ArchivedLogs:Staying Out of Trouble

Staying Out of Trouble
Dramatis Personae Tag, Micah
In Absentia	26 November 2013 (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. The heavy clouds hanging over the city make mid-day look and feel like early morning. Cold rain taps on the windows periodically, but even this noise seems hushed. There is not a lot of commotion in Lighthaus, though the shadow that moves back and forth across the rainbow curtains of the loft area suggest that Tag is awake and getting dressed in the most inefficient way imaginable. At length he climbs down the ladder and creeps into the kitchen to get a drink of water. Faucet, hands, mouth. He wears at least three long-sleeve shirts, though the outermost layer is so torn that it barely qualifies, huge expanses of blue-and-purple tie-dye visible through gaps in the thin black fabric. His long twill skirt is also (mostly) black, but looks like it was partly dipped in bleach and subsequently dyed bright magenta from the hem up. His hair is a mop of silvery white that falls to his shoulders and obscures most of his face. Padding barefeet back into the living room, he stops in front of the window and stares out at the gray city. The keys rattle in the door before it opens, admitting one Micah with a grocery handcart laden with full reusable shopping bags. He has been making daily trips to the Lofts with what supplies can be carried by one person, distributing these between three or four apartments for further apportioning. The door thuds closed lightly behind him and he throws the lock perfunctorily before removing his boots in a similar habitual fashion. His olive green jacket, orange Jayne hat, and striped gloves all find their usual spots near the door. Remaining is a Batsignal hoodie worn unzipped over a Reading Rainbow-dash T-shirt and appropriately rainbow-patched jeans. Micah peers into the kitchen with a smile appearing on his face as he sees Tag. “Hey, hon. Feel like I hardly see you anymore. How are things with you?” He pushes the cart up to the counter and starts unloading bags up onto it. Tag doesn’t jump when the door opens. He /ducks/ and peers out from behind the counter, then immediately relaxes. Fight-or-flight mode canceled. Micah gets a sleepy smile and a tight hug by way of greeting. “Been back out working. Just the courier thing, but a /lot/ more of it now than before, somehow?” He shrugs, swiping hair behind his ears to get it out of his face. “Get paid in cash mostly, ‘cept the one guy who gives me cigarettes, and the one who didn’t pay me at all.” Tag lends his hands, slender and more covered in bandages than usual, to the unloading of supplies. “You OK? I mean...not just un-sick-ified…” A curtain of white hair has already worked itself free as if actively trying to cover the harrowed look on his face. “Ohgosh, honey, s--” Micah ends the sentence with trailing sibilance, instead balling his right hand in a loose fist and rubbing it in a circle over his heart. “I didn’t think...on account of the dead folks ain’t figurin’ out keys so much.” He still looks sheepish, through his return-hug. “I can only imagine you’d have more work now that people are gettin’ back. Travel’s still a bit perilous an’ slow. An’ mail service ain’t been restored that I know of.” Micah sets a bag of produce near the refrigerator, unloading its contents to the cold storage. “I’m good. All cured up, thanks t’the team at the Clinic. Mostly been runnin’ supplies for here, the Clinic, an’ the kids’ school. Assistin’ with food prep. Checkin’ up with Hive an’ Lucien. Doin’ some huntin’ an’ fishin’ up at the school t’supplement protein.” He frowns slightly. “Am startin’ t’worry about bein’ out of work for so long. An’ not knowin’ when I’ll be able t’get back to it, either. Gonna start repairs on the van as soon as possible so I can get to it, but… Non-essential medical programs have been closed down. An’ most of my patients either got out or...prob’ly ain’t in a good way now.” “S’not your fault, I’m just /jumpy/, you know?” Tag looks down at his hands. “Wasn’t too worried about the /dead/ folks. Here, anyhow.” He rises up onto tiptoes to peer into one of the bags. “I’m glad you’re better, I mean not just /better/ but…” This just trails off into a worried lip-chewing. “I haven’t seen Hive since he went to the Clinic.” Then he is moving again, squeezing past Micah to stock the cupboard. “Oh no! Your patients, I guess...I hope they got out. It’s gonna be a long time figuring out who’s gone where. And whether they’re coming back.” He pauses as if he has found something tremendously interesting on the counter in front of him. “You’ll find work. More work I mean. I thought I never would, and you’re /way/ more competent than I am.” The smile he flashes Micah was probably meant to be playful, but it looks forced. “Y’been gettin’ trouble here? Nobody’s been causin’ problems, have they?” Micah’s brows knit, concern apparent as he turns from closing the