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Laughter, loud voices, clinking glasses, knives and forks scraping against plates—Adolphe's humble abode temporarily houses a cacophony that only sounds symphonic to the most drunken of ears. The night's a spill of merriment, of sharing drinks, stories, and food both delicious and questionable. With bellies full and palates sated and scarred, the dinner guests begin to turn in one by one.
Mathis helps Adolphe clean up the mess they all made of his dining area and kitchen, though Adolphe is in no real state to do a thorough job of it. The pots and pans end up stowed in the sink for a proper scrub at a later time, chairs hastily shoved back into place so no one trips on any late-night journeys to the bathroom. Only the spilled wine gets mopped up quickly so it doesn't dry down into a sticky, ant-attracting mess.
Ceres tucks Yves away on the couch, pulling a blanket up and over his boneless body to keep him nice and comfortable as the liquor-induced warmth he's wrapped in inevitably starts to fade. He reaches out for her wrist and mumble-laughs something so slurred that it hardly sounds like a sentence. Being in a rather good mood, Ceres laughs just a bit in return.
Lucas watches Ceres from a slight distance and allows himself a small, private smile, happy to observe her happiness. The alcohol in his system has no effect, as ever, but he indulges in the warmth that even this small gesture brings.
It's a smile that shifts to faint exasperation as he turns his attention to the one person who's still awake and isn't lifting a finger to help. Precisely the opposite of his precious student.
"Monsieur. I'll have to ask that you at least lift your head from the table so that I can clean it properly if you're going to insist on refusing to clean it, yourself."
The statement is met with little more than a grunt as the man—Scien Brofiise, the genius supposedly beloved by God—distinctly does not lift his head even the smallest bit. Lucas sighs, wiping up the crumbs and spilled wine and water around Scien's head to the best of his ability.
In his quiet mind, he envisions reaching out, grabbing hold of that vulnerable skull, and turning it to pulp. He imagines ending the sinful life of a heretical demon before God can even make the extermination request that he's been waiting for.
This ire, this revulsion, the depth of his hatred; all remain hidden behind an opaque, disarming smile. He tucks it away with the same practiced ease he uses any time he interacts with a Reliver. No matter how disgusting they are, how soulless, he prides himself in his ability to hide his hand. It's how he keeps his work unknown, despite how prolific he's accidentally become.
But he doesn't act without God's word; hasn't before, isn't about to start now.
His fingers brush some crumbs into a cloth, move cups, still for a moment when the urge to harm grows too strong. They skirt against a swath of rosy hair spilling over Scien's arm and onto the table, but he stays the violence burned deep into his core, planted like ivy that burrows through the whole of him.
His expression sits in its placid way, like the unbroken surface of a lake, even though Scien continues to pillow his head in his arms and Lucas doubts he'd be able to see anything clearly regardless, let alone recall it the next day.
"At the very least, you should sleep lying down. You'll end up hurting your neck and back like this."
A soft chide hiding vicious teeth that yearn to dig in, to rip out.
From within the cradle of Scien's arms, there's a muffled and horribly slurred response that Lucas has to lean in to hear.
"Now you're calling me a booze-binging geezer who's too old to take a nap sitting up?"
"I'm surprised you even remember thinking that I called you that before," Lucas quips, folding up a few napkins. "Though I didn't say it then and I've still said nothing of the sort..."
Another little grunt, followed shortly by a rather large sigh as Scien finally stirs, lifting his bleary head like it weighs a thousand pounds and squinting even in the dim candlelight. He blinks groggily, then waves in Lucas' direction, the gesture sloppy and sluggish.
"Arm."
"I beg your pardon?"
"If you want me off of the table, then give me your arm."
Lucas, mildly amazed and also annoyed by Scien's ability to sound so demanding and sure of himself even when he can barely define his vowels, sets the napkin he'd been folding down and offers an arm out. Scien reaches up, tries to grab, and misses. Tries a second time. On the third attempt, Lucas shifts his arm into the path of Scien's hand, and even he finds it amusing when Scien himself looks startled by the fact that he finally made contact.
In the next moment, Scien attempts to stand upright, grumbling something about how still the floor had been when he was sitting. Lucas supports the full lean of his weight without losing his balance. Strength aside, martial arts training left him with an incredibly sturdy core, though he'd have never guessed he'd be using it to keep a drunken Scien Brofiise upright someday.
Scien tips a little to the side and Lucas shifts, gently sliding his arm behind Scien's back instead to provide more support. His palms itch. He pictures puncturing a hole straight through his rotten chest from behind, the red of a devil's blood mixing with the remnants of sloppily cleaned wine still on the floor.
Scien stifles a yawn, unknowing and uncaring of the danger pressed lightly against his side. He nods in the direction of one of the bedrooms just off the living area where Yves has long since fallen asleep.
"Bed."
"Given you're a guest in Adolphe's home, you should really sleep on the other couch, instead..."
There's another mumble in response that Lucas can't fully make out, and he just sighs and decides not to ask again. He figures Scien is probably too drunk to tell the difference between a bed and a couch anyway, so he moves over to the unoccupied one, carrying Scien's weight at his hip by the time they reach it.
It's a simple matter for Lucas to deposit him on the cushions, lifting his legs and taking off his shoes. He arranges him carefully, fighting off every instinct that demands harshness, because it would be difficult to explain a suddenly and violently deceased Scien Brofiise even to a house full of drunken people, even for someone as skilled at lying as he is.
Once he's sure Scien won't immediately roll off of the couch, he straightens back up. If that happens later, it's no problem of his.
