ArchivedLogs:What Good Is Sitting...

What Good Is Sitting...
...Alone in Your Room?
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah, Lucien	22 April 2013 Hive is in the world! Eating and talking! With Micah and Lucien. Plans happen.
Location <NYC> Home
Nestled into the heart of the Village, Home is an unobtrusive place, with an unobtrusive name to match. A nondescript storefront opens up into an equally nondescript cafe, plain tiled floors, an assortment of veneered tables with plain wooden chairs or booths with cracking vinyl benches. What it /does/ have to recommend it is the food, hearty solid breakfast and brunch served twenty-four hours a day. Known to locals and little frequented by tourists, its friendly serving staff tend to remember their regulars, giving the place a warm feel that lives up to its name. Hive is having breakfast. It is only quarter to six in the evening, that's totally breakfast-time, right? And so he is here -- well, /presumably/ he is having breakfast, this is a breakfastbrunchy place. At the moment, though, he's not eating; there's no food in front of him, just a large mug of coffee and a tall glass of orange juice. And his laptop, which he is diligently typing on, a little frowny as he looks over his email. He's dressed bland as usual, a faded pair of bluejeans, ratty sneakers, an olive green t-shirt with 'BLUE SUN' written in navy blue over a few Chinese characters. His menu is still sitting at his side, but he is currently email-focused. After-work food is the plan for Micah! He is still wearing the universal rehab. team uniform of a polo shirt (though his is brilliantly TARDIS blue) and khakis (which are blotted with red and black cast dye splotches in random places today). As is usual, he switches over in his chosen walking song of the day, the title song from ‘Cabaret’, from singing to humming when he enters the building. Where there is a Hive! Hive earns a double-take because he is /out in public/. “Hive! It’s a…you’re in the world!” Presumably Lucien's plan is also food. Perhaps he has even been working! He is dressed neatly enough, in a deep green button-down and dark slacks, a blazer draped over one arm. He is entering shortly after Micah, and picks up with Cabaret where Micah leaves off humming when the other man starts talking. He doesn't reeeeally greet either of them but he does change his path to head for Hive's table like he was /invited/. He doesn't sit, though; he circles around behind Hive to rest a hand lightly at the back of the telepath's neck. It doesn't come with any added feeling past the light weight of his fingers but it /does/ come with a silent check-up on the state of Hive's /brain/. While he hums. "No. Not," Hive disagrees, finishing his email and minimizing the browser to instead leave a few windows of building plans instead. "It's all in your head. Are you /both/ humming?" He tenses reflexively at Lucien's touch, though only briefly. The work Lucien has done on his brain is mostly still good. His mind is only unravelling SLIGHTLY. At its fringes. A little bit of confusion, a little bit of headache. He shoves the menu over towards Micah. "Sit. Eat food. You both. Did you realize that every single fucking person in this city knows each other?" He adds this with a note of amusement. Micah turns when Lucien arrives, less because of door-sounds and more because of /ongoing 'Cabaret'/! The humming man earns a beaming smile, which stays in place as Micah is summoned to Hive's table. Trottrotplunk. He obviously doesn't need to be told twice. "You're talking! Well done. And...yes, humming. Just not at the same time. It /does/ seem like our Coincidence Generator is running pretty strong in the City, it's true." Micah's fingers waggle toward Lucien. "Also, hello, Lucien!" "Hello." Lucien stops humming Cabaret to offer this greeting, quiet with a tip of his head. He doesn't sit, though, at least not yet. He frowns, slightly, focusing on quelling that pain, repairing the damage that is beginning to creep back in. "Eight million or so people and I do seem to run into the same ones a lot. Who is it this time?" Only once he is done with this check-up does he slide around to sit beside Micah. He glances, briefly, at the red and black splotches on Micah's khakis. "Is Jackson's anarchism /rubbing off/ on you?" "Jax does kinda tend to rub off." Hive shuts his laptop when the others side, a small smile on his face -- "Hey, thanks. You know, you're pretty much like magic," he says to Lucien. "Yeah, I'm talking. He sort of fixed me. What song is that?" He slides the laptop off the table, slipping it into the backpack that leans up against his chair. "I ran into a friend of yours yesterday, Micah. Some moron," he describes, so