ArchivedLogs:A Little Rude

A Little Rude
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive	4 July 2014 Seafood gumbo! And fireworks plans. (Aftermath of the raid.)
Location <NYC> The Unicomplex - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
Flicker and Hive split the basement in this apartment; coming down the stairs emerges into an open expanse of shared space, with a pair of desks on opposite walls and large cabinets holding an enormous library of board and card games. The bookshelves here are packed predominantly with sci-fi and fantasy as well as a mass of roleplaying sourcebooks. The walls are eclectically decorated. A replica of Arya Stark's Needle, a few bright-colored but anachronistically somewhat morbid paintings of Jax's, a Mega Man X poster, a stained-glass suncatcher hung in the window and a collage of feathers framed on one wall. Up near the ceiling there's a large square hanging frame strung with netting -- a nearly ceiling-wide sort of hammock though it's hard to immediately discern how to access it. A side door leads to the bathroom, small but neat in pale stone tile. Towards the back there are walls dividing off the actual sleeping areas, tiny-cosy rooms mostly only large enough for the bed-dresser-closet combinations they contain. It's generally easy to figure out which one of the bedrooms is Hive's from the large amount of /clutter/ contrasting Flicker's perpetually tidy space. Flicker's full bed can be folded up into a recess in the wall, while Hive's larger queen hangs from the ceiling by sturdy black chains. The evening is growing blessedly cooler as the sun makes a lazy exit toward the horizon, the languid quiet punctuated here and there with the sound of distant firecrackers. Or with refugees running about and people come sniffing for dinner, if you happen to live at the Commons just now. Micah isn't /quite/ either of those, but he does have a tray in front of him laden with bowls of seafood gumbo, thick slices of warm cornbread, and tall glasses of sweet tea. There /might/ be a cornbready crumb or two already at the corner of his mouth. He is weekend-casual in bluejeans and a black T-shirt on which Flutterbat is unfurling her petal-pink wings in front of a pale blue-purple moon. He knocks at the door to Hive's room, /kind of/ pausing for a response (namely, if there is a quick snarl of go-away) before opening it just a crack. There isn't a response, really. Down here there's none of the upstairs bustle of cooking and skulking-skittish refugees (and some of the very /twitchy/ jittery members of the raid team flinching at the gunshot-report bangs of fireworks.) Here there is just quiet. Hive has been in bed for some while now, dressed still in jeans and denim shirt unbuttoned over a white wifebeater, sneakers still on where he lies atop his sheets. The knock doesn't receive much of any reply -- though there is a very faint fluttering touch soft and sleepy up against Micah's mind that soon fades. Flickery mind-touch? That's like an invitation, surely. Micah pushes the door open the rest of the way with his hip, spinning around to get himself inside past it and bumping it closed again with his rear. The tray finds its way to rest on a bedside table once a few items are shoved and nudged out of the way. "Hey, honey. I think we definitely gotta adopt the catgirl. She's cookin' now an' there's okra an' cornbread." The next touch is less shivery-fluttering; it curls up against Micah's mind and just stays there, coiled tight, sinking hungry fingers down into the other man's consciousness, dragging it sleepily in towards his own. His mind is cluttered as it starts to pull Micah's in, thick with the jittery-wary (exhilarated freed) terrified-nervous (pained /delighted/) traumatized consciousnesses of too many labrats. A few identifiable minds still in among the mix, Joshua's steady quiet, Flicker's warmth muted at the moment under an exhausted haze. Micah doesn't push back at the twining vines of Hive's mind curling into his own. It isn't quite time to start pruning Hive back yet, chips not handled and folks still new and injured. He perches himself on the edge of the telepath's bed, reaching over to brush a gentle hand over the other man's arm. "Brought you food, sugar. Should eat t'help keep your strength up. Y'been workin' hard." Somewhere in the distance there's a boom-crack of fireworks, the sound dampened down here but still faintly trembling in the walls. Hive's arm tenses beneath Micah's hand, the twining curl of his mind finishing its work swiftly with a sudden firmer squeeze that pulls Micah's mind in the rest of the way. << ... don't shoot. >> The whispering echo of mindvoice is sleepily more foggy-confused than alarmed, really, /other/ labrats' alarm flaring and his mind groggily trying to sort their feelings from his own. << (Your/our) strength. Keep -- >> Hive's eyes crack open, just a touch. << Hungry. >> This thought doesn't actually sound hungry -- at least not in any way to do with his /stomach/. /That/ awareness is jumbled-confused, too. Somewhere