"Goodnight, Monsieur Scien."
There's nothing in response, and he'd rather it stay that way.
The rest of the night passes in tranquility. The danger that keeps so many off the streets after sundown is not at the window, ready to force its way indoors like an unwanted guest, after all. It sits quietly in the still-messy dining area, a beast with a hand to its mouth, its sharp teeth out of sight.
Lucas waits at the table, keeping an eye on the shadows that fall over every vulnerable and sleeping face.
When dawn breaks the next day, the light of it sweeps over a house full of regret.
At first, only Mathis, Ceres, and Lucas have enough awareness (and stable stomachs, and heads that aren't pounding with alcohol-induced pain, and clear vision) to manage much of anything. While Mathis tackles cooking up something soothing and Adolphe eventually drags himself out of the house for chores, Yves and Scien remain down for the count.
Being a bit of an opportunist, Lucas takes the chance to accompany Ceres to the market when she sets out to buy ingredients for the coming meals, and a thing or two to help with hangovers.
"Ceres, dear—here, for you," he says, presenting her with a blueberry scone that he had drifted off to buy while she was distracted picking out potatoes. "The baker told me that the blueberries are very sweet this harvest."
"Oh! Ah, thank you... Would you like to share it with me, Lucas?"
The small smile he's granted as she hands half of the pastry back would have been enough to cure his own hangover, had he ever known the suffering of one.
From there, they traipse stall to stall, gathering greens and root vegetables, meats and breads, all on Scien's dime (and Mathis's, but Lucas would sooner drain a demon's bank account than take money from such a well-meaning, if somewhat financially tactless, boy). Walking side by side through the crowds on a vibrant, bustling morning makes it easy to forget the reality of the situation: that they're in the midst of hunting down a great threat.
Funny, given the shop owners and bystanders who look at Ceres with any sort of scorn or discomfort are far more at risk than Ceres herself. Lucas smiles and holds produce carefully, keeping those bloody, defensive impulses buried deep in the soil of his heart.
The rest of the trip—the rest of the day—passes in similar peace.
In the evening, Ceres and Mathis work in the kitchen, peeling and chopping vegetables after the grocery delivery finally makes it to Adolphe's house. Yves, lively once more after sleeping most of the day away, aids Adolphe in a meeting of strategy with other Corps members for their increased stakeouts.
Once again, Lucas is left with Scien.
They sit on each of the two couches, Scien leafing through a pile of papers and Lucas flipping through a book of names that mean nothing to him, given none of them are Bourreau. He briefly breaks the silence on a page flip as Scien moves to set what he's reading aside.
"I'm surprised you're able to read at all, given how terrible your balance was not even a half-day ago."
The words are light and airy, an edge of something teasing in them. Scien spares him barely a glance before picking up another ream of papers to thumb through.
"Your memory must be gathering dust in your old age, Professeur. I made it to the couch just fine."
"So you did," Lucas smiles, letting the feeling of gentle amusement run up against the stream of ever-present bloodlust settled in the chest. "So you did."
Dinner comes and goes, the libations significantly reduced from the night prior. Yves complains of a phantom headache creeping up on him just by looking at a bottle of wine, and marvels a little as Lucas indulges in a glass or five alongside his helping of Ceres' famed stew.
The meeting that follows paints the night in more productive hues, though it's unnecessary all the same. Lucas stands among those who would hunt him down, speculating motives and madness right alongside them. He crafts plans and insists on being involved. He offers suggestions, helpful only on the surface. He's reproached by Scien once for positing theories without basis, feigns apology, folds his hands together in a gesture that's peaceable only to the unwitting.
He carries Mathis to bed when he quite suddenly succumbs to his exhaustion, sees Adolphe out as he leaves for his patrol shift, bids Ceres goodnight as she heads to her room. He refuses Yves' offer of the couch he'd been sleeping on as Scien takes the other without care.
The moon rounds high into the sky, leaving the house still once more. With the previous night already lost in terms of true productivity and his duties, Lucas anticipates the single slip of paper slid below the crack in the front door deep in the twilight hours.
After picking it up and reading it, he frowns. The orders written on it are direct, and do not include a single mention of Scien Brofiise, despite the way in which God had all but placed the devil directly into his hands.
"...Surely tonight, of all nights..."
The soft murmur doesn't cause a single stir in the otherwise silent and dark home.
He glances over toward the couch, where Scien sleeps—though not for long. Lucas' ever-watchful eye quickly determined the rough sleep patterns and general habits of all occupants of the house, and he's long-since noted Scien's tendency to work through the night hours when sober.
His sleeping face, despite being relaxed, remains difficult to read. Lucas can see well even in the dim lighting, and his eyes drift from the rosy crown of Scien's messy hair, to his face, to the sprawling floral mark of a Reliver stamped across his throat.
For a moment, he thinks of locking his fingers around it—a black-gloved hand against pale skin, crushing his neck, Reliver mark and all, before Scien could even wake.
But he doesn't act without God's word. A mantra, or perhaps a reminder to himself, to still his itching hands.
His gaze remains locked for a few moments longer, and then he steps away, avoiding the creaking floorboards and heading to the door. The tasks are short and easy tonight; all the better, since he has precious little time to work with, and he's loathe to allow Scien even an inch of suspicion to latch onto. The vibrant eyes of a genius haunt his mind, piercing and keen. Ready to gut him if he slips even once.
Lucas drifts out into the night like a whisper of a ghost, melding into the velvet black of it, seamless.