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WHO: Ardyn & Laurent, Franklin (AKA Balthier) & Faolan
WHERE: The University & Laurent's apartment respectively
WHEN: 9/20, 10/11
WHAT: Learning about Magic, & Learning about blackmail basically
WARNINGS: None yet...

Ardyn:
Laurent realises that, on the fact of it, this idea is not strictly sensible.

Working on the principle that Faolan knows Ardyn, and that the man healed Faolan before, he is most likely safe in his company. He teaches at the university, which means he's trusted in a position of power.

Still. That doesn't always mean a person is safe.

Yet still here he is, strolling through the university to meet the man in person and essentially ask him to do a magic trick.

Magic, in Laurent's opinion, is something that shouldn't exist. Even despite all the things he's heard and seen he struggles to conceptualise it. He's a rational man, he likes scientific explanation. There has to be some process to all this, some way it all works he can break down and make sense of.

Which is why he's hoping to encourage Ardyn to demonstrate his. It is, Laurent accepts, possibly rude to demand a personal explanation but witnessing it first hand feels the only way he might be able to accept and process it. To apply method to it and understand it better.

He asks his guard to wait in the hallway, then approaches the door of the room he was directed to and knocks. Laurent dresses smartly for his classes, looking more like a man attending an office job than a student, but his blond curls are not quite perfect at the moment and there's a hint of tiredness pinching his expression. He's a few minutes early, truth be told, but he's happy to wait if asked.

Franklin:
Laurent's apartment is in a particularly expensive high-rise building, complete with valet parking and a 24 hour concierge desk, attendants, a fitness centre and plenty of wood flooring throughout.

They've been told to expect Franklin, but still ask for identification and call up, then escort him all the way through to the elevator and up to Laurent's door. It's difficult to tell if this is normal procedure here, or simply because it's Laurent Duvere who he has come to see.

Laurent has already warned Faolan about this.

He can tell Faolan is not particularly happy about it, but all the same he agrees that it's perhaps better here than in a public setting. Here they can pat the man down for wires, control the environment, and eject him without any public fuss if they want to. The only witnesses are Faolan and Laurent and they can of course deny anything they want.

Laurent is lounging in the large living area when he finally hears a knock, and glances up from his macbook. He'd been doing a little last minute additional research on the journalist. It's always good to know who you're dealing with, after all, and what their angle might be.

He snaps the laptop shut and leans to set it on the table, nods to Faolan to have him let in.

The door is pulled open, and Laurent stands to nod to the building security.

"Thank you, James. Faolan can take over from here. Check him for wires."

You know, or anything else untoward. Laurent values his privacy, and it's already less than ideal having a reporter here but at least the apartment is generic. The furnishings came with it, so he's not exposing much of himself just by letting him see the main room.

[ ooc: Laurent->Balthier->Faolan? ]

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He'd seen security like this before, and if he was phased, he didn't look it. The entire time, if anything, he looked bored at how predictable it was. But what was surprising, and perhaps a little bit frustrating, was the part that became evident when he arrived at his destination: Laurent wanted to maintain as much plausible deniability as possible. The wire was excessive, even.

He was a reporter, not a mole.

"You're not likely to find a wire," he replies smoothly, setting down his bag. "But I do have a recorder, as I am a journalist." He takes care to emphasize the word, though his tone and the look he gives Laurent is rather droll. He'd like to be able to review their conversation for direct quotes, rather than running off of memory.

"I hope you don't think the police have sent me. I've too many exes there to comfortably work with them."

It's true. Faolan doesn't like this. He is Laurent's personal security, which not only means that he's personally in charge of security for the man, but that he's in charge of security for his person. Laurent is inviting this man into their home, and while the address is a matter of public record, letting him inside like this is giving him access to far more information about them than Faolan feels comfortable giving. For all he knows, the man could be memorizing the layout of their apartment, or recognizing god knows how many other personal details that Laurent would not realize might put him in danger (but they would).

He recognizes the reporter as the man steps into the apartment. Keeping his professional air as he steps through the apartment to do as he's bid and check the man for wires. Giving him a quite professional pat-down and then motioning for his bag, glancing over his shoulder at Laurent for further direction.

He pays the mention of the exes in the police no mind. He had met this man once already, after all. He's already acquainted with the sort of words that come out of his mouth. He just hadn't realized that this is who Laurent was to meet with.

