Logs:Houseguest

Houseguest
Dramatis Personae Fury, Lucien	2023-07-05 "Don't you got a show to get to?" (immediately after refreshing matt's memory.)
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. Upon waking, Fury rapidly went through a cycle of panic, confusion, and intrigue, and the last is where Lucien finds him in the study gazing at the rare books through their special glass case. He is insistently projecting idle curiosity with his hands clasped behind his back, but has only very hastily arranged himself that way just before the door opened. His reaction to seeing Lucien is a dynamic admixture of discomfort, relief, annoyance, pleasure, and suspicion. "Good morning, Mister Tessier." He probably should have left it at that, but then for some reason he adds, "I was just admiring your book collection." Lucien is dressed in pajamas, now, considerably older and plainer than any he's worn when actually intending to spend the night with Fury -- just soft black pants and an aging tee shirt decorated with a filigreed Ace of Spades playing card motif. The tray in his hands is carefully laid out with breakfast for one -- soft-scrambled eggs and herby roasted potatoes, warm biscuits drizzled with honey butter, a glass of orange juice, fresh coffee. A very small twitch pulls at Lucien's mouth as he looks Fury over, and nudges the door closed behind himself with a heel before setting the tray down on his neatly-arranged desk beside a small wooden desktop shelf that holds several different fidget toys. "Would you like to borrow one? A Study in Scarlet is a first edition." They are all, likely, first editions, behind the glass. Lucien looks at Fury -- looks at the books -- clasps his hands loosely in front of himself. And maybe he should have left it at that, but his eyes tick just slightly down towards where Fury's hands disappear behind his back, and he adds: "-- you brought yourself here, last night. In case you have forgotten." Fury's brows lift up, their uneveness almost certainly nothing to do in this case with skepticism. "First edition! I sure am impressed by your dedication, but Ionno 'bout reading books with no gloves on. You actually read 'em with gloves on?" He turns more fully to his host, eyes ticking over his clothing, up to his face, over to the tray. The furious working of his mind may be sensible to Lucien, but not the contents, and there's something guarded in his perplexity now. "You got any particular reason to think I'd forget? I ain't that old." He picks up the coffee and takes a careful, appreciate drink without breaking eye contact with Lucien. "Don't you got a show to get to?" One of Lucien's eyebrows ticks upward a fraction. "I wash my hands." If his expression is guarded it is no more so than usual, a carefully calm neutrality that betrays little enough as he meets Fury's gaze. "One particular reason, yes. You brought us a houseguest last night -- do you remember that, too?" His fingers unlace. Lace again the other way. "He brought news of Gaétan. My understudy will be glad of the spotlight today." "Well then, I'd be happy to borrow it, and wash my hands as needed." Fury starts to turn the chair around to sit and, presumably, dig into his breakfast, but Lucien's last revelation brings him up short. "Good news, I hope? And about the Holland kid, too?" Then, his eye narrowing, "That houseguest of yours done something to my memories?" "He is cursed with an extremely unfortunate mutation that automatically purges all memories of him from the minds of anyone he meets. He is an advisee of my brother. The, ah, older one. It evidently takes quite a bit of finagling to -- work around. It is a bit unfortunate you likely won't recall the entertainingly convoluted lengths Jackson had to go to to ensure he got here safely." There's a small tension that follows this -- just a faint twitch in the muscles at the side of Lucien's jaw, a brief tightening along the side of his neck. Now his eyes do lower, his breath shivering out slowly. "Relatively safely. The child had just come from Prometheus." Fury does not respond immediately, his expression not changing, distantly skeptical. "Well, shit." He smooths one hand over his pate. "Black and Holland tryna figure out what to do, I reckon. I know your brother -- the older one -- is on they team..." He trails off, his frown deepening. "Them kids all together in there? Which facility they at? Might be I can try to get in a word with someone involved, even if only indirectly." "Mmm. Last he saw them, they were all together in there. The ones still alive, at any rate." Lucien offers this up in the same mild tone with which he offered to lend Fury a book, but the question of which facility draws his hand to his mouth, fingers dragging slow against his lips. "Oh -- oh." He's not laughing, not really, but there's a jagged edge in the breath and brief shake in his shoulders that suggests he's only just caught himself from some untoward slip of Emoting. He drops his hand to the desk, weight sagging onto a forearm. "I think I have -- a lot to tell you about Lassiter."