ArchivedLogs:Working Miracles

Working Miracles
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Mirror, Micah	31 December 2013 Working the media angle. Also, Lucien finally gets Micah to sleep. (Part of Prometheus TP and Infected TP.)
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. Lucien's house today /feels/ like winter. There's frost glazing the windows and a flurry of snow accumulating on the sills outside, but in here -- in here, there's a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace, the smell of warm gingerbread in the air, a pot of cider hot on the stove. At the moment, Lucien is curled up in Matt's old armchair, in an indulgently soft wine-coloured cashmere sweater and dark grey-blue jeans, thick grey socks on his feet. His laptop is on his lap; he's currently in the middle of an email. The kids are Around, somewhere; there's sounds from behind the closed study door that imply there is TELEVISION being watched (on the computer; Lucien has not yet caved and purchased an /actual/ television for the kids) and there's a pleasantly bubbly-warm /feel/ from upstairs hallmark of Sera's untrained raw spillover of emotions. Knock knock knock! Joshua is standing at Lucien's door. It could even actually /be/ Joshua, who knows; at some point in the last day or two he's found his own form again, the Lofts down one ferret but plus one paramedic again. He's in warm puffy black coat, soft grey scarf, jeans, heavy boots, hands rubbing briskly together against the cold. Micah is dressed extra-warm against the wintry weather. In addition to his usual outdoor wear (orange Jayne hat on his head with near matching oversized candy-corn striped scarf wound round and around his mouth and neck, thin green gradient-striped gloves mostly hidden underneath a pair of warmer minty green knit fingerless gloves with Wishbear tummy symbols on the backs, olive green puffy coat, hiking boots) he has on a forest green sweater over an ivory henley shirt and heavy denim jeans. His head tilts as he approaches the house, steps coming quicker. “Joshua? Honey, did you figure out the shape-shiftin' thing?” Eyes steadily widening, some hopeful excitement slips into his voice. Lucien is quick to answer the door, laptop closed and set aside on the coffee table as he pads towards it, unbolting the locks to let the others inside. "Good afternoon." His quiet voice is warm as he gestures them in, giving Joshua a considerably longer look-over than Micah. "I have fresh gingerbread. And mulled cider. Though I can easily find other refreshments, if others would suit better." Joshua's head turns to look over Micah, a very small smile tugging briefly at his lips. "Yes, actually," he answers, a faint thread of amusement worming its way into his voice. "But I'm not Joshua, he's just convenient. Joshua's on a truck until -- well." He shrugs a shoulder as he steps inside. "Until whenever they finish mopping drunks off the street tonight. Not a ferret anymore, though," he assures, "more than capable of performing CPR again." He stops to stoop and unlace his boots, nodding to Lucien. "Gingerbread." At first he sounds uncertain of this prospect, considering. "I like gingerbread," he finally agrees; it sounds like this decision has taken him a bit of /thought/. The glance from Joshua to Lucien and back remains perplexed until not-Joshua offers further explanation. “Oh.../oh/, hi. That's wonderful news, though, we were startin' t'worry he'd be stuck as a ferret forever, poor guy. Y'still want me...t'call y'Joshua while y'look like 'im? Or somethin' else?” Micah steps inside and one large side-step to the left, just enough to get out of the way of the door for quitting his shoes and peeling off his many layers of winter wear like the world's fluffiest onion. “Hi, Lucien, I...thanks for havin' me over. I'd've invited you to our place, but...prob'ly it's nicer /not/ havin' t'go outside an' also Homeland Security bugged the apartment. Seriously. Even /I/ feel like I sound like a conspiracy theory nut sayin' it, but Hive heard 'em doin' it an' Doug saw the guys goin' in, apparently. I /love/ homemade gingerbread. Store stuff's usually awful; I'm not sure what they /do/ to it. An' hot cider...s'kinda perfect, thanks, hon.” "That is good news. For all of you, I imagine, Joshua has always seemed --" Lucien shakes his head briefly. "Like a rather integral part of your team." He stands on hand as the others pare down their layers, relieving them of outerwear to hang it in the closet. "Bugged? Mmm. I suppose that is not surprising. Really, actually, the surprise to me would be that they had not done it /before/, given your husband's proclivities." Once the winter gear is stowed neatly away, he gestures the others into the living room but heads into the kitchen himself, to ladle up three mugs of cider and cut three thick slices of still-warm gingerbread onto plates. He takes the bread first and the cider next out to the coffee table. "Mirror," Mirror answers, with a small dip of his head, a softer private smile. "Is /my/ name, now. Your boy -- husband. He painted me my name." Once peeled down out of his