ArchivedLogs:Trust Me

Trust Me
Dramatis Personae Micah, Lucien	9 January 2014 Gaining some perspective.
Location <NYC> 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. It is somewhat less frigid outside than it has been recently, though the evening lack-of-sun has temperatures heading that direction once more. Regardless, Micah is still bundled up against wintertime in his Jayne hat, olive puffy coat, oversized candy corn striped scarf, and green gradient striped gloves. His clothes beneath betray a stop home before making his way to the Tessier residence: a bright royal blue V-neck sweater over a T-shirt in a lighter robin's egg shade and jeans in a decent condition, hair freshly washed and recently dried. He has a small brown paper bag with twine handles dangling from the fingers of one hand. Knockknock. Micah is arriving about the time he'd texted he would. Lucien's house is often quiet -- or /was/ often quiet. Upstairs there is some form of rather /stompy/ squealy game going on. It might involve elephants. It might be the reason Lucien is looking very slightly pained as he opens the door. He's dressed casually, jeans and a soft grey-and-green sweater; his socked feet slide a pace back against the wood floors as he pulls the door open wider for Micah. His jaw is faintly tensed, lips pressing thin as he holds out a hand and beckons. "Your phone." Micah steps just inside to allow Lucien to close the door against the chill. Unquestioning, he fishes the phone out of his pocket and hands it over before even starting in on untying boots and unwinding layers of outdoor gear. His smile is small and almost shy against cold-flushed cheeks. "Evenin', honey. Kids bein' a little rambunctious t'night?" Lucien takes the phone in one hand, pausing to lock the door. He opens up the phone, taking out its battery and handing phone and battery back separately to Micah. "A little bit." His expression is no less tense. "Why are you here?" Winter gear gathered in one arm, Micah takes the phone pieces back in the opposite hand and stuffs it into his pocket once more. "Oh. There's somethin' I'd been needin' t'tell you that I couldn't before for...assorted reasons. But also I wanted t'apologise for bein' a whiny jerk at you yesterday when y'were just tryin' t'help." He holds the small bag out as if in exchange for the disassembled phone. "Also, I interrupted a cup of tea, which is somethin' that could use an apology in its own right." Lucien does not take the bag. For a moment he eyes it, brows raising, but once he has relinquished the disassembled phone he just crosses his arms loosely over his chest, eyes lifting from the bag to Micah's face. "I have small children. I am well used to whiny. What is it that you need to tell me?" Micah sighs heavily at that. "S'pose that's fair." He drops his arm again. "I...um. It. Never gets t'the point where there's an easy way t'just say this kinda thing at people. You'd think I'd be gettin' better at it by now." He chews his lip briefly before continuing. "I think y'have a right t'know what actually happened t'Malthus. Because...of Nox an' all." The handles of the unclaimed bag move into both hands, his fingers fidgeting with them uncomfortably. Lucien answers this with silence. Eyebrows still raised, questioning, now. One hand untucks from the opposite elbow, tipping outward towards Micah in quiet invitation to continue. Micah's tongue darts out in a small pink triangle to moisten his lips. "That man...he didn't just die in some stupid accident that had nothin' t'do with him. I know it don't really make it no better, but, in some small way...he answered for what he did t'her an' how he tortured so many people an' kept almost killin' Jax an'..." A small shake of his head cuts off the words that flow with the promise of being easier than the ones he still has to say. "I killed him, Lucien. I...shot him. For what he'd done an' so he couldn't do it any more." Lucien's expression remains unchanging through all this, though as his hand returns to nestle in the crook of his elbow it curls tighter, squeezing in harder against his arm. Until these last words; they come with a gradual slow easing of tension through his posture and expression. His lips curl upwards, only slightly, though the faint crinkle to the corner of his eyes and the warmth /they/ hold is a truer smile than most he tends to wear. "Mmm." Just a soft quiet sound, though it comes out sounding like a pleased /purr/. He reaches out /now/ for the bag Micah holds, fingertips brushing against Micah's hand as he takes it. The touch comes with a fierce surge of /joy/, a sharp thrill of pleasure, a warm flutter of