?''
| gamedate = 2023-06-12
| gamedatename = 
| subtitle = 
| location = <PRV> Tessier Residence - Backyard - Greenwich Village
| categories = Leo, Lucien, Mutants, Private Residence
| log = 

Living in the heart of Manhattan means space is precious, and as such, the yard behind this house is small. It is as exquisitely well-kept as the rest of the place, though; all available space has been meticulously cultivated and transformed into a lush retreat from the concrete and asphalt of the city. The borders of the garden are lined in a wealth of flowers, the selection chosen to provide a panoply of color in all seasons save winter. A grassy rock-bordered pathway separates these from the raised-bed vegetable garden that dominates its center. The far left corner of the garden plays host to a tiny rock-lined pond, goldfish and a pair of turtles living in its burbling water. To one side of the pond is a garden table and set of chairs and presiding over the pond, a large oak tree with a hammock underneath, its branches spreading out over the tall brick wall that screens the entire area off from the city outside.

It's late, for dinner, but who around here has been keeping ''normal'' schedules ~~lately~~ ever? Earlier there were thunderstorms but now there's just blissfully cool air and the lingering smell of rain fresh on the grass, the mulch, the vibrantly blooming flowers (several of which look more like something out of one of Jax's paintings than the hybrid tea roses they began life as.) Unfortunately, this means the table and chairs are ''also'' wet. Lucien, in jeans and soft grey henley, bare toes scrunching into the wet grass, has set down the dinner tray on the table -- fresh strawberry-basil lemonade, pesto chicken orzo bowls, cheddar-garlic swirl buns, his Moscow mule tucked into the corner of the tray -- and is now busying himself with drying off a chair for his guest. "Apologies," sounds somewhat rote and reflexive. ''Probably'' he does not think he could have helped the storm. "-- but yes, he will be leaving New York again in a week. I suspect he may have reservations about dealing with ''you''," this sounds considerably ''less'' apologetic than he was about the damp chairs, "but if you are interested I am happy to broker the sale and leave your name out of it entirely."

Leo ''has'' put his shoes back on as he follows Luci out of the house, a still-cold pear cider in one hand and his phone in the other. He's in cigarette-cut medium wash blue jeans, camel suede loafers, a daisy yellow short-sleeved buttondown with a subtle windowpane pattern. He's scrolling through pictures, glancing up from the cabin of the sailboat on his screen to ask Luci quite seriously: "Is it haunted? Does it still ''have'' a corpse aboard?"

"I admit I do not know much about desirable yacht amenities. Would you ''like'' a ghost? That may be tricky. Corpses alone, probably easier." Lucien is drying off the second chair, now, and sets himself down into it after draping the towel over the back of the empty chair adjacent. He plucks up his drink first, taking a small swallow. "Not that I have either currently to hand, but at least conceptually I am aware how to create the one."

"I have enough of them, no." Leo is still looking through the pictures, his tone a little abstracted. "-- it ''does'' need a lot of love, that might be --" Here he's looking up, though, abruptly wider-eyed. "Enough ghosts," he is hasty to tack on, as if this needed clarification. "I have no corpses. Now. And don't want to..." He trails off with a frown as he perches himself on the edge of the other dried seat, taking one of the bowls and lemonades for himself. "Thank you," is what he says here quietly instead, crossing himself and briefly bowing his head over the food before he picks up a spoon.

Lucien's brow hitches minutely at that trailing sentence. He waits for Leo to finish his prayer, his head tipping back to watch a firefly blinking its way through the leaves. "The life you live, I would certainly not blame you if you ''did'' want to make a new one, every now and then. Though really, until you have at least one daily thought of murder you are not a real New Yorker." The small smile that ghosts across his face seems turned up more towards the lightning bug than to Leo. "Though, I suppose if you run away to live at sea you won't be a New Yorker at all."