layers he's left in jeans, black socks, a black turtleneck under a grey sweater. He pads out to the living room, ignoring seating to go peer into the fishtanks. He hovers a finger above the glass -- not /quite/ touching. "Do you give them much interesting to listen to?" "Exceptionally good news," Micah agrees vehemently. "S'too bad...we should've had a party for 'im. Kinda fizzled Flicker's birthday party, too." He chews at his lip, moving into the living room once directed there. "It's just so surreal." Settling into his seat, he watches Mirror for a moment. "Mirror. Nice t'/really/ meet you, then. I did see that paintin'." He blushes faintly pink at the question of interesting sounds. "Not much more'n a lot of frettin' an' cryin' an' readin' bedtime stories. An' Shane an' Hive arrangin' guard details around me 'cause apparently I won the Worst Race Traitor award...at least for this week. Though that might well change soon. Hive made a joke about lots of loud sex in the livin' room while Shane was in earshot." The blushes deepens to more of a cherry-red with those words. The aquariums have fewer fish than they did pre-zombies, some of the more delicate having not survived the frequent days of inattention, but some still remain. One dark seahorse floats over to inspect Mirror's finger, also hovering at a short distance. "Would that be so much different from the usual state of your living room?" Lucien takes his own plate of gingerbread from the coffee table, picking up his mug of cider as well and retreating with them to settle in the armchair again, plate on his lap and mug held resting on the armrest. "That -- is not a pleasant award, I heard all it earned Iolaus was an attempt at his life. Have you had similar difficulties?" "It may have been on Flicker's birthday that it happened." Mirror muses this uncertainly. "A better birthday present than his other, I guess." His finger falls gently against the glass at the seahorse's curious approach, tracing in a light circle. "It was a good painting." He turns to look towards the others, though his finger remains against the glass. "I doubt you'll be relinquishing your hold on it any time soon, not with upcoming news. Maybe you can keep it through January at least." Micah's face (and neck and ears...) finds a more scarlet shade to settle into at Lucien's teasing. "Usual state of the livin' room has more Jax," is all he answers, however, tone subdued. He reaches for a mug of cider, cradling it in his hands for the comfort of warmth. "It's not an award I'm /wantin'/; Io can have it back. He's got the resources t'handle... I've got poor Hive an' B an' Shane tryin' t'follow me around in between their /own/ school an' work schedules. Pretty much've turned off m'phone's alerts except the ones tagged t'specific phone numbers. Janine's been handlin' the influx of calls an' e-mails on my general work lines, bless her, but it's not like my personal lines are hardly any harder t'find..." Micah's head shakes, hat-tousled hair flopping with the movement. "Ain't nothin' /happened/ yet other'n lots of threats. People yellin'. Got hit with a few snowballs on the way into the van 'fore I came here. Think one of 'em had a rock in 'cause it's bruisin' pretty hard for snow through so many layers of clothes." One of his hands drifts over his right flank, brushing lightly over his ribs before moving back to the cider mug, lifting it for a sip. "But...I ain't exactly been leavin' the house much, either. Don't know what it's gonna be like startin' back at my jobs on Thursday. I almost don't wanna go into the shop if it's gonna cause Jake an' his boys trouble. We got less'n no cushion left after the zombies, though, an' with Jax in jail all we /got/ is my jobs." Lucien takes a small sip of cider but at Micah's retelling of his trip over, he gets up, moving over to the arm of Micah's seat to brush fingers lightly along the back of the other man's neck. No real /feeling/ comes with his touch, only quiet assessment and then swift efficient numbing of whatever lingering pain his side holds. "Sebastian works, non? It is not perhaps ideal but his income should at least -- help. They have not yet /charged/ Jackson with Malthus's murder, though. Or anything, besides. That is a blessing, at least, they're soon running up against the end of the period they're allowed to hold him. If they do not come up with evidence in short order, he should be on his way home, for now." Mirror turns, at all this, hand dropping to his side. He makes his way back to the coffee table, taking a seat cross-legged on the floor and starting to pinch tiny bites of gingerbread off his slice. As the others speak he mostly looks only /thoughtful/, but this shifts into a very faint wince when Lucien finishes. A small press of lips, a brief shake of head. He drops his current tiny-pinch of bread back to the plate. "-- Ah --" Like a small clearing of throat though once he's gotten that far he does not /continue/. The touch from Lucien probably has entirely more running /from/ Micah than to him. His usual high emotional output is turned up to eleven, an overwhelming ache of missing