desire, all flooding Micah for a brief moment before he claims the bag. "-- Would you care for a drink?" Lucien's look of satisfaction at the news earns a little nod of understanding, a slight loosening of Micah's posture in relief at this reaction in comparison to the...others he's received thus far. Though there is still an undertone of guilt to the relief felt in his trembling hand when Lucien touches it. He passes over the bag with a mild hint of confusion mixing in as well, at that odd assortment of feelings delivered by the other man. "Yeah...yeah, I should...prob'ly sit. Please." The bag contains two small tins of tea. One the same brand of oolong as was served the other night, recognisable from its cinnabar label. The other is a darjeeling-assam blend in a black tin with a gold leafy pattern. "Guilt is still," Lucien murmurs, as he leads the way back towards the kitchen, "one of the most useless emotions there is. Why do you cling to it so tightly?" He pulls out a chair at the kitchen table for Micah, taking the tins out of the bag to glance at them briefly and then shelve them in the cabinet with his others. He doesn't start a kettle of water boiling but pours milk into a small saucepan to set it on the stove. Micah looks slightly dazed as he follows and collapses into the offered chair. "Thank you." His eyes track Lucien's movements through the kitchen. "I...never killed nobody before. Think my brain's still protestin' the idea of it. No matter how much I an' almost ev'rybody else knew it needed doin'." He props his chin in his hands, elbows resting on the table. "An'...just the way things happened after. Was horrible. I got home, an' Jax was there. An' I told 'im 'cause I had t'tell 'im, an' Lucien...he was /so/... He didn't even b'lieve me at first. An' then he was...so /hurt/ an' betrayed an' upset an'...almost set the apartment on fire." His eyes scrunch closed for a moment. "He said he couldn't be around me anymore. That was the last thing he said t'me 'fore he locked 'imself in 'is room an' just...cried for a really long time an' there was nothin' I could do an' /then/ the cops came an' arrested 'im for the crime /I/ committed. An' then Dusk got arrested because of it an' they're lookin' for Flicker an' the boys are a /mess/ an' Hive..." The angle of his propping changes to position his forehead in his hands instead of his chin. "It just...hurts. It was s'posed t'be /over/. It was s'posed t'be /better/. But instead it's just /that/ an' it just /hurts/ all the time." Lucien listens to all this quiet and impassively. He goes about his preparations with calm routine, dropping cardamom pods, cloves, nutmeg, into a heavy black marble mortar to grind them down into powder with quick hard motions. Crunchcrunchcrunch. He adds a bit of cinnamon stick, too. Even once Micah finishes with this explanation he is silent through a few more quick grinding motions, eventually just glancing up at Micah as though he expected the man to continue. His head tips very slightly to one side. "-- Yes, and?" Micah's head tilts, bringing hazel eyes peering up over his hands. "And? That's not enough?" he asks, voice pitched a little high with incredulity. "/I/ killed a man an' now it's made life hell for /so many/ people I love an' there's nothin' I can do about it. I keep tryin' t'help an' just messin' it up worse. An' I can't stop seein' the way Jax /looked/ at me, Luci. I think he might not...want me anymore. Even if we ever get 'im back out, I think he might just not even be able t'deal with me." "You killed a man who was in sore need of killing," Lucien murmurs. "And that video would have come out regardless. I expect Rogers had quite a long /list/ of quite dangerous mutants who very much wanted him dead. And if he did manage to live a long fruitful life you can be absolutely guaranteed that its /fruits/ would have been the bodies of your children and your loved ones and a whole large complement of other mutants besides." He finishes with his grinding, adding already-ground powdered ginger to the mix and then grinding black pepper into it. His eyes flick up from his work, sidelong towards Micah. "But, more relevantly, it is /over/. Finished. And unless you know a mutant who can rewind time," he doesn't say this like a hypothetical but like perhaps it may be an actual /possibility/, "there is nothing you can do about the past. So what good does it do you to sit around wallowing in your self-pity in the present? Has all this indulgence," his brows raise again, questioning, "/helped/ your situation in some way?" There is a great deal of slow nodding at the conclusions that Lucien voices which Micah has