"I remember agreeing to meet for a chat, Mr Brewer, not for an interview which you intended to record. Perhaps if you make yourself agreeable such a thing might come later. Can I offer you a drink?"

He steps around the table to move toward the kitchen, nodding to Faolan to carry on. Yes, do search his bag. You can never be too careful after all. Laurent values his privacy, and has no particular reason to trust the journalist just yet.

Well, by memory it was. He sighs and then nods at the bag. "Very well. Front right pocket, so that we can be done with this as soon as possible." His voice was irritated as he spoke to Faolan. Even if he recognized him from their brush with death just the other evening, now he was focused on business. Though, he'd have to shift his expectations appropriately.

He crosses his arms over his chest. "And please tell me you have scotch. I'll likely need it at this rate, and I need something quite a bit stronger than wine." Though, honestly. He was talking to a frenchman. The chance that there was anything other than wine in this apartment was low.

But the worst he could do is say no and offer him a rosé instead.

Faolan nods in turn, and opens the bag. Ignoring the other man's comments about where he should be looking and methodically going through each section in turn. Finding the recorder in the front right pocket as he had been instructed and checking to see that it is switched off before pocketing the thing entirely.

"You'll get it back when we're done here," he reassures, but he doesn't want to risk giving the reporter any chances. Laurent obviously doesn't want whatever they're speaking about getting out. He doesn't even want Faolan knowing about it, as he's received very little information on the subject himself. Which bothers him as well, truth be told.

Once he's certain there are no wires hidden in the linings of the bag, nor any other hidden recording devices, Faolan holds his hand out once more towards the other man. He'll let Laurent handle the question of the scotch (Faolan's from Ireland, they might not have scotch but there's certainly whiskey in the cabinet) -- he's got one more task at hand.

"And your phone," he instructs. Everyone has a smartphone with recording functions these days. Faolan's not stupid. He offers another quirk of his brow. Wiggling his fingers slightly before offering again, "Just for now."

"You'll get it back," Laurent assures him, and begins pulling glasses out of the cupboard. "We have whiskey, cognac, wine of course."

Since he is French. He looks over at Franklin, lofts an eyebrow before pulling down the bottle of whiskey.

"Will this suit you?"

Or is he going to be picky about it. Laurent doesn't drink whiskey but he assumes Faolan has enough taste to not drink something terrible. Or he'd like to, at any rate. If Franklin wants something else, though, he'll have to swap to the appropriate glass. Laurent is not a barbarian, he has several types of drinking glasses of course.

He pulls out his phone, and offers Faolan a rather droll look as he hands it over. Somehow, he shouldn't be surprised. If he was that concerned about the wire, it was only a matter of time for his phone to disappear in this great paranoia. No wonder there hadn't been any luck in this investigation, though his editor was quite keen on it when he'd noted who he'd managed to make contact with. Franklin picks up his bag.

"Of course. I suppose that is his influence," as he says it, he nods to Faolan. It'd be impossible to not place where he was from, and everything else was so French, it hurt.

But he steps closer to the Frenchman, now that this painfully awkward security incident was done. And he wasn't kidding about the drink. While he was confident about his ability to hold his liquor, he figured the conversation would go much more smoothly if they were less inhibited with each other.

And he didn't intend to leave the conversation empty handed.

Faolan takes the phone from the other man, switching it off before pocketing it as well. He supposes he deserves to be spoken about like he isn't there, after a stint like that. Bodyguards do have a tendency to bend into the background, and Franklin had come here to see Laurent. Laurent is the important person, this is technically his apartment and Faolan is just living in it because he works for him. Still, it rankles at him a little to be so casually brushed aside.

Especially when the man was about to be partaking in his personal liquor cabinet.

Franklin is assuming it's his influence on Laurent's tastes however and as much as Faolan would love to speak up and insert a snide comment otherwise, it would be giving too much away. He glances at Laurent and he hopes the look conveys the question of what Laurent would like for him to do next as well as the plea not to let this reporter drink too much of his good whiskey thank you very much.

"Influence? It's his whiskey, I don't drink it. I can replace what you drink later, though. How do you like it?"

The whiskey, that is. He sets it down on the counter with a glass beside it, and then lifts his eyes back to Faolan.

"Could you give us a moment? You're welcome to linger by the entrance should he choose to bolt. I do promise to scream if appropriate."