Jax and worrying about his safety, worrying about the boys' safety, even his own; guilt gnawing like a rat at all the rest not only from /killing/ Malthus, but that his doing so caused all the rest of this; anger and panic and exhaustion and fretting just sprinkled throughout haphazardly. Micah starts to lean into the touch habitually, then pulls sharply away instead. “Thank you, Lucien, but...no...y'might not want...” He just winces and shakes his head. “B does work an'...honestly makes more'n any of the rest of us. But Jax's opposed t'takin' money from 'im /ever/, an' though I've gotten 'im t'loosen up on that a bit we /can't/ let 'im just...take over as the only real income in the house. That's nothin' fair t'be puttin' on a scared sixteen-year-old.” Micah's tongue darts over his lips to moisten them before he recalls the cider and drinks from his mug again. “I'll be so...relieved if they dismiss the murder charges. Y'have no idea how much. But what about all the rest of the stuff that Malthus said in that video? Terrorist accusations'll put somebody away indefinitely. No charges, no trial, no right to face your accuser...though the accuser in this case is /dead/, anyhow.” A quick breath chuffs out from flared nostrils. “I think I need you t'Billy Flynn for me, Luci. I was thinkin' I need t'release a statement. Or go on camera...nobody reads anymore. Maybe both? We need public opinion an' outcry on /our/ side. Right now we're losin'. People are /literally/ throwin' stones.” Lucien's muscles tense faintly at the rush of emotions from Micah, but he does not pull away until Micah does. His hand drops to rest on his leg, a faint frown creasing at his brow. "Life is not exactly fair just at the moment, Micah." He gives his head a small shake. "The terrorist accusations have no proof to them, either. And he is in state custody, which means they have not decided to act on /that/ without any evidence. Unless Prometheus comes forward to offer some --" Another shake, his fingers tightening against his leg. "Razzle dazzle seems more your pet's expertise than mine but I will -- do what I can do. You should be on camera. His worried loving and very human husband. We --" He gestures to Mirror, "have started drumming up more Prometheans. Ones he saved, if public opinion --" He stops, though. Frowns, at Mirror and that small clearing of throat. Slowly, he lifts his hand, returning it to Micah's neck. "-- Mirror?" His brows lift, expectant. "Ah." Mirror says this again, looking up from his plate of gingerbread to Micah. "I have a source at --" He shakes his head, dismissing /where/ as irrelevant. "They are -- not going to press the murder question, all evidence there points to an accidental death. But on the other matter it -- seems they will be submitting evidence. Of Jax's involvement in Vector's escape. I don't know how easy it will be to get access to /what/ -- it's all classified and as soon as they claim it's in the interests of national security it's -- entirely possible even /he/ won't ever know what evidence they've brought against him. I -- {am sorry,}" he slips into a moment of Spanish, "but you'd likely find out soon enough anyway. The next reporter to come across this will likely get it out right away." "B'lieve me, I know. But /I'm/ not about t'make that any worse on my /kids/ if I can avoid it," Micah answers, eyelids fluttering a little too quickly. "No, you got this, honey. See? Already showin' me what t'do. Gatherin' up all the folks t'say what they need to where'n when it's needed. I'll...write somethin' up before I go talkin' t'anybody. Let y'look over it an' make sure the dummy's not sayin' anythin' too far off course." He manages a hint of a self-deprecating smile with this. When Lucien's hand returns voluntarily and with full knowledge of what to expect there, he /does/ lean back into it. His eyelids are starting to drift closed when Mirror reveals...other news. Expected but still pit-in-stomach, gut-knotting news. Micah just nods at this. "So, we'll need t'get this tap dance goin'. An' get t'include all the shiny details about Prometheus in it, if they wanna play that game." "Ah." Lucien just echoes this soft sound with a slow close of eyes. "They /are/." There's silence, for a time, after this. Lucien's fingers rub soft and gentle at the back of Micah's neck. "Then I suppose you should be prepared not to see your husband for some time. We shall just have to make sure that out /here/ he has more strident support than they ever could have planned for. If they have evidence do not deny it. Best not to give any /other/ names of his team but /talk/ about the rescues. Talk about what they were being rescued /from/. Be graphic. Find children he has saved. If any cry on camera all the better. Find the most harmless rescuees you have, you'll need to give lie to the notion that these labs are for anyone's /safety/. The only difference between a terrorist and a freedom fighter is having public opinion on your side." "There is also another option." Mirror murmurs this slowly down to his cider. "If they /had/ Vector, if he could speak for himself -- /he/ could clarify that it was them and not Jax who were responsible for the danger he contains." He scoops his cider into his hands, lifting it slowly. "He is responsible for more death than perhaps any one individual in American history. As long as he is out there and there is a /chance/ Jax could give them information to find him, whatever /charges/ they have against him are probably irrelevant. They won't care what he's done or not done, they'll care about finding Vector. And until they do they'll likely be --" There's a faint beat of hesitation before he continues mildly, "-- questioning him for a long time." He looks up at the other men, taking a slow sip of cider. "But from here, yes. We can make it /very/ politically risky to hold him. Very politically risky to continue supporting Prometheus. But it won't happen overnight." The blunt statement from Lucien causes Micah to tremble enough to be felt through his hand, to slosh the contents of his mug, thoughts of Jax scared and alone and fading away without adequate light and worse overwhelming him for some minutes. Mirror's mention of Vector finally draws him back to the present place and time. "We don't know where he is. An' they /can't/ know where he is. If they find 'im an' get hold of 'im again then /all/ of this has been for /nothing/. They /will/ make 'im a weapon. After what Malthus said about...selectively wipin' out humanity with Vector. It just confirmed a suspicion I'd had that they were plannin' t'use Vector t'make a bioweapon that attacks the X-gene. /That's/ actually a feasible plan. Killing off one-tenth or less of the population wouldn't have nearly the devastating effects of killin' of the other 90%. An' then they can just go collect the bodies an' experiment on 'em t'their hearts' content with no one left t'complain about it." He shivers at the thought. "If we had some way of contactin' 'im. Maybe he could release a statement. A video. But he /can't/ actually come forward. They'll just take 'im again." "Questioning." Lucien just breathes this word out quietly, a soft breath that could almost be a laugh if not for the twinge of pain in his expression. "Right." A quiet steady trickle of bolstering calm leaks out from his touch at Micah's trembling. "More like a hundredth of the population. It would be no great loss. I am sure they would quite love such a weapon." His eyes roll up towards the ceiling, fingers now lightly drumming on the back of Micah's neck. He looks from Micah to Mirror, thoughtful. "If. Mmm. You /do/ have a way of contacting him. Spencer can hone in on /people/ without knowing their location, non?" "That is what they were working on, in secret. If Vector returns to custody now it'll hardly be /secret/. They won't be able to pin the blame on anyone else if there's a fresh epidemic." Mirror takes a longer drink of cider, his brows raising. "Yes. But the man /is/ dangerous. I'd just like everyone to not forget that part." "Is that all?" Micah questions almost idly of the population correction. "I think...I sometimes forget how unusual my life really is." He shakes his head in strong denial at the mention of Spencer, at first. "/No/. We are /not/ sendin' Spence after 'im. Absolutely not." After a moment's thought, he adds, "But I don't know if...maybe he can just get a sense of where someone is an' /tell/ us without /goin'/ there. That...might be somethin' we could work out. /Maybe/. I hate bringin' a little kid into any of this..." He stares down into his mug. "He's dangerous. He was always...a little dangerous. Then they took 'im, an' made 'im world-endingly dangerous. He's only as dangerous as an /accident/ on his own. With /them/ he's as dangerous as /genocide/. I think I prefer 'im on 'is own 'til there's a better option. If there were a way t'just /contain/ 'im without givin' 'im over t'people who're gonna abuse his ability, I'm sure /he'd/ even be all for that. Believe me...I think they'd use it whether they thought there might be blame or not. 'Cause who would bother t'fuss too hard once all the people with X-genes are gone? Not near enough of us for anyone t'/care/." "Micah," Lucien starts, mildly, at Micah's strong protest. But then subsides, waiting for Micah to finish with a return to slow rubbing at the back of the other man's neck. After this, though, he only lifts his other hand, tipping his fingers outward. Towards Mirror. Or -- towards Mirror in Joshua form. Mirror's lips twitch up briefly, though it's a wry kind of smile. He leans back, resting one hand against the floor, cider still held in the other. "You know, anyone who they find with any connection to Vector at all is likely to disappear for a very long time." Which draws a slooow exhale from him, before he knocks back half his cider in a quick gulp. "Which I guess means don't get found. -- Sadly, nearly all facilities capable of containing the kinds of plagues he could unleash are in government hands. Or -- private research labs that I suspect wouldn't be any more ethical. In /this/ country, at least. Do we know any countries we trust more?" Though he's already shaking his head in negation at this. "Alright. I'll