long since drawn himself. His questions earn a chastised-child look, however. "No," he answers quietly, reluctantly. "I just...don't know how t'make the 'guilty' go /away/. I ain't got a magic off switch. It feels like it's tryin' t'eat away at m'/organs/ or somethin'. An' the nightmares won't even let me get away from it when I'm asleep. I don't know what t'do about it any more than anythin' else." A hint of a bitter smile pulls at his lips. "So, guilty /and/ useless," he summarises with an air of apology. "Emotions are often not," Lucien allows, mildly, "easy to control. For --" His smile thins here, tightens. "-- most people. I would perhaps hold more sympathy for your predicament, though, if you did not jerk away from my attempts to ease them as though I were a leper. You feel as you do now because you have /chosen/ to, Micah." He tips the concoction of spices into the warming milk, retrieving a tin of Nilgiri tea from the cabinet afterwards to measure some of that into the pot as well. "Uselessness is a curable condition. /Electing/ to be useless I have no time for. If it has slipped your attention, while you mope there is still quite a /lot/ of work to do." Micah winces, finally just dropping his arms from the table. One forms a fist to circle over his heart in apology. "Lucien, I didn't...that wasn't what I was doin'. It really didn't have anythin' t'do with you. I just...think I really hurt someone /specifically/ 'cause they had...used an ability t'be feelin' exactly what I felt an' it got out of control. I didn't want you touchin' me when I wasn't controllin' /myself/ very well 'cause I was afraid I'd hurt you. It wasn't that I don't want you t'touch me in /general/ or that I don't want your help when you offer it or... I love you, Lucien. I was just in a particularly bad place right then an' didn't want t'hurt you. Nobody should've had t'put up with me right then." He leans forward in his chair at this last, straightening his expression somewhat. "If you've got plans, they'd almost /have/ t'go better'n mine have. What d'you want me t'do?" Lucien stirs the saucepan slowly, watching the tea and spices swirl together and then adding a few spoonfuls of sugar. "I am /quite/ in control of myself. I am perfectly capable of tolerating whatever /you/ might be feeling, when I choose to." Though the mention of not wanting to hurt him just thins his lips still further. "/I/ want very little of you, Micah. I can handle the world. You need to handle yourself. Your family was in some small place of crisis even /before/ all this. Have you /made/ progress with figuring out your eviction situation? The month is getting on. I will handle the /world/. You make sure there is a home for me to /return/ your husband to." 'Sorry,' Micah signs again. "I didn't mean t'imply that y'couldn't, honey, I know...I just. Haven't been trustin' m'self very much lately." He nods again, once more looking chastised. "Okay. Those are all good points. I should...get back on that again. S'the same law group that's been helpin' Jax as sent information around 'bout the evictions. I'll call 'em again in the mornin'." He settles back into the chair with a calmer expression, the shakiness and nervous edge to his posture and movements gone. "Thank you. I...this is why you're good for me, honey. Need y'to make me think dif'rently sometimes. Y'been...kind of an amazin' help through all of this an'...just, thank you. Love you, hon." Lucien stirs at the tea some more, and sets the wooden spoon to lie across the rim of the pan as it heats. He turns to retrieve a pair of mugs and a small strainer, setting these on the counter beside the stove and only then looking back to Micah. The thin hard tension is gone from his expression, with this last response from Micah; for a time he just studies the older man's face thoughtfully. His eyes lower as he breathes out, slowly. "Then take the time you need," he says softly, "to become a man that you trust again. In the meantime." One corner of his mouth twitches upwards. "Trust me." Micah's eyes just watch the spoon stirring the pot and Lucien's hand on it. He takes a deep breath and nods. “I think...that's the real issue. That's what I need t'be doin'. I been...flailin' 'round tryin' t'/fix/ everythin' when I ain't gotten m'self back in order yet. Should...be doin' the things that needed doin' /before/ all this. An' takin' that time.” When he nods again at this last, his head tilts up slightly to regard Lucien, eyes meeting the other man's from under his fringe of reddish lashes. “I do.” The milk starts boiling. Lucien stirs it again and switches off the stove, letting it sit while Micah