very helpfully. "You know, /you're/ cheerful. I don't want to punch you in the face, though." Micah giggles at the implication of anarchism from his /pants/. “No, that would be cast dye. It is a hazard of the profession. Just ended up kind of gothy today by /more/ coincidence.” A brow arches at the claim of Lucien fixing. “Y’can do that, Lucien? Well…you’re even handier than I thought. Thank you.” Because helping any of his friends requires his personal thanks? Maybe. “Some moron? You’re gonna have to be more specific. I’m friends with lots of morons and cheerful people.” More grinning is required at this statement. "This city is certainly not short on morons," Lucien says, dryly. His lips twitch, slightly. "I can do many things, yes. It seemed about time Hive had his mind back in good working order. You must have more patience than me," he adds, to Hive. "I have yet to meet a person I have not wanted to punch in the face now and then." "Paternalistic douchebag moron," he clarfies. "Says he's been helping in those gardens. Uhh. Corey, I think it was. You know, I don't mind optimism, but I do mind just gorram /pretending/ the world's OK and those of us who actually have to live through shit just need to embrace the power of positive thinking because thinking happy thoughts is enough to make a difference. You know what it reminded me of? Those insufferable assholes who tell black people /they/ don't /see/ race." “Wow, Lucien. I somehow have trouble imaginin’ you /actually/ punchin’ people. Not that…y’couldn’t cause somebody enough misery without punchin’. Punches just seem so terribly unsubtle.” Micah’s hand rakes through his hair in attempt to stop his mouth from getting too far ahead of him again. Speedtalking usually doesn’t go well by the end! “Oh, Corey! I…don’t think he’s a moron so much as almost pathologically mellow. He’s mostly just a nice guy. And he is extremely helpful.” Micah’s lips twist in a wry sort of smirk. “Also, y’may have been extra grumpy if you met him while you were still havin’ brain-pain. Just for perspective.” "I have punched many a person in my time," Lucien says, with a small twitch of not-quite-smile. "Sometimes situations do not call for subtle. If I get French toast, it is going to be smothered in strawberries. Do you know, you can be cranky and still /right/? People have a very strange misconception about what /nice/ really means. I would take someone like Hive any day over --" His eyes slant back to Micah, and then up and away in search of Waiter, "-- someone who thinks a smile is enough to erase a lifetime of lived experience." "Nope. This was after Lucien had straightened my head out. I was cranky because I fucking hate asshole dipshits like that, not because of crippling head-pain." Hive gestures with his coffee mug towards Lucien. "This world is seriously shitty. And lots of us have to deal with that seriously shitty heaped on us all the time. Telling me that he likes to pretend we're living in the Disney version of life and giving this sad-headshake-you-just-need-to-/believe/-in-good-people /bullshit/, he's lucky I didn't punch him except, uh," Hive's smirk is a little crooked as he holds up one even-skinnier-than-usual arm, "it /actually/ probably wouldn't have hurt much, dude is built like a fucking jock. Acts like one, too. You know, it's not that you have to be cranky if your life is shitty. Look at Jax, he's basically a /font/ of sunshine. But I doubt he'd appreciate anyone telling him that's how he /should/ be because one asshole being 'mellow' and thinking happy thoughts balances out having his eye gouged out with a scalpel. /I/ wouldn't tell /you/ how sunny-happy life with a disability is and I'm pretty glad you don't try to tell /me/ how everything'll be fine for mutants in the long run because Nice People Exist." Micah puts his hands up as if someone had just said, ‘This is a stick-up!’ like they do never. Except that his posture aside from the hands is still relaxed and his smile hasn’t gone into hiding. “Hey, I wasn’t there. Maybe he was havin’ a dumb day or somethin’. /I/ enjoy his company but then again I don’t have the same life experience as you all /and/ I kinda like everybody.” His grin widens. “Includin’ grumpy folks. As a bonus, you just /monologued out loud/, Hive! Good has come of your highly irritatin’ encounter.” Micah joins Lucien in the visual waiter-hunt. “Did we scare off the server? They’re bein’ less solicitous than usual.” "You admittedly do not have very discerning taste in friends," Lucien acknowledges. Possibly with a pointed look around the table as he says this. "It will likely find you trouble some day. Sooner rather than later, I would guess. This city is not kind to poor judgment." He locates a