Since Laurent is quite sure Faolan is mostly worried about his personal safety rather than theft. Still, he doesn't want to have this conversation fully in front of Faolan. Not when he's shown himself prone to emotional displays and lack of subtlety.

Hm... He'd assumed that when the whiskey was offered, it would have been Laurent's, bought with Faolan's recommendation. But, now he sees that he truly was just stealing from him. He'd have to repay him on his own later, then, because he wasn't about to turn down the whiskey.

He takes it, and glances at the bottle, then at the glass. He sits, before taking a sip, and pausing a moment to appreciate the taste. He then looks at Faolan. "You've good taste. I suppose, I will owe you a round or two after this."

If anything? He just wanted to go drinking with him after this. He'd owe him a round, at least.

And then his gaze is back on Laurent.

Faolan glances between the pair of them. Give them a moment. 'Welcome' to linger by the entrance. Faolan understands that the words are less of a request and more of an order, without Laurent directly saying as much.

He glances aside at Franklin, offering him a nod in response to the other man's words. "Well, then," he says. "I'd be a fool to turn down an offer like that." He looks between the pair of them before sticking his hands in his pockets and taking in a deep breath, letting it out slowly in what he hopes doesn't sound quite as much like a sigh as he wants to offer. He recognizes that Laurent is getting rid of him, but there really isn't anything he can do to protest that. Not without doing so directly in front of their guest.

"Shout if you need anything," he replies after a long moment, before slinking his way across the apartment to station himself by the door. He can't listen, but he can watch. That's what Laurent is paying him to do after all.

Laurent watches Faolan leave for a long moment, waiting until he's more out of earshot and thinking, then his eyes flick back up to Franklin and he offers a faint smile.

"Do you prefer that neat or would you like something with it?"

Ice, a mixer, both? He's busily pouring a glass of wine for himself in the meanwhile, and half wondering if he should just bring the entire bottle with him. It might make the conversation easier, in some ways, although it would certainly make it more difficult at the same time.

"Neat," Franklin says, easily enough. He could carry on this way for an eternity, honestly. He loves a good drink, and it's not like Laurent is offering him subpar whiskey.

But honestly? He'd still probably take it.

His eyes track Laurent's movements, trying to get a read on him, and the mood around them, before he carried on with his questioning.

"Then do help yourself."

He picks up his glass and gestures to the seating area over by the floor to ceiling windows, swipes up the bottle after a second of thought and pads over -- setting it down on the low coffee table and his glass on a small coaster. Laurent himself lounges casually onto the sofa and combs back blond curls, studying Franklin curiously.

"Faolan was hired by my brother," he says after a moment, "he's very attached to him, so you understand why I thought this conversation might be better in private."

If Franklin intends to suggest something that will either paint his brother in a negative light, paint him in danger or paint him the victim or some poor situation then likely Faolan will react. Which it is going to be, Laurent can't quite guess.

He won’t have to wait, because Ardyn is already waiting patiently when Laurent arrives. The door to his office opens, and the professor stands there to greet him. He offers an amiable enough smile, polite despite the rather unusual reason why the other is here. And while he doesn’t truly know the other man well enough to judge whether or not he looks any different than normal, it’s difficult to miss the tiredness just around his eyes.

Not that Ardyn is one to judge. He looks about the same level of tired, though perhaps that’s his default state — hard to know, with a man as flippant and difficult to read as him.

“You’re just a little early, but there’s no need in making you wait outside while I’m already here,” he says with a bit of humor in his intonation. “Do come in.”

And so Laurent is ushered inside, and is of course told that he’s welcome to sit in the seat across from his desk. While Ardyn crosses back to his spot, he remarks, “I imagine your curiosity — or is it your concern? — is killing you."

"I hope it is not, I have far too much to do to risk dying over curiosity."

Laurent's accent is immediately obvious as a low, languid Parisian. He sets his bag down carefully before taking the seat Ardyn indicates, glancing around the room to try and get an idea of its owner. If he is neat or untidy, if he has any photos or personal items here.

"Still, I wouldn't mind discussing it all further."

That is why he's here after all, he doesn't want Ardyn to think he's lost interest.

Ardyn's office is very neat, with papers organized nicely on his desk, and a bookshelf with titles just as purposefully laid out. Pens in penholders, desk light at a straight angle, that kind of thing. There are no photos laid out on his desk, but he's simply never been the type to possess these kind of items at work. (There is, perhaps, one personal item that is hard to miss, at least. A tiny stuffed chocobo plush, sitting in the corner of of a shelf of a bookcase.)