refrigerator. “Lucien’s doin’ better, slowly. His brain kinda has an auto-repair settin’, though. Hive is...not changin’ much. I really think we’re gonna need some special abilities in healin’ or psionics of some sort t’get ‘im back. Regular medicine’s been givin’ us no kinda headway. Keepin’ ‘im fed an’ comfortable, mostly.” He sighs heavily between worry over Hive and...everyone else. “This thing was bad enough as a flu epidemic, the number of my kiddos as have respiratory compromise. But whoever didn’t get /out/? This ain’t been a kind turn of events for folks with limited mobility.” Tag’s smile earns one in return from Micah, though it is somewhat feeble. “I know work’ll start back up...eventually. Prob’ly more /new/ people needin’ my services after the whole zombie uprisin’ thing, unfortunately. We just ain’t got a whole lotta cushion around here, an’ with me bein’ full outta work an’ Jax only bein’ able t’work at the school an’ the Clinic… I’m hopin’ maybe the landlord will be feelin’ /lenient/ about the timin’ of rent this month, at least.” “Nah, no trouble on my watch, anyhow.” Tag shakes his head, and all the hair comes tumbling loose. “But out there? Some people get kinda keen on you if you look alone, vulnerable and got a big bag strapped across your back.” He finally fishes an elastic from his pocket and ties the hair back. “How’s he s’posed to fix cars if he’s uncon--OH, /auto-repair/ like it fixes itself, not.../auto/ repair.” Tag flushes a little. “Sor--” His hands fly up to cover his mouth, eyes wide. “{Dway bu chi.} Chinese upbringing, makes you apologize a /lot./” He gives a helpless shrug and pulls Micah to him. This hug is a bit less glad-to-see-you and a bit more /fierce./ “We’ll be OK.” Tag sounds determined about this, by comparison to what he says next. “Can I go with you sometime, to see Hive? I dunno if they’ll let me visit him cuz...I mean, I got ID now, but I dunno if there’s a list or what…” “No, I know it’s been a mess out there. Just wanted to make sure it wasn’t spillin’ over in here.” Micah’s concerned face is softened somewhat by a chuckle at Tag’s confusion. “Self, yeah. An’ that /one word/ has been the hardest thing not t’be able t’say, I swear.” He squeezes the smaller man back tightly, even letting his forehead drift forward to rest on Tag’s shoulder for a moment. “Ohgosh, I don’t even know what the visitor rules are. I’m in on all sorts of...Jax workin’ security there an’ I’m s’posed t’do contract work once they actually open an’ then I was bein’ a guinea pig for so long that I just think they didn’t even worry about me comin’ back with supplies or visitin’.” He raises his head, nose crinkled. “That was a longer answer than I intended. I’ll just...ask Jax. He /should/ know, with bein’ on the security team.” Tag nods jerkily against Micah’s chest, silky white hair already working itself free from the sloppy pony tail he had made. “Yeah, ask Jax, just, I mean, I never look like my ID. Unless, I could, I just never think to, and you can’t just, do that /in front of/ people. Though I guess the Clinic people--” The rambling ends in a choked-back sob. “S--ugh, gorram it! Please don’t be upset. I’m just. You got enough stuff.” His shoulders shake and he sniffles. Not-crying has officially degenerated into crying. “I’m ssssso /tired/ of, feeling, helpless.” “Changin’ your appearance right in front of an ID checkpoint’s like t’make anyone suspicious, mutant-friendly or no. I’d go with askin’ Jax. There’s been a fair number of people in t’visit the sick folks. I’m sure it’d be okay. ‘Specially if one of us is with you.” Micah wraps one arm tighter around Tag’s shoulders, the other reaching up to pet at his hair and collect the hair tie before it falls out on its own. “Honey, why would I be upset? You think I’m upset with you? /You’ve/ got every right t’be stressed by all of this...this.” He rocks the other man, just slightly. “You wanna go sit? Or we can stay here. Just let me know what’s best.” “I don’t think that, I mean, I didn’t want you to feel bad cuz I’m a mess.” Tag expels a long, shaky breath and relaxes a little. “No, s’ok, we gotta…” He flails one arm in the general direction of groceries. “...put stuff away.” But then his shoulders hunch up and start hitching again. “S’not like I’m the only one, people had it way worse than I did, I wasn’t even…” Tears soak into Micah’s clothes. “Sor--ugh. Maybe...should siddown.” Sniffle. “Also, find tissues.” “Everybody’s a mess, hon. Every/thing/ is a mess. Seems like a reasonable reaction.” Micah pats at Tag’s back reassuringly, shaking his head at the worry over unpacking. “Cold stuff’s already in the fridge. Ain’t any hurry on the rest of it.” A hand on either shoulder, Micah gently propels Tag over to the couch. “Just because other people have it worse don’t mean y’don’t have it bad. An’ other people havin’ it worse is upsettin’ on its own.” A light push on the shoulders indicates that Tag should sit once they reach the living room. Micah