waiter! And lifts his hand to signal him over. For himself he orders a French toast! With strawberries and banana butter. And a side of home fries. "To be fair, there are times when Jackson could /also/ use some --" His fingers curl into a fist, and then uncurl to rest against the table. "-- correction." "Who the fuck's company don't you enjoy," Hive grumbles. "I bet you'd go out for coffee with Mr. Blarghmeltyourface if he asked." Lucien's comment about correction earns a /snort/. "Yeah. Except I bet he'd /like/ that, if you asked first. S'old dude used to leave bruises -- uh, in the good way, not the abusive-relationship way, I would've fucking killed a motherfucker who laid hands on him like /that/." His own hand scuffs through his hair and his smile is crooked and not-really-apologetic to the somewhat awkwardly smiling waiter. /He/ orders eggs Benedict. Also a side of home fries. And a refill on the coffee. "I /should/ apologize, though. To you. Not your jackass friend. Been kind of an asshole to everyone for a few weeks -- uh. Or. I guess. Longer. With that whole stealing your brain thing." "Well, admittedly, I don't always make good choices," Micah concedes with a self-deprecating chuckle. "But I do get the most interestin' company out of it." Lucien's pause and emphasis on 'correction' provokes a little shiver. "Um...no. No Meltyface guy. I think he doesn't care for me. Or my /face/." Ohgosh, food! Micah is having pancakes with /all/ the mixed berries they will hold, and orange juice, thanks! His attention returns to Hive at the apology. "No need for that. You were under some kinda /unbelievable/ stress for all of that business. An' then pain afterward. Can't expect a body to be at his best with all that goin' on." "Maybe he cares too /much/ for your face. I like to imagine that he feels when looking at faces the way Jackson feels looking at a blank canvas." Lucien's lips curl upward again, as the waiter moves off. "Or at a blank wall." His fingers lace together, against the tabletop. "Is having a difficult time an excuse to take it out on others?" "No," Hive answers Lucien, with a shake of his head. "S'not an excuse for shit. Thanks, though." His smile to Micah is crooked. "I mean, yeah, I was. But I still should've --" He shrugs his shoulder. "Shiiit, if stress was an excuse to be a dipshit most everyone I know would have /so/ many freaking get out of jail free cards. Jax thinks meltyface guy might want to kill me." He says this nonchalantly. No Big Deal. "I mean, OK, I /know/ he wants to kill me buuuuut. I'm stealing some of your pancakes, too, by the way." He slumps back in his chair, rocking it onto its back legs. "How's shit going with you?" It's a plural sort of you. He looks to both of them. “Blech, I’m gonna /not/ think about that too much,” Micah half-heartedly sticks his tongue out at Lucien for that suggestion. “Not an excuse. Just…understandable. Doesn’t Meltyface want to mess up most people? On general principle?” His fingers drum on the table, where pancakes may soon appear. “Y’can steal offa my plate if that means you’re /eatin’/ a thing. I was practically force-feedin’ you soup not that long ago.” Hive’s question earns a nod in reply. Apparently he has been ‘yes’? “Been doin’ okay, m’self. Just worryin’ about other people. You, Jax, the twins. Random kid gettin’ arrested in the park. I tend to overextend the worryin’ a bit.” His nose crinkles up as he reaches that conclusion. "Does it help?" Lucien's eyebrows lift, slightly. "Worrying about all of that. It seems a common ailment among your associates." His lips press together slightly. "I cannot imagine it is easy, having a power so -- detrimental. Still. I suppose we had already discussed that /difficult/ does not justify --" His head shakes. "You know, that answer mentioned a lot of /other/ people but did not actually tell much about your own life." "Yeeeah my appetite wasn't so hot for a while. You should be lucky you weren't around the first couple days after --" Hive shrugs. "Was kind of messy." He thumps his chair back down, then rocks it back again. "Gotta make sure there's someone worrying about you, too, you know." “Sometimes. I tend to be a more constructive worrier. Get ideas of things to do when stuff nags at me, now and then.” Micah shrugs. “Because the ‘okay’ was the me part. Work is goin’ well, if busy. Pulled a lot of hours at the garage over the weekend… The only really excitin’ things goin’ on with me are through other people right now.” And then there is /another/ shrug. “’Sides, I think that was a plural-you question, and /you/ didn’t even answer,” he teases back at Lucien. "Perhaps that is all for the best. The sort of /excitement/ that tends to be drummed up around here is --" Lucien shakes his head as their food arrives, quiet for a moment save for thanking the waiter. He unfolds his napkin into half, resting it in his lap. "Me? Well. Busy. A lot of work. But otherwise quiet." His lips curl upwards, his smile thin. "No excitement. At least not this week." "Yeah? How's /your/ work going?" Hive directs this questions to Lucien, but he looks up with a small smile and a nod to the waiter. "He probably has the right idea about excitement. -- Hey. What are you all doing tomorrow?" He squirts a liberal amount of hot sauce over his potatoes, then picks up his fork to stab at one. "I was thinking maybe we could swing by the hospital. Bring some games. You know, I didn't even know you worked in a garage. Guess you're pretty handy in a lot of ways." “See? Lots of work. Not much excitement. It’s a valid response.” Micah bounces a bit in his chair, eyes on incoming /food/ until it lands on the table. He murmurs a quick thanks to the server before grabbing at utensils and syrup. Yay, berries! “I didn’t have any specific plans, outside o’ work. I’d been talkin’ about exactly that with a couple of different folks, though,” he says of the hospital game night plan. “Jax would prob’ly be in for that, too.” A bite of berries and pancake has to be tended to before there is more speaking. “Oh, yeah, the garage thing’s just part time stuff. I mostly fill in if someone calls out. Owner’s a friend. Lets me use the bigger metal-shop type equipment there for my work, too, on account of there’s /no/ doin’ that safely in a van.” Lucien doesn't eat, just sipping at his water. "My work does not change all that much. Sex is sex." He sets his glass down, fingers tracing idly against the rim of his glass. "Garage. Metal-shop. That all sounds very --" For a moment, his smile is amused. "Butch." The question about the hospital makes his smile fade, and he shrugs a shoulder. "I can give you his room number. You can come. He will be home soon. But -- only for a few days. I am sure he would appreciate the company." "Don't need excitement. Life's mostly made of not-excitement. At least. Most people's lives." Since Lucien is not eating, Hive reaches over to cut off a slice of his toast. "I was hoping you were going to say very metal. Micah. Long hair. Headbanging. I can see it." He munches on Lucien's toast. Omnom. "That doesn't sound happy. I mean. I guess it's hard to sound /happy/ but. You should come play with us. With him." “Ohgosh, Lucien, how did you just manage to make sex sound boring?” Micah questions through giggles, between bites of pancake. It is a feat of speaking. He laughs outright at the choice of descriptors for metalworking. “How’d you /think/ I was makin’ things for work? Knittin’ uprights an’ hinges an’ stays an’ drop locks? Magickin’ broken wheelchair motors back into workin’ with pixie dust?” Wiggling of fingers is required mime for magic. “Also, there are /girls/ who work in garages, too, y’know,” he adds in a playfully conspiratorial tone. As if it were a secret. “An’ metal is fun, too! Just…no long hair on me. Looks silly.” His brow furrows at the tone the ‘coming home from the hospital’ talk takes. “That does…sound… How is he doin’?” "Well. I /imagine/ sex must not be boring or people would not pay me so highly for it," Lucien murmurs, although he does sound slightly skeptical. "/Do/ you work with pixie dust? That would make your work a /good/ deal more fascinating than mine. -- I said butch. Not /manly/." Now he /does/ start in on his food, chewing it over while he considers this last question. "Ill. He will have a few days at home, and then start another course of chemotherapy. He is -- not looking forward to it." "You seriously think sex is boring?" Hive frowns at this, and there is for a moment a curious /press/ of his mind against the glassy flat calm of Lucien's before he pulls back with a reflexive apology: "Shit, sorry, I just. Well, I mean, I guess /work/ might be boring cuz you do it all the time but what about not-work-sex?" He smirks at the mention of pixie dust. "I dunno, I wouldn't be surprised, I bet Jax has a pretty large stock of fairy dust at home." He frowns at the rest of the conversation though. Stabs at his food. /Grumps/ at his food. "Sounds shitty. Maybe we'll have to have /multiple/ game days." “Imagine?” Micah inquires offhandedly. “Hm. But, no. Sadly, I am not /actually/ magic.” He puts forth a little pout over that. Alas. “Jax /is/ kinda magic. And pretty much does /glamour/ like a fae-creature. Hee.” This is excessively amusing. Micah’s expression falls a little at ongoing Matt discussion, however. “More chemo, poor guy… At least they think he’s well enough for a brief home stay? That’s a good sign.” "Not-work-sex?" Lucien just