add Vector to my list of testimonials, then. This -- should get interesting." “Well, then they'll have an /awful/ lot of disappearin' t'do, won't they.” Micah takes another swallow of his cider, as well, against the cottony dryness of his mouth. “We'll see. I'll put t'gether a plan t'contact 'im...not usin' any electronic means an' preferably with no one seein' 'im in person for 'em t'be able t'track us to 'im. Prob'ly get 'im t'change locations again after so's we don't know where he is again.” He snorts a little bitterly at the question of trustworthy countries, not supplying any answers. “S'already been entirely too interestin' for my taste. Guess I should...talk t'Spence /and/ start writin'...a thing. When I get home.” He leans forward, depositing his mug on the table so that he can cradle his forehead tiredly in his hands. Lucien slides off his perch, standing behind Micah's seat so that he can use both hands, now, to rub at Micah's neck and shoulders. "Micah, you needn't involve Spencer at all," he clarifies more directly. "And probably shouldn't, eight year olds are not known for their discretion. Remember who we're sitting here with." He nods towards Joshua!Mirror again. "Take a few moments to actually -- finish your cider. Eat. /Then/ go prepare your statement." "Anything you can do --" Mirror starts here in light agreement, pausing as his whole form shifts and distorts, settling down again in perfect mimicry of Lucien, Joshua's clothing just a little too short in the arms, just a little too tight in the broader chest and shoulders, now. "-- I can do, ah. Slightly less adroitly, really," is not /quite/ how the song finishes, but it's how /he/ finishes it, now in Lucien's soft Quebecois accent. Another warping shift puts his clothing a little too /big/, now, draping over Micah's smaller frame. "Don't know how many'a us y'all keep in touch with," he continues now easily, "but anyone y'send my way, I'll get 'em heard." Lucien's hands will find Micah's muscles a terrible tight mess of worry-knots. It still takes him quite a while to finally catch on to the others' meaning. "Oh. Oh...I didn't... I just. Haven't really slept. In so many days. I think my brain cells are startin' t'quit in protest. But, thank you...for offerin' assistance. Think we're gonna want somebody with decent-range telepathy t'make the actual contact an' give instructions, too, but those ain't exactly in as short supply as you'd expect." He doesn't move out of his slump at the instruction to eat and drink, but at least spares the items on the table a glance. "Ain't been doin'...much of that, either," he admits. "Just so...tired." Lucien's fingers press in more firmly in a sudden squeeze, eyes widening faintly at Mirror's shifting. "That," he breathes out. "Ah. I knew that you -- but seeing it is another thing entirely." A faintly disorienting Other Thing, judging by his small squeeze of eyes. His fingers return to kneading soon, seeking out knots to rub firmly at them with hands clearly well practiced at this. "Come upstairs with me. I can help you sleep, and restfully, too. Have a nap. Join my family for dinner tonight. /Then/ record your statement, once you have a little more brainpower to do so." Mirror's eyes are locking in on Micah, hand lifting to his temple to press fingers there. Then scuff them through his hair, leaving it in tousled disarray. He gives the other Micah a /long/ rather wide-eyed look, but then somewhat /abruptly/ reverts back to Joshua. He has to uncross his legs and scoot back slightly in order to put his sock back /on/, where it was left on the floor when taking Micah's form left it unoccupied. He pushes himself to his feet, draining the rest of his cider. "Along with augmentation to physical capacities -- increased strength, better reflexes -- psionic abilities seem to be up among the most common expressions of the X-gene. Also pretty much the most hated." His chin lifts in a nod to the others. "Get some rest. I'll be home tonight." "Thank you, Mirror. Please be safe gettin' home." Micah unslumps just enough to wave with one hand before collapsing back against both again. "Luci, honey, I shouldn't... If I'm not home then one of the boys has gotta stay with Spence an' I'm sure they'll worry that I'm out on my own an'..." But he's not /moving/, and certainly tempted. Though something is nagging that he doesn't really deserve being fussed over. "If y'could pull that off you'd be /some/ kind of miracle worker." "{Until later, Mirror.