in his network /other/ bodies have freshly eaten. His mind, though, that's already grasping outward, feeling for new tastes to absorb. "Shh, honey, shh. S'just the fireworks. Maybe not the best plan of timin' we've ever had for pullin' a bunch of jumpy refugees out t'deal with the big-wide world. But fireworks was prob'ly the last thing on any of our minds." Micah scoots in a little closer to better reach the other man, hand moving to tangle in his hair and pet through it soothingly. "Sit on up. /You/ should eat. Don't matter if other bodies done ate a thing already; it don't work that way." He leans in, brushing his lips to Hive's forehead gently. "C'mon, Sleepin' Beauty. Violet said y'wanted t'be woke up when the food was ready." The soft touch of lips stirs other parts of Hive's consciousness (too long imprisoned) (oh wow affection) (touchtouchtouch) in a continued sluggish-muddled swirl, a whole different sort of hunger fluttering out against Micah's mind and then fading. Hive struggles upright, slumping back against the wall. << You should eat, >> he... kind of agrees? With Micah. << ... fireworks. >> /Another/ part of his mind has a quiet thrill of glee at this, bright hopeful excitement (can we see them?) (/pretty/) (stars) -- though perhaps some of that is genuinely his own. It's hard to tell. "I'll eat, but you gotta, too. See? Two sets of bowls." Micah gestures to the tray where it sits on the bedside table. It's one of those tricks to getting people to eat, only eating /with/ them. "Might be we could see some of 'em later. S'too light out still. If y'get up high enough, y'can sometimes see. Maybe from the common house roof?" He pulls in even closer to Hive, helping to gentle-tug the other man up and fluffing the pillows behind him to prop him better. Then he moves to fetch the tray and set it in front of him. There are /several/ large cloth napkins included on the tray, one of which he spreads in front of Hive to catch drips. Soup in bed? Excellent. Soup /in/ the bed...less fun. << Roof -- >> There's quiet agreement here, too, but something niggles uncomfortably at the back of Hive's mind with this suggestion. He can't actually pinpoint what it /is/, though, so just pushes the thought away and sinks back against the pillows. He eyes the tray, thunking his head back against the wall without actually reaching for a bowl. Slightly more awake, now, his mind is starting to pick up just a hint of /grumble/. << Don't you have. Injured people. To tend. >> "Or maybe no roof. I can see if Jax's up t'puttin' on a light show after dark, out in the courtyard. His're better in pretty much every way. An' no loud booms." Micah picks up a spoon and puts it into Hive's bowl. See? All ready and waiting. "Been tendin' injured folk all day. S'what took me so long t'get over here. /Meant/ t'come yesterday, but gracious d'things ever keep comin' up. An' there's been no end of food t'reheat an' serve, even with so much of it cooked in advance. Did the whole breakfast this mornin', though, 'cause pre-prepared breakfast's just /sad/. An' mass pancakes an' grits ain't much more effort t'make on the spot, honestly. Eggs'n meats take some more tendin' to, but they're also...sad reheated. So sad." Sad like that spoon just waiting for you, Hive. "Didn't finish cleanin' up from that, seeemed like, an' it was lunchtime." << We went to the Clinic -- >> This seems to be an answer to Micah's explanation about things coming up yesterday. Wouldn't have been here /anyway/, maybe. Hive starts to reach for the bowl but then drops his hands (trembling, unsteady) to his sides with a small wince. Across the mental link there's a /fierce/-sharp wrench of headache as Hive wakes up more fully. << People don't. Ever stop eating. >> Behind this complaint the small thrill of delight returns, at the mention of Jax!fireworks. << We don't need tending, >> is only back to grumbly again, though. “Mmn. Yeah, I need t'pop up there sometime, too. Ain't enough hours in the day.” Micah tries not to wince at the shared headache, probably coming off something more like a wink or a tic. “Know y'don't need tendin'. That's why it took me so long t'get here. All the folks as /do/ need it. Wanted t'talk.” << Can help you eat, too. Ain't like we haven't done it before. >> Hazel eyes shift over to the bowl before looking back to Hive meaningfully. << Been cutting people open a lot. Down there. Everyone's. Running ragged. >> Hive grits his teeth in a slow grinding creak of noise, staring up at the ceiling as the headache doesn't actually /diminish/ so much as he puts up more solid mental walls to block its echoed pain out of Micah's mind. << Might be better in the long run for Jim. Flicker -- >> A shiver passes through him. << ... talk. >> He sounds a little /suspicious/ of this statement. One hand lifts again, testing, then drops back to the mattress. He nods at the bowl instead, silent acceptance of this offer of help. “I'll spend some more time that way tomorrow if I can. Tend some of the things as don't need an actual