"I am not running away to sea. I am ''returning'' to sea." Leo looks up to watch the lightning bug, too, and his smile is wider, briefly delighted. It fades to a quiet and appreciative pleasure as he starts in on his food. "Probably," though he's swallowed he still half-covers his mouth with the side of his hand as he talks, before washing the food down with a gulp of lemonade, "Kitty might not enjoy to live at sea." There's a delay here long enough for another bite of food, for another, slower pull at his cider. "I don't think I ever wanted to kill a tourist. I will never be a ''real'' New Yorker." This does not sound like a very serious lament, and though his next words are given in the same idle-musing tone his brow has rumpled in some deeper worry. "Kitty's father, though --"

"So if she returns you your seal-coat, you will be completing your doctorate from the ocean?" Lucien is still looking upward, but glances back briefly to Leo. "Kitty's father is certainly not a New Yorker. Has Carmen been causing --" A slight hesitation. "-- further problems?"

"I ''will'' be doing the end of my doctorate from the ocean. If I had discovered land jellyfish, I would be Doctor Concepcion already." Leo has been digging into his food hungrily, but he stops now, just slowly stirring at the bowl. His thumb traces, small and restless, against the smooth end of the spoon handle. "I think that Carmen --" He begins, but stops again. His fingers squeeze tight at the spoon handle and slowly relax. "You never talk about your parents."

Lucien straightens in his seat, and now he does pull his gaze back down to level steadily on Leo. The pause stretches a few beats longer than comfortable, before he replies -- incongruous to the weighted silence in his light tone -- "I had none. Matthieu and I were suckled young by a large subway rat and raised each other from there. It is possible," he adds in mild suggestion, "after a certain age, to ''choose'' not to associate with parents who are set on making your life a misery. Would Kitty ''like'' him out of her life?"

Leo's eyes go a little wider -- maybe he's ''picturing'' this, the intent and puzzling look he gives Lucien. "I would have thought a beaver." He doesn't press the issue of Lucien's Parents past this, though there's a searching curiosity that hasn't left his expression. He returns to stirring absently at his food before remembering he is probably supposed to also be ''eating'' it. His tongue runs over his teeth after his next bite, before he speaks again. "I don't understand. What it is like to have --" His brows are pulling slowly in. "I would give a lot to see my mother more, if it -- were not dangerous to ''her''. It's difficult. To imagine. Her being dangerous to ''me''. Or what I would do if she were. I think it would be hard to make -- good decisions, probably."

"Would that every person on earth had to struggle with that imagining." There is a very slow tightening in Lucien's jaw. He washes it away with a swallow of his drink, and returns his gaze to the tree branches overhead, though the little lightning bug has flitted away now to join several others in a dance through the mutated rosebushes. "I think it ''does'' make it hard. To make good decisions. And I think that the window of time in which anyone can fall back on terrible parents as an excuse for present day poor choices ends significantly before they close in on thirty. Sometimes, decisions are hard and you make them anyway." He is starting to lift his glass again but then looks at the cocktail in it and sets it aside in favor of lemonade. "But we are all allowed our share of maladjusted decisions. It is just one service friends can provide, no? To help make those easier sometimes, when we cannot. Do you think she would be better off with him out of her life?"

"The things he's ''done'' to her --" Leo is starting in defensively at Lucien's first criticism, his brows knit further as he sits up ''just'' a bit more upright. The question throws him, though, and he settles back with an uncertain frown. "Tomorrow she will be twenty nine. I do not think I should be -- she can be able to decide for herself if she --" His uncomfortable fidgeting with his spoon is growing as he speaks. "... for my opinion she would be better off. Almost surely. But what happens to him it is not up to me." There's a distinct reluctance with which he admits this ''last'' part.

Again Lucien's jaw tightens, and he exhales slowly. He lowers his gaze to his bowl; his inclines slightly to Leo. "Mm. Yes. I suppose she can. Some day. But perhaps her birthday is not a day she should ''have'' to give it thought, no?" He finally picks up his fork to start in on his food. "And not to worry," he adds, light once more, "it will not have to be up to you."
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