}" Lucien returns the man's nod briefly, before his attention shifts back to Micah. "I shall bring your boys here for dinner, too, then. You need rest, Micah. You will be of no use to anyone if you do not care for yourself." He slips around in front of Micah, fingers trailing against the other man's neck but then reaching to take Micah's hand. "Come." Though quiet, there's something firm about his tone that does not brook much argument. Mirror exhales a sharper laugh. "Good luck feeding them." He disappears out through the front, taking a moment to put back on all his layers. The door opens and shuts quietly as he lets himself out. “That's an awful lot t'ask, I couldn't put you out...I mean... It's a holiday an' I'm sure y'have pl--” The pull at his hand finally brings Micah's eyes up from where his face was buried in his hands. Said eyes widen a little, that tone kicking a reflexive, “Yessir,” through his lips. He stands to follow. "I have plans. They are for after dinner. In the hours before then, you are mine." Lucien's hand curls more firmly around Micah's, a slow wash of relaxing calm rippling from his touch. Micah's tone puts a very brief small smile on Lucien's lips -- largely hidden, as he turns to lead Micah up to bed. Micah's eyes widen further at /that/ information, tension releasing somewhat with the externally-enforced calm. “Yessir,” he repeats, cheeks reddening steadily as he trails obediently behind. His hand squeezes back against Lucien's. “Thank you.” Lucien is quiet as he leads Micah up to the bedroom, shutting the door against the voices of the children down the hall. The calm continues from his touch until he releases Micah's hand. He lifts his hand, tracing fingertips lightly against Micah's jaw and studying the other man's face briefly. He turns aside, gesturing to the bed. "Lie down. And take off your shirt." He's taking out a small tin from the nightstand, opening it up to tip out a creamy pale massage bar into his hands, the faint smell of lavender coming from it. "I have miracles to work." Micah meets Lucien's eyes somewhat shyly at the tip of his chin, though this likely has more to do with the fact that his face was already red than any actual timidness. He nods immediately at the instructions, though follows them in reverse order. Slipping out of first the sweater, then the undershirt, reveals a baseball-sized rough oval of nicely purpling skin over the right side of his ribcage. He does spare a glance and a small, almost disapproving frown at the bruise before sitting on the side of the bed, swinging his legs up, and scooting a little away from the edge. He brings the shirts along with him, folding them neatly and placing them on the opposite side of the bed for the sake of tidiness in someone else's room. "Mmm. Get --" Lucien gestures towards Micah's heavy jeans. "-- comfortable. Whatever is your preference for sleep. And lie on your stomach." Lucien looks at the bruise a little disapprovingly, as well. He sits down on the edge of the bed, tracing fingers gently against the edges of the bruise; probably in other circumstances this would be annoyingly painful, but Lucien's numbing touch comes with no additional pain on the bruised skin. He pushes up the sleeves of his sweater to bare his arms to the elbows, starting to warm the massage bar and melt some of it between rubbing hands. "Oh...I didn't bring...usually there are pajamas." Micah blushes a little brighter with this, the colour picking up along the tops of his shoulders and his chest visible without a shirt on. "But, um...just a minute. It's not good to lay in one spot a long time with this on." He taps his left knee indicatively, then goes about removing the jeans and folding them along with his shirts, adding his socks to the pile for good measure. As advertised, removing the socket and its liner takes a bit more time, yet another item added to the...rather large pile of items that Micah is no longer wearing, retaining only a pair of simple jade-green boxers. "Apologies...gettin' 'undressed' s'a bit more of a process for me'n most people." He slips back onto the bed, laying on his stomach as directed. "Take your time," Lucien murmurs, watching this process with a quiet sort of interest. "No apologies needed." A very brief smile twitches at his lips. "You do not take nearly as long at that as getting Matt ready for bed did, by the end." He rubs the massage bar between his hands a moment longer, then returns it to its tin. He slips onto the bed as well, moving to straddle Micah. His knees rest lightly by Micah's hips, hands warm and slick with the cocoa butter-olive oil blend of the bar. He presses his palms gently to the small of Micah's back, sliding up from there to run slow and gentle over his skin. His hands start working when they get up by Micah's shoulders, a firm gentle press to start working out the worry-knotted muscles. There's little that comes from his touch, for a while, except the warmth of skin on skin, the slow firm pressure of working at Micah's shoulders and back, initially just letting these things stand on their own by way of relaxing. "Oh...s'just...a reflex, I guess. Most folks are always in such a hurry, I get used t'just acknowledgin' I'm slower. 