Ardyn grabs his seat by its back, which hilariously has wheels so that he might slide it about. That makes it easier to glide it around his desk and next to Laurent, and then he sits. He will need the proximity, and it's less troublesome than leaning toward across his desk.

"Well, you were here for a demonstration, were you not? Have you come sporting an injury?"

Sporting one? The wording is a little awkward to Laurent, for whom English is a second language, but the context of demonstration and injury gives him the idea. He lofts an eyebrow, and carefully begins to remove a brooch from his jacket. The design appears to be some form of little bird, and he calmly takes the holding pin and jabs the sharp tip into his thumb. Blood wells up immediately and he flinches a little, removes it and glances mildly at the blood on both his thumb and the pin before looking up at Ardyn.

"Will that do?"

He supposes he can stab himself again, if need be, but he'd really rather not.

Ardyn would really rather him not, either. It’s only a small prick, with a little pinch of blood at his fingertip, but already something twitches across his face, as if he’s holding back a frown. But it’s just a small little thing, not even enough to be called an injury proper, and so Ardyn just exhales and rolls forward a little in his chair. He holds out a hand.

“It'll do just fine. Give me your hand, please. It doesn’t have to be the one that’s bleeding.”

There's a moment of hesitant caution, as if Laurent is afraid of what might potentially happen, then he holds out the hand with the bleeding thumb palm up.

"It's my non-dominant hand."

Since he thought about this long enough to consider he should not risk the one he uses most, in case something goes awry.

"Wise of you to be so cautious, but I assure you that it won't matter if it was or wasn't."

He takes his hand, a light touch. "When this begins, you'll see a faint glow, and experience a warming sensation on your hand. Any pain you might feel will dissipate; given how small this injury is, it should go relatively quickly."

And with that, he just gives him a moment to digest this information, then focuses back towards Laurent's hand. And a moment later, the magic starts -- it is, indeed, what Ardyn described. A faint glow, a warmth spreading throughout the other's hand. And if he's really observant, the way that Laurent's pinprick wound closes over and heals, leaving only the blood that had already escaped.

He feels a prick at his own thumb, but it's very negligible. The pain's transferred over, but this is nothing at all bad compared to the past.

Even as light as Ardyn's touch is, Laurent flinches just a second regardless as his hand is taken. The casual contact is something he might not have thought twice about once upon a time, yet now it feels as if it rakes over his nerves.

A faint glow, the professor says, a warming sensation, and indeed that is what happens. It heals, then there is nothing.

It makes little sense.

Laurent feels his heart racing, and realises that it's fear. He's afraid of this, of this power. Of being unable to understand how it is done, what it means.

He tries to move his hand after a moment, to gently detach it from Ardyn's touch and inspect his thumb.

"Is there a limit to what you can heal?" He prompts, partly from curiosity and partly for something to say to cover his own unease.

Ardyn remains calm, though his eyes lift to look at Laurent. The man seems a bit shaken, though he can't blame anyone for it. He was more than a little shaken the day he figured out he could heal. With something as impossible as "magic" at that.

"I know there are limitations, but I do not know the full scope of them."

A pause, then he continues, placing his hands on his lap.

"I was on Team Absinthe when all that monster nonsense happened across the city. A girl on my team cut off her own finger, and when I was asked to heal it-- well. There was little I could do to regrow it back, only to stop the bleeding and ease the pain. And this pain... I take it unto myself."

An important little detail that he often neglects to share.

Into himself? That's... interesting, and also makes more sense to Laurent than the problem entirely disappearing. It's a sort of diffusion of injury, in a way.

"Just the pain?" he prompts, and his eyes drop for a moment to Ardyn's hands -- wondering if his finger will imminently begin bleeding. For how long, for that matter? Is it a momentary flash of pain, or does it linger? For a day, a week? Forever? Surely not the latter, for Ardyn would be a man limping everywhere he went were that the case. Laurent knows that Faolan, at least, was mauled by wolves and shot. That cannot be the only injuries that the man has healed in his time here.

“Just the pain.”

He confirms it by holding his hand out, palm-up, towards Laurent. There is no pinprick of blood there, just unmarred skin. Since the injury was so small, already the pain is disappearing.