doctor. S'just been kinda busy doin' the same /here/.” Micah /does/ wince this time at the tooth-grinding. “They'll get through this. Y'got 'em help in time. They'll get through it.” As soon as the permission comes, Micah sidles over to a better angle for helping Hive eat. He scoops up a spoon of gumbo to offer. “Gave it good enough time t'cool.” Then he pauses, waiting for Hive to take the food before saying anything more. “I wanted t'see how you're doin' after, an'... Just. Thank you. For what y'did. I know prob'ly y'got fussed at for it, not thanked. An' I wanted to.” << (We/you) got them help in time. >> Hive's pronouns are getting slightly blurry, a confused indistinction between Micah and the rest of /him/. His head dips, mouth opening to accept the spoon of gumbo. Though after this he just falls into silence. Outwardly and inwardly, harder walls reflexively rising between his mind and Micah's. His brows crease, teeth creaking against each other again. His eyes narrow on Micah with a flat suspicion. "No. /You/ told me what they needed an' I made a bunch of phone calls." Micah returns the spoon to the bowl, stirring a little before presenting Hive with another spoonful. "You watch the whole thing. An' you coordinate everyone. An' you made the really hard decision that /saved/ so many of our team. An' Jax. /You/ got them back to us. So thank you." Though his tone is sincere and even a little insistent, his voice grows quieter under the suspicious look and the ongoing tooth grinding. Hive stares down at the spoon, teeth still grinding slow and gritted. << Killed a kid, >> he says in answer to this, a toneless-soft whisper. << Sweet kid. Had a sister -- somewhere. Somewhere out here. He wanted to find -- >> His eyes close, head thumping back against the wall. << Can still feel him. Rattling around in us. >> "Really hard decision," Micah reiterates weakly. "Honey, y'didn't kill 'im. From what Jax told me, he was /gonna/ die. Y'took what was gonna be another /loss/ from those /labs/ an' used it t'save people, even knowin' it wouldn't feel that way." The way he spits the word 'labs' implies he might have wanted to say something else entirely. "It's always hard for you. You have t'see it all an' feel it all. An' when everybody else is /done/ after the raid is over, you're still holdin' all the rescuees t'gether. Don't think nobody shows that the appreciation it's due." He holds the spoon still, for whenever Hive might lean into it. "Jax told me y'were gonna stop. Does that mean y'can get your treatment now?" His voice trembles a little, struggling not to sound /too/ hopeful. When Hive's eyes open again it's slow, tracking gradually down to Micah. He does lean in -- not to the spoon but to the other man, sinking in to drop his head against Micah's shoulder. << Suppose it does. >> He /doesn't/ sound hopeful. He doesn't sound anything, really, blank and flat and noncommital. << Means they're all really fucking boned. >> The spoon goes back into the bowl to wait there until Hive is ready to try again. Micah's arm changes tasks to wrap around Hive's shoulders instead. "Good. That's good. You've been puttin' it off way too long." His other hand reaches to scruff at Hive's hair. "It'll be tough without you. Like I just said, y'do a /lot/. But they'll find a way." << They'd hafta find a way if y'kept waitin' an' the cancer killed you, too. >> His chest rises and falls with a greater excursion than quiet breathing, his sigh deep but quiet. "Gonna get everyone t'gether t'figure what t'do about the chips, soon. They've gotta find a way t'turn 'em off remotely 'fore Vermont can even happen. An' once that's figured, it's one less thing you'd hafta handle, anyhow." With what small assurance that can offer. Hive stays leaning against Micah's shoulder, his eyes fixed blankly downwards. << They're just going to die. >> Somewhere underneath that, in quiet speculation over the tumor, the deeply embedded brainchip screwing up his head all to hell, the long /delay/ he's had before operating, is a faintly thoughtful consideration: << (probably) (we will) (too.) >> Thoughtful, too: << Joshua could do what we do. Mirror. Maybe. Neither of them ever want to try though. >> << No. >> "They're not. We're comin' up with a plan." Micah snugs his arm tighter around Hive's shoulders. "An' neither are you. We don't just got doctors. We got the /best/ doctors. An' several flavours of special-ability healers t'boot. We /will/ find a way t'help you, hon. After all you've done for everyone else, it's about time we can find a way t'do for you, too." << It ain't fair t'ask of 'em. Weren't really fair t'ask of /you/, an' y'came that way factory standard. >> << Should call Rasheed, >> Hive agrees slowly, fingers curling down against his bedsheets. << He'll have his hands full de-brain-chipping, though. And anyway we can't get treated till after the last of us is unchipped. >> There's just another pulse of noncommital /eh/ at the mention of finding a way to help. << Not looking for anyone to go out of their way. >> "Should. That