ArchivedLogs:Better Than Here
| Better Than Here | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2017-06-26 "I'm taking my time." |
| Location
<NYC> Outpatient Clinic - Midtown | |
As treatment rooms go, this one isn't the /most/ sterile and unpleasant looking. It's spacious enough, a wide window lets in plenty of daylight even through the blinds, and the seating is reasonably plush, even if they all have slightly tacky vinyl coverings for ease of cleaning. In one corner there's standing work station, in another a sink and a wound care supply cabinet, and in a third a rack of magazines with a few dogeared paperback novels on a shelf beneath it. Matt's been staring at the same page in his book for quite a while, now, his eyes tracking down the lines of text somewhat erratically. His free hand fiddles endlessly with the black ring on his finger. He's wearing a soft green bamboo shirt, half-unbuttoned to allow access to his central venous catheter, khaki cargo shorts, and brown athletic sandals. Aside from the metered drip steadily flowing into the central line, he is also hooked up a vitals monitor which, though muted, makes visible his intermittently elevated heart rate. Beside Matt, Hive is slouched into his chair. Casual too, in jeans, work boots, brown blue-painted hedgehog tee, he has his laptop in his lap, fingers drumming restless and light against the keyboard without actually pressing any keys. Every so often, there's a very gentle, feather-light touch up against Matt's mind -- soft, questioning, brushing there like a quiet check-in. This time, afterwards: "You've been on that page for damn near ever." Matt blinks and looks up from Jeff Noon's /Vurt/. "It's a very interesting page," he murmurs, running his fingertips absently along the fore-edge of the book. To Hive's senses, though, the waves of body pain and nausea are plain, and more than distracting enough. "It's a very interesting /book,/" he adds, smiling wanly. "I'm taking my time." Hive's chuff, quick and hard, sounds skeptical, but the gentle flutter that ripples up against Matt's mind is warm and amused. Now he /actually/ types. pulling up a summary of the novel to skim over the synopsis. "Huh. I might have to check that one out." The hitch of his smile is quicker than Matt's. "Though I don't really understand the appeal for you here. Shit, man, VR? Where the hell would you rather /be/ right now than --" He waves a hand around the room. "This luxe-ass place." Matt closes his eyes. "You may read along with me, certainly, but my pace, as you may have noticed..." He doesn't actually finish the sentence, and indeed seems to have forgotten that he left anything unsaid at all. "This place?" His eyes scan the plain interior of the treatment room. "I suppose the ambiance leaves something to be desired, but the service is excellent. Why do you suppose I keep coming back?" "The delicious crackers and ginger ale?" Hive closes the lid of his laptop, pushing himself just a little more upright in his seat. For a moment, at least, before his weight settles back into its previous slouch. "{But really, though.}" His Quebec-accented French is just as gruff as his English. "{Where /would/ you rather go?}" Matt's mouth pulls to one side. "I might be a /bit/ spoiled on the crackers-and-ginger-ale front." His fingers fidget at the edges of his book's cover, and he does not answer at once--at least not aloud. << {/Home./} >> The thought itself isn't half as intense as the sense of longing that accompanies it, but he shakes his head. "{That's not--a /place/. There's /plenty/ of places I'd rather be, though.}" In his mind's eye now, a waterfall spills over the inner edge of a bowl-shaped hollow to fill a small, clear pool lined with rocks. Dappled sunlight filters through the dense foliage overhead, metallic dragonflies flit amongst the wildflowers underfeet, and brilliant green ferns erupt from rocky crevices watered by the cascade. Outwardly he only heaves a quiet sigh. "I suppose 'better than here' isn't a /high/ bar." << {Home is a lot of things.} >> Hive's forefinger is tracing slowly against the edges of stickers plastered over the lid of his laptop. The touch of his mind, now, is slow. Tentative, brushing light against Matt's mind and resting there without probing further -- though there's a question hovering just underneath, a wordless cautious request for permission. << We could go, >> is his quiet offer. << Somewhere better than here. >> << {It is. I am terribly demanding, I know.} Matt's eyes flutter shut, his mindscape yielding quite clearly and /deliberately/ to Hive's telepathic presence in a way not common among those without psionic abilities of their own. << {But yes, let's go. Please.} >> | |