speaks. He pushes away from the counter when Micah looks up to him, sliding on a potholder to pick up the pot and carefully strain the tea into the two mugs. He sets the pan in the sink, filling it with water, and carries the mugs towards the table to set one on a coaster in front of Micah. He takes the adjacent chair to Micah, settling down into it with his chair pulled slightly sideways to face the other man. "Good. Feel free to stop by anytime you need sense beaten into you. I am fairly adept at the beating." "Thank you," Micah says again when the tea is set in front of him, though with a tone and look that both say it's more than thanks for a drink. When Lucien sits, he reaches out, taking the other man's hand and brushing it against his cheek, eyes closing for a moment. While the guilt and anxiety are still /there/ in him, they are quieter, smaller. Subsumed in a renewed sense of purpose and stability, that contented feeling that comes when a great stress or weight is removed, and a pure-simple gratitude. His eyes open again and he brings the palm of Lucien's hand to his lips to place a kiss at its centre. His cheeks pick up a dusting of pink deepening to red at the first, then second references to beating. "I should come bother you more often. Y'done more for me in just a few minutes than... It's been so horrible these past two weeks. But ev'ry time I come here it's better. An' y'make me better." The calmer feelings are spun in a little whirlpool of warm-love welling up, directed at Lucien. "I love you." Lucien closes his eyes, as Micah takes his hand; he focuses to quietly let these feelings wash into him, but does not add anything to the mix. Just observes. His breath catches at the small kiss, a very /faint/ whisper of pink dusting across his own cheekbones at the spill of love. His fingertips press against Micah's cheek, and he is quiet for a long moment. His mouth curls into a smile when he opens his eyes again. "Just a few minutes. Mmm. It is not generally my /hastiness/ my companions praise me for." Micah kisses Lucien's palm again at his little blush, then kisses his fingertips as well, then nuzzles his cheek back against the other man's hand. His eyes drift closed again, the warm-love feelings continuing in a steady wash as he drinks in the touch of Lucien's fingers. "Ain't hasty," he argues gently with a deepening of his own blush at Lucien's implication. "Just effective. An' wonderful." He turns his eyes up to meet Lucien's, not giving up the hand unless it is actively moved away from him. Lucien's breathing has slowed; his eyes are slightly wider, his pupils slightly dilated in them as he looks back to Micah. He doesn't reclaim his hand, fingertips slipping down to trace against Micah's jaw and his thumb brushing along the outline of cheekbone. "There are times when -- feeling what you feel is not such a curse." Micah leans into Lucien's touch, though his hands release the other man's arm to let him control that touch as he will instead of being held to it. There is a faint warm-shiver as the fingertips trace his jaw, a contented sigh. At Lucien's words, the feelings of love and gratitude swell suddenly, a faint hint of moisture dewdrop-beading on his lowered lashes. This time Lucien says nothing. His slow quiet breaths grow shakier, and he tips his head forward, resting his forehead gently against Micah's. His eyes close, fingers still just warm against the side of Micah's face. His other hand comes up to join the first, cupping at the opposite side of Micah's face, thumb stroking very lightly beneath the other man's eye to brush away that moisture. There's a small tremble to his hands where they rest against Micah, but this fades soon. The soft shakiness of his breathing does not. When Lucien's head tips against his, Micah's breath catches, in some small part due to surprise, but also a tug of need. He brings a hand up to the back of the other man's neck, tracing gently along the spine and stroking up into his hair. The other hand moving to his face as well, increasing contact, wiping away his not-quite-tears, spikes the warm-love feeling with an additional tug of need. His breath is deeper where Lucien's is shaky, taking in the other man's scent and warmth and the heat of breath against his skin. He moves in a little closer. Lucien smells as he often does; sandalwood on his skin, a hint of clove cigarette to his clothes. A hint more spices, on his hands, from preparing the chai. One hand slides further back, fingers brushing against the soft hair at the nape of Micah's neck. His breath catches again, just briefly, at the trace of Micah's fingers against his spine. His fingers