way he'll be ready when the time comes. You'll need new scans an' everythin'. An' that can get done in the meantime." Micah's fingers curl into Hive's hair, scritching slowly against his scalp. << You might not be, but I sure as hell am. >> "We go out of our way for all kindsa things. The things we did t'get Dusk's /wings/ back, an' he technically could've lived without. Think we should do any less t'keep you alive?" << (Yes.) >> That answer comes immediately, unhesitant, sentiment rising firm in Hive's mind. He slowly struggles a little bit more upright, nodding down at the bowl like he's finally ready for more. << He couldn't have lived without. Some things just take too big a piece of you. >> "I know...that's /why/ we fought so hard for 'im. An' we /found a way/." Micah grasps the spoon again, stirring through the soup before bringing another spoonful close for Hive. << Why? >> "Why should we do less for you than for anyone else? We love you, too." << (Love you.) >> The mental sensation comes far more fiercely than the words. Hive pulls in a sudden breath at that rush of mental sensation, a small shiver running through his shoulders. He tips his head forward, closing his mouth around the bowl of the spoon and carefully pulling in the gumbo. << Because he /wanted/ his wings back. >> Micah's hand shakes a little as it returns spoon to bowl. He pauses this time, not immediately bringing more food back to Hive's lips. << Not again... >> The thought slips as his eyes squeeze closed. When he opens them, he takes up the spoon, offering more gumbo. "You really don't want t'live anymore? Even with the cancer gone?" This question summons up another muddled-uncertain jumble of Other People's Feelings, a thrill of elation at being freed, a stark terror at Too Much World to deal with; a moment of rifling does not, evidently, turn up much that Hive can claim as his /own/ genuine emotion. He takes another mouthful of gumbo, chewing it over very slowy before he sits back again. << ... not hungry, >> is all he finally says, curling an arm loosely across his stomach. << Wanted to take some of this. To Flicker. Clinic people. Can you drive? >> Another sigh answers the...lack of answer. Micah returns the spoon to the bowl yet again. "I can drive. Should go soon so I can get back before dark if we're doin' this whole light show thing." << Need t'text Jax 'bout that, too. >> He looks down at the tray. "I'll box these up an' take with us. Be nice t'have dinner with folks there." Nevermind Hive's protests of not being hungry. << Don't think Jax is going to turn down the opportunity for flashy lights and pretty colors. And some of us haven't seen fireworks in -- in a long fucking time. >> Hive grits his teeth again, sliding his legs slowly to drop over the edge of the bed and set solidly on the ground. << Yeah. You didn't eat. >> Despite barely eating himself and the fact that Micah's hands were quite occupied feeding /him/, this sounds accusatory. A bit of fond smile manages to creep its way out at that. "No, I don't doubt he'll want to. I just gotta make sure he knows where t'be an' all so we can let folks know. S'a /little/ rude t'volunteer somebody for somethin' but a /lot/ rude not t'let 'em know y'did it." Micah gathers up the tray to lift it out of Hive's way before the telepath gets out of the bed. "I'll eat when we get there. Promise. Did steal a bite of cornbread on m'way in, too." Something tightens in Hive's expression, at this, pinching in at the corners of his eyes and mouth. << Yeah. Is a little -- a lot. Rude. >> His fingers curl around one of the chains that holds his bed up, gripping it for support as he pulls himself to his feet. << Good. Should bring some extra. For sharing. >> He's slow as he reaches for his cane to start out of the room. Micah's movements stutter at that expression from Hive, his brows knitting slightly. He stops by Hive's side on his way to the door, leaning in to give him a light peck at his temple since his hands are full. Probably best not to open that discussion again just at this minute. Making his way to the door, he balances the tray over a hand and his knee to get it open, then returns the tray to both hands and holds the door with his hip, much like when he entered. "We'll take as much as can be spared. Or as much as is /left/. Folks kinda descended upon the kitchen when the food call went out. Not that there ain't plenty of things stuffed in the refrigerators in the common kitchens, too." << Yeah. Just. People in the Clinic might -- like seafood, too. >> The tight expression softens only faintly at the kiss. Hive is slow in leaving, stopping at the bathroom on the way up and leaving Micah to take care of the /food/ gathering. Since Micah can't handle peeing for him. “Of course. I'll just check an' see what's left. We can nab some of the stuff from the other kitchen if we need t'supplement an' make sure we've got enough for everybody over there.” Micah totes the tray back to the kitchen, digging about for /many/ Tupperware containers for food transport.