ArchivedLogs:Quite Alright

Quite Alright
Dramatis Personae Ion, Lucien	2017-05-30 "{... it's a real fucking irony, isn't it?}"
Location <NYC> Mockingbird - TriBeCa
With blacked-out windows and a tasteful but plain facade, the Mockingbird doesn't look like much at all from the outside. You'd probably miss it if you weren't specifically searching for it, and once inside you'd be informed the establishment is members-only--on a technicality, since membership costs next to nothing. Inside, the cozy club is styled after an early 20th century lounge, complete with vintage furniture, an antique long bar, and live music nightly, and a cozy smoking room in the back. All of the employees and many of the regulars habitually dress in a melange of '30s and '40s fashion. The dance floor is not large, just an irregular space between tables and booths, but there's almost always someone cutting a rug. Saturday night is swing night, when they take down some of the tables and encourage dancing. Tuesday nights are quiet -- there's a singer at the mic, low and sultry, and the sparse late evening crowd has the dance floor nearly empty past one dedicated (and very flashy) couple who have been there for a while. At a table to one side, Lucien is nursing a Manhattan and a plate of fried mushrooms. His suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, leaving him in neatly tailored button-down and chalk-striped trousers with polished two-tone wingtips. "{-- just put it on my tab.}" His Spanish is soft. A little tired. "{Boy, you sure you aren't gonna regret /that/ like I ain't a cheap date.}" Ion's grin is broad -- still, he doesn't /actually/ argue with this. Not really. Just gets up, returns in short order double-fisting glasses of whiskey. "{You been sleeping? You do not look like you been sleeping.}" He takes a first swig, swallows it slow. "{Your brother, how's he feeling today?}" "{Treatment is still not easy. Matthieu is bearing it. Tuesdays aren't as bad as some.}" Lucien nudges his plate a little bit toward Ion. His fingers curl around his glass, eyes drifting out to the dance floor. "{And your little one?}" "{Bearing it, shit-yeah, it's how you do, huh?}" There's a deep crease for a moment in Ion's brows. "{Tiny-monster they playing down at the Common with their flower-friend. I swing by after this, pick them up, maybe say hi at your brother myself? Maybe maybe. Any luck,}" he says with a brief grin, "{Dragonlord they gonna be tired the fuck out and sleeping by then. An actual full night sleep.}" His fingers rake through his hair, and his dark eyes settle on Lucien's face. "{/You/ doing alright? Again it's quick, you asking for me...}" "{With Tola for company I have no doubt they are working off some energy. Probably at the expense of the Commons' furniture and their caretakers' sanity.}" The thought puts a fleeting smile onto Lucien's face. Quick, small; it vanishes back into a still kind of quiet as he lifts a hand, waves away Ion's concern. "{No, no. I'm doing quite alright --}" A very faint skip-beat of hesitation, "{-- on that count. But your Mongrels, you trade in a wide range of pharmaceuticals, non?}" Ion's brows hitch upwards. His acknowledging bob of head is quick, hand (holding his whiskey, still) gesturing vaguely toward Lucien in invitation to continue. Lucien lowers his own drink to the table. His second hand curls around it as well, fingers lacing against the side of the glass. "{It's Galenin I need.}" The widening of Ion's eyes is abrupt. His tongue clicks against his teeth, head shaking. "{For you? Shiiiit, friend, you and me we got very different definitions of 'quite alright'.}" He lifts his glass, knocks back the rest of his first whiskey. Shakes his head as he picks up the second. "{How far along are you? I'm get that for you, fine, okay, but some-places South Bronx they been hit hard this past month, we clean the fuck /out/ just now. You want those pills they'll stop you biting faces for a while? I keep you stocked in that till we can swing more of the cure proper. Till then fuck. Hope you don't need English too often. They be alright if you sing all your show-tunes in French?}" Lucien's eyes press slowly closed at Ion's answer. His fingers tighten just a hair against the glass, then relax as he opens his eyes again. "{Very well.}" His voice is very soft. "{I do appreciate your assistance.}" Looking somewhat fixedly down at the table. "{And I'll manage without English in the interim. Just -- please do let me know, when --}" "{Be sure I will.}" Ion watches Lucien's tightening fingers. He finishes off his second drink, clinking the empty glass down onto the table and hastily standing. "{... it's a real fucking irony, isn't it? Maybe you should tell Captain Patriotism to speak up about healthcare.}" Lucien's eyes flick up briefly from the table. The upward twitch of his lips is very slight. With a small dry huff of breath he lifts his glass, draining the rest of it dry.