press down more firmly to the back of Micah's neck. "-- Your chai is going to get cold." Micah's arm reaches up to circle loosely around Lucien's shoulders, the fingers of his opposite hand petting at the other man's hair, intermittently sliding slowly down along the back of his neck before returning. He trembles faintly at the light touch to his own neck, then presses into the firmer press there. His lips part as if to speak, but only a faint whimper comes from them. His nose nuzzles so-softly against the other man's, a tiny movement given their closeness. "I'd have t'move away t'drink it an' I don't want to," he admits in a downy whisper. Lucien's breathing evens out. Slow and steady now, as his fingers trace against Micah's neck. His head tips forward -- just enough to brush his lips very softly against Micah's, the feather-light contact almost too fleeting to even be a kiss. "You will have to start moving again at some point." As if trading breathing patterns, when Lucien's lips brush his, Micah's breath quickens, his jaw trembling slightly now. “Not yet,” he replies in a pleading tone, another rush of warm-love coming tinged with a pull of need. He pushes forward the fraction needed to touch his lips to Lucien's again. Lucien's fingers press in harder against Micah's neck again. "Oh-h-h." It's quiet, just breathed out softly against Micah's lips. He lets the contact linger, gently, and then pulls back just a fraction of an inch to break it off, though he's still close enough the warmth of his words can be felt. "I can see how --" He stops with a deeper breath, a slow swallow pushed down his throat. "It is heady. To /feel/ -- desire." He sits back up, hands sliding down against Micah's skin to drop away as he pulls back. There's a flutter of pink dusted against his cheeks again. "You -- very badly need," he murmurs with a very small smile toying with his lips, "to have your pet returned to you." Micah whimpers again at the harder press of fingers to his neck. His arm curls tight around Lucien's shoulders, holding him closer through the gentle kiss. There is an ache pushing through the warm-love and the need-tug when Lucien pulls away, his arms granting the other man the space that he pulls back into but not releasing him completely. "I love you," Micah's whisper comes fiercer this time. His eyes open to search Lucien's, that hint of pleading in them. "I trust you. But not me. I'll let go if y'tell me to. But I don't want to." His blush is a deeper, redder answer to the other man's. Lucien swallows again, hard. His eyes drop to his hands, and one lifts to gently remove Micah's hand from the back of his neck. He does not break off contact entirely, though; his fingers lock through Micah's, lowering their joined hands to his lap. His thumb traces slowly against the back of Micah's fingers, a brief tension claiming his jaw. It fades away when he speaks, quiet. "You should drink your chai." The ache intensifies when Lucien removes his hand, though Micah resists the movement not at all. His hand in Lucien's is a little shaky at first, but squeezes back at the order. "Yessir. Thank you." The hand that had been wound around Lucien's shoulder brings his cup closer, obediently delivering it to his lips to drink. Lucien sits, other hand curled around his own cup. Not drinking. Watching Micah drink with fingers still twined through the other man's and senses drinking in the feelings that come off him. Slowly, he leans forward. One hand still in Micah's, the other moves to rest at Micah's side, slipping underneath sweater and t-shirt to trace fingers lightly against waist. His lips press, softly, to the side of Micah's neck. Micah sits with one hand pressed into Lucien's and the other cupped around his mug. He uses the pleasant scent of the tea to help calm his breathing, deep inhalations taken over the mug's brim in between steady little sips of the liquid. This concentration leads to some startlement when Lucien's hand finds his skin, contents of the mug sloshing abruptly but fortunately avoiding tea inhalation. The steadied breathing slips again into a shallower and more rapid pattern, a little gasp accompanying a flush of skin when lips meet his neck. The pulse there is also notably quickened. Micah turns wide eyes back on Lucien as he struggles to continue following the instruction to drink. He tips the mug to his lips again, tiny sip somewhat tremulous. Against Micah's skin, Lucien's lips curl into a small smile. His hand slides up further, fingers tracing slowly against Micah's side in time with another press of lips. His voice is a quietly amused murmur when he adds: "-- Try not to choke."