looks blank at this question. He gives Hive a bemused look, and shakes his head as he continues to eat. "Well enough -- that is complicated, I suppose. Sometimes the medicine hurts him almost more than the disease. Sometimes. I think this will be his last round of chemotherapy, though." "I dunno, Horus seems to think you're some kinda magic. I don't know if that was the eclairs or the promises of talking-machine." Hive gives Lucien a blank look /right back/. "Uh. You know. Just for fun? With -- people you -- like?" He glances to Micah, also bemused, as if for backup on this. "His last?" He resists the urge to poke again, though he is still mentally /listening/ for all the good it will do him with Lucien's walled-off mind. "That's --" He studies Lucien's face. "-- Not good?" “The communication device will be all /kinds/ of easy to do once I can get my hands on some equipment. I have feelers out with some folks who are gettin’ new stuff, if they might wanna donate the old. Saves buyin’ computers and all the expensive programs that go on ‘em. Much easier than figurin’ out arms /and/ wings at the same time. An’ gettin’ materials for /that/ is usually an even pricier issue.” Ohgosh, Micah, stop babbling about workstuff. He glances back at Hive with that look for backup, then looks over at Lucien with a lovely new shell-pink blush across his cheeks. What he said? Micah is /so/ helpful. But! There are more Matt concerns. “Last round…either extremely good or extremely not good, dependin’ on why it’s the last.” "Pricier. Mmm. Does Horus /work/?" Lucien asks this with idle curiosity, slower now as he picks through his food. "Ah," is his quiet answer to Hive's clarification. "Right. I suppose that sort /is/ different, yes." He sips at his water, slowly. "He has been through quite a large number of treatments that have done very little," he says, quiet and calm, "he has no desire to continue." "Yeah. It's pretty different when you, uh, want it." << That -- is really sad. >> Hive doesn't really say this pitying or even all that sympathetic, just a bland sort of commentary to Micah alone, bludgeony-hard as he looks away from Lucien and back to his plate. "Tcch, who the fuck would hire Horus. He's broke as fuck. But if you," looking back to Micah, "can get together shit that'll help him, we'll dig up the funds for it." He doesn't say somehow but his kind of glum-pensive look does. It's a glum that continues, frowning, at the thought of Matt. "That. Sucks." He's not very helpful on this account. Micah tries and fails not to wince at Hive’s brainslamming talk. Ouch. He also tries /very hard/ not to have additional mind commentary on the particular subject at hand. “If I can get somethin’ basic to start off of, then work it up to what we’ll need, we’ll be good. Um…doin’ custom prostheses from scratch is usually in the /thousands of dollars/ range. Each. Seriously, give me some time to find somethin’ first. It’ll be easier since Horus is smallish. Kids an’ teens grow out of stuff an’ got nothin’ better t’do with ‘em than pass along through donor programs. I’ve just…gotta snipe somethin’ that’s vaguely appropriate first.” A few remaining berries get batted around the plate with Micah’s fork. “Sorry to hear that, Lucien. I hope this last treatment proves to be somethin’ worthwhile, but. Yeah…it does get to that point after awhile.” Lucien glances up at Micah with that wince, his eyebrows raising questioningly. "Are you alright?" It's a quiet question, and he returns to finishing up his food shortly. "It might be testament to all those treatments that I barely register thousands of dollars as a notable medical expense," he says, wryly. "If your friend needs help --" He trails off, fork tapping against his plate. "We shall see," is all he offers further on the subject of Matt. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and sends a quick text to Hive. It's an address and a room number. "Where Matt is staying," he says. "If you wanted to come by." "Guess how much help we need'll depend on what Micah can scrounge up." Hive shrugs, shifting in his seat to take out his phone as it buzzes. He forwards the information to Micah's phone. Playing telephone by TEXT has a lot less cumulative error. "Tomorrow, then." He doesn't really make an effort to be particularly cheerful about this. Just sort of bland. "Cool." Micah nods at the question. “Fine, yeah. Just one of those twinges that comes and goes.” It’s not a lie, but it’s not the full truth, either. “Pretty much all things medical have gotten prohibitively expensive for the uninsured. It’ll work out, though.” He taps his phone as it buzzes in his pocket from the new text waiting. “Thanks for the info. Tomorrow, there will be gaming. And Matt!”