snags a box of tissues from an end table before taking his own seat. Tag seems just a little calmer now, curled into a ball of black and white and rainbow. He accepts the tissues and blows his nose. “I know, I just…” One shaking hand brushes hair out of his face. “It’s like, I’m stronger than this. Need to be. ‘Cuz everything /is/ frakked, and I wanna help.” Leaning against Micah’s chest, he subsides a bit more, breathing evenly. “Or, at least, I wanna not be a burden. Shane had to pull my ass out of the fire. Coulda gotten him killed.” He closes his eyes and hugs his knees, as if he would defy physics to occupy less space than he already does. “Ain’t bein’ weak t’acknowledge the world is upsettin’ when it’s upsettin’, honey. It’s not like you’re spendin’ every wakin’ minute cryin’. It’s okay t’do sometimes.” Micah reaches over, his fingers tidying Tag’s hair back into place. “The best thing y’can do in this kinda situation is not get yourself in more trouble, really. I sure as anythin’ wasn’t gonna run around huntin’ zombies ‘cause I’m just not good at it. Likely get me or somebody else in trouble’s all. So I borrow the teleportin’ ferret-Joshua an’ /shop/ out where it’s safe. Not exactly heroic, but it gets supplies where they’re needed. An’ there’s no shame gettin’ saved by the twins; they’re kinda crazy-good fighters. Had ‘em protectin’ /me/ t’go out huntin’ up at the school. Seems a little backwards, but it makes sense given our skill sets.” He continues stroking at Tag’s hair even when it doesn’t need to be straightened back anymore. “Honestly, you just goin’ t’/work/ s’a huge help the way things’ve been. Like I said...s’gonna be tight ‘round here for a /minute/.” Tag nods as Micah speaks, the movement quick and small. “Yeah, we’re not exactly...I mean, I learned wu-shu with my sister way back, but in a /real/ fight I’m kinda frakked, just...paint over everything and hope they can’t find me by sound or whatever.” A violent shudder runs through him. “There was this...this girl. Little girl. Except she was, you know... An’ I /know/ she was, but then I had to…” Fresh tears well up, and he mops his face with one torn sleeve. “I’m tryin’ not to think what coulda happened to Mom and my sibs. Couldn’t get a holda them. Know I’m not s’pose to even try cuz Dad might still be out there but frak it the world almost ended and…” He sucks in a deep breath and lets it back out. “You’re right, it’s just...it feels so we--wrong. Surreal. But I guess /rent’s/ real enough.” He turns and buries his face in Micah’s shoulder. “I’ll do my best.” With his conversation partner remaining a little Tag-ball in a corner of the couch, Micah finally just scoots his way over to meet up with him, so that Tag is balled up against his side. His hand moves from fussing at the other man's hair to petting at his back in slow, rhythmic circles. “Some folks just ain't fighters. S'why we're social animals. Work best in packs. We do the things that the fighters can't do for themselves an' the fighters keep scary things from killin' us.” He winces slightly at the description of the girl. “It's been hard, those things bein' folks we know. 'Bastian had t'kill one of his--what /used/ t'be one of his classmates, when we were out huntin'.” He pauses in his petting, briefly, to squeeze Tag's shoulder. “Is there someone who would be appropriate t'send by t'check on 'em for you? Somebody they wouldn't immediately link back t'you bein' here?” “S’like D&D, yeah?” Tag seems more than a little /startled/ when he chuckles, and this gives his laugh a nervous edge. “I’m like the crappiest wizard, only know Prismatic Spray and it doesn’t do damage. You’ve gotta be a cleric...of...oh man I don’t even know.” He uncurls himself just a bit and leans on Micah. “Honestly? I wouldn’t want anyone I care about anywhere near my family. Unfortunately, that also /includes/ my family, so...no. I gotta do it myself. I don’t even hafta actually see them, maybe just...drop in and chat with the neighbors, then vanish all mysterious like. That’s how it’d work in the movies, anyhow.” Tag falls silent for a moment. His breathing is so even and his body so still that it would be easy to think he had fallen asleep, as well. That is, until deep purple vine patterns start sprouting from the hem of his skirt and decorating the magenta there. “Thank you...I mean. Really. You’re the best.” “Yeah,” Micah chuckles in reply. “Healer class maybe, but I can't see much...cleric.” His nose crinkles up at the idea, along with one eye closing halfway. “That's fair. As long as you're safe about it. A lotta folks went through an awful lot t'keep you away from your family, which doesn't recommend 'em highly t'me.” His arm wraps around Tag's shoulders when he leans in. “But I know how crazy-makin' not knowin' can be. So I won't tell you /not/ to.” At the thanks, Micah pulls Tag into a hug. “You're welcome, hon. Don't know that I did anythin' t'earn all /that/. But if you're feelin' better, I'm glad.”