“Which in the instance, is obvious bearable.”

"And how long does it last? The pain, when you take it on for another. Can it be medically dulled?"

He drops his eyes down and lifts his own hand to examine where the prick once was, rubbing at the skin thoughtfully. Idly, he wonders if Ardyn now has an unusually high pain threshold simply from the experience of taking on injures for others continually.

"That depends on its severity. If it's something more... worrisome, then it can take the entirety of the day before it begins to fade. I've taken painkillers to soothe my body in those rare times when I might've taken on too much."

Again, during their first little stint into the forest bunker, in which Ardyn probably healed like four severe injures. And that wasn't even counting the instances throughout the rest of that month.

"They work about as well as you would think. They dull the pain, but I can still feel it."

As well as you would think, Ardyn says, and yet Laurent isn't sure he knows what he would have thought about it. Is pain you feel from magically healing a person real enough to be touched by painkillers? How can painkillers work on an injury that isn't there? Is Ardyn's body genuinely reacting to the pain of a nonexistent injury? Are his nerve endings sending alerts to the pain receptors in his brain, or is it all in Ardyn's mind? Are the painkillers a placebo effect?

"How often do you use it?"

Does he avoid smaller things, in case of build up, or just heal anyone who asks? Clearly he had no issue with Laurent's request, but that might be a one-off of sorts. Perhaps he prefers normally to only intervene when the situation is extreme. Or perhaps the opposite, only when it isn't unless pressed to do so.

That’s a point of… not quite contention, but certainly something that he’s spoken about with others, more than once. If Ardyn had his way, he would heal all of those who required it from him — small injuries and large ones alike. And yet he is prone to running himself ragged that way, this bleeding heart of his. He has been told, quite strongly, that he needs to save his energy; to ignore the smaller injuries on account of being able to help those who may require more effort. To not run himself into the ground past the point of return — because does anyone truly understand exactly how his abilities work?

So there’s an understandable pause before he replies.

“Depends on what’s happening in the city.”

That’s… accurate enough.

“If things are normal, and people are not being injured by terrifying monsters? Then not very often at all.”

"In case there is some manner of emergency, I would suppose. That makes sense."

Although means there is less data on how said magic works. Laurent leans forward after a moment and draws a smaller paper bag out of the one he set down. From within it he draws a cup of black coffee, which has been sat in a cardboard cup holder, and blueberry muffin.

"I did say I'd bring you something for your trouble."

He laughs with a pleasant sort of surprise when Laurent reveals the coffee and the blueberry muffin. Despite the strangeness of this little demonstration, Ardyn feels oddly touched by it.

"You didn't have to do that. It was hardly any trouble at all, taking only a minute of my time at the most. I only wish that I could grant you more satisfying answers, other than 'it just happens to work'."

"You also healed Faolan. I know for a fact he was bitten by wolves and shot. That must have hurt."

Since Laurent now knows it doesn't cost Ardyn nothing to use this magic. Yet he does anyway. He can hardly be a wholly bad person if he would accept the pain to help another live. Unless, Laurent supposes, it was a matter of team survival. There's always a chance he did that to ensure his own survival. It's hard to judge, from one encounter, but he's leaning more toward self-sacrifice than self-preservation for now.

He leans back in the chair again and studies Ardyn's features, his reaction to the name as much as anything, and tries to picture him interacting with Faolan. He imagines Faolan would like him, honestly. He has an easy manner about him.

He would be correct in his assumptions. Of course Ardyn wanted their team to survive, for each person to be functioning well enough to fight and to be mentally prepared at whatever was thrown at them. But he wanted more than anything to help — even at his own detriment, even when his loved ones would yell at him later for it, because it was necessary that everyone around him not suffer for something they couldn’t control. He would suffer for them, if need be.

But Ardyn? Of course he’ll play it down with a joke.

“It did admittedly sting a little, yes.”

"Only a little? Perhaps I should have made your demonstration more adventurous, then."

A bigger wound than stabbing himself with a pin. Not that Laurent has any particular inclination toward purposefully injuring himself, but it's the principle of the thing.

"All the same, thank you for indulging me."

Laurent knows this probably all comes across a little strange, but it has a purpose. Several, even. Ardyn has a useful skill to be aware of, is a professor, is known to Faolan and seemingly trusted by him. He seemed a good person for Laurent to know and understand himself.

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