'Specially since I moved up here." Micah rests a hand on Lucien's arm briefly at the mention of Matt. "Y'took good care of him, honey. Y'all were...it was good y'had each other." He leaves off at this, so that Lucien can choose whether or not he wishes to continue discussing that topic. Relaxing is...slow to come, though the horrible levels of tension do ease off a bit with contact. He still feels like a person holding their breath or waiting for some sudden shock to come. "I am rarely in a hurry. A benefit, I suppose, of making my own schedule. I do not care for rush. The work I do --" Lucien gives his head a small shake. His hands slide down Micah's back, intermittently stroking, intermittently kneading. "Is far better unhurried." A slow steady wash of calm, soothing, relaxing, now starts to flow from his touch, rubbing away to ease at tension as deftly as his hands do. In place of the more teasing pleasure that often comes with his warmer touches, here there's only a soft soporific whisper, mild for the moment adding a sleepier note to the touch. "It was good," he finally murmurs as he works, after a long enough pause that it might have seemed he'd elected to move on from this topic. "To have him. I --" His voice drops softer, almost like he doesn't /like/ admitting such things, "-- needed him, I think. Far more than he did me." “S'a good point,” Micah concedes with the smallest hint of a laugh. The added influence from Lucien's ability helps to tug at some of the wound-up anxiety and worry and intense guilt that have built up over the past week. He is quiet for some time as a result. “Might be true. If only 'cause he was more willin' t'need /other/ people. But y'were good for 'im, honey. Anybody could see that.” The muscles in his arm twitch, clearly wanting to offer some form of comforting touch or hug but realising how /awkward/ that would be from his position. His fingers sort of make do with brushing against the outside of his leg where it is in reach. “It's okay t'need people. S'kinda what people /do/.” As promised, Lucien is in no hurry. At length he reaches for the massage bar to rub it briefly between his hands again, and continue, hand sliding up to Micah's neck to rub there as well. The quiet push of calm comfort climbs, slowly gently firmer the longer he works at Micah's tense muscles. "With that one notable exception, it has never been what /I/ do." There's a wry note to Lucien's tone as he adds, "-- Though I have never strained overly hard to be people, either." Micah takes advantage of the proximity of Lucien's hand on his shoulder to turn his head, nuzzling his cheek against it gently. "Just 'cause y'don't doesn't mean y'can't, though." He pulls a bit of a face at the linguistic tangle /that/ thought became. "Does it bother you? When other people need you?" Lucien's work at releasing the tension in his neck and shoulders, where he's been holding the worst of it, meets with some success and a soft whimper, though it doesn't sound like it comes from physical pain. "Bother me?" Lucien traces a thumb lightly against Micah's cheek before returning to just steady firm massaging through neck and shoulders. There's no further /increase/ in the feelings coming from his touch, just a persistent flow of soothing warmth that meshes well with warm hands and the scent of lavender. "I make my entire living off of it. Need me, want me -- outside of the true necessities of life it is a semantic distinction." His head dips, and he brushes a very light kiss just between where his hands work, touched gently to the base of Micah's neck. "You seem rather as though you need it, though. Being – needed." "Not...that kinda need. I mean, /really/ need. S'far more'n /semantics/ at that point. Like with Matt." Micah shivers at the kiss. "I don't guess as it's...that part that I really need. I do...need /connection/ with people. A whole lot. Don't do so well on my own. An' that connection's certainly a deeper thing when it goes both ways." He chews on his lip thoughtfully. "An' I like bein' helpful. But I don't...think it's the 'needed' part that I /need/ as much, exactly." After adequate time spent musing on his own thoughts, he returns to addressing Lucien. "I just...sometimes it seems like it might make you uncomfortable a little. When needin' happens at you. I mean the...really needin'. The connection-needin', not the kind that /usually/ gets tossed at you." "Semantics," Lucien insists. "I say I needed Matt, but he is dead, and I am still here living. I /need/ food. I /need/ oxygen. I /wanted/ Matt. You want something hard enough, it can feel very like necessity. In most cases, it is not." For a moment his fingers trail, slow in a light scrape of nails, down along Micah's spine, but shortly after this he returns to his massage. "Mmm. I wouldn't know. Save that one notable exception," he says with a faint lilt of amusement, "/being/ needed has not been a habit of mine, either, I suppose." “Just 'cause y'/can/ live without somethin' don't mean y'don't need it,” Micah returns, lightly. “I guess maybe it is semantics after awhile. Y'got a real /narrow/ definition is all...I'm usin' a more open one.” He's distracted for a moment by that tickling of nails, his skin shivering again down along the path they travel. At Lucien's last statement, he moves to turn over onto his back, so that he can look up at the other man. “You really think no one else needs you? Not even Sera an' Gaetan an' Desi?” he asks whether the manoeuvre is successful or not. "Gaetan cannot stand me," Lucien says with dry amusement in his tone. "And when I die they will all live just fine." He doesn't exactly withdraw his hands when Micah turns over, letting his palms slide softly against skin with the shift of movement. Less massage and more slow caressing stroke, now, his hands slide up Micah's stomach and over his chest. The calm warmth his ability exudes grows heavier, a thicker blanketing of soft-soothing. Sleepy-heavy in the lull that starts to pull at Micah's mind. "What is your definition of need, then, if not something that you cannot survive without?" “Hm, that's what he /wants/ you t'think,” Micah says of Gaetan, with a twitch of smile of his own. “An' they wouldn't. Be 'just fine'. They'd live, sure. But they wouldn't be 'just fine'.” He wriggles just a little under the soft touches, replies coming slow through molasses-thick thoughts, made warm and heavy by the soothing-sleepy push. “Not that you'll die without it. But that you'll change. That y'don't get t'be exactly the same /you/ if it gets taken away. S'the things that make life better an' the things that just get t'be part of you an' you're not the same when they're gone. That's needin'.” His eyes go half-lidded but don't close. “S'like Shane...keeps tellin' me lately /they/ need me. So I can't...get m'self arrested 'cause then /I'll/ be gone an' they need me an' they need Jax an' they're afraid Jax is gonna be gone. Sure, they'd prob'ly /live/ without either of us...even both of us. But...wouldn't be the same no more.” "Were you planning to get yourself arrested, for some reason? I think Jackson would far prefer you not keep him company in that manner." Lucien's hands keep moving, slow and gentle in now softly-pressured strokes over Micah's chest. "One day to the next, we are never the same /us/. All our experiences change us." His voice has dropped to a soft murmur, bright green eyes focused down on Micah's half-lidded ones. "What is it that you need in your life, then?" "Was." Micah tenses again, somewhat, brow furrowing. "Don't think it'd help anymore, though. Since they changed the charges. Might even...make it worse." His teeth worry his lip for a moment, before his easily-distracted thoughts slosh over into the more immediate questions being posed. "S'what I mean. The things y'need can even...change over time. Year ago the boys didn't need me. I didn't need them. Now I do. Need...family. Friends. Closeness. Good work t'do. Most of the rest's kinda more negotiable, I guess." Lazily, he plucks at one of Lucien's wrists, bringing the hand to his mouth to kiss the fingertips. "Need you. Makin' me think diff'rently sometimes. S'good for me. Want t'be good for you, too. Love you. Even if you don't think y'can give it back." "How could you being in jail as well possibly have helped anything." It seems like an academic question, though; Lucien doesn't actually wait for it to be answered before moving on to the next. "Your tastes," he murmurs when Micah says he loves him, "are not very discriminating." His fingertips curl in against Micah's cheek, his other hand rubbing slow circles against Micah's chest. He cups Micah's face, thumb slowly brushing down along a cheekbone. He doesn't give Micah an /enormous/ amount of leeway for response, either. The soft blanketing heavy weight bears down more warmly, pulling Micah's thoughts down into sleep. "Not 'as well'. 'Stead of. S'my fault in the first place." Micah...tries to argue, but it doesn't come across with any of the /weight/ of an argument. "S'developed taste. Acquired. Stick around long enough t'find the good parts. Most people don't...bother. Miss out." He smiles a faint sleepy-smile at nothing in particular, patting his fingertips against Lucien's hand on his face just because it's /there/. His head turns slightly to half-brush a kiss against the same hand before his eyes drift closed and his breathing slows, his fingers curling loosely against Lucien's. Lucien shifts off of his straddling position as Micah drifts off to sleep. His hands stay, one just resting on Micah's chest, now, and the other cupping at the side of his face, thumb stroking gently against cheek as he pulls Micah's mind down more firmly into sleep. Even in sleep the soft feelings do not /stop/, more /aggressive/ now than before, actually, in the heavy swell of calm-warm-/happy/; in sleep he does not bother so much with subtle, not particularly concerned about the uncomfortable disorientation that heavily skewed feelings bring when /awake/, just crushing tension and worry and stress away under a heavy press of comforting /good/. Eventually, his hands pull away. He slides off the bed, slipping an arm under Micah gently to half-lift the other man so that he can pull the sheets (rich red in colour and an indulgently soft bamboo fabric in make) down, tuck Micah warmly beneath them, nestle his head onto the pillow. His fingers brush gently against Micah's forehead, pushing back hair. Fingertips linger against Micah's cheek a long moment, the heavy cocktail of /pleasant/ feelings leaving little room, for now, for nightmares to creep in. The breath he draws in is slow, when he finally pulls back, eyes lingering on Micah's face until he turns aside, to shut the light off and leave Micah to his rest.