ArchivedLogs:Exposure

Exposure
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Micah
In Absentia	30 October 2013 Injuries and illnesses and murder plots and...food. (Warning: some violence plotting earlier on, some adult themes later.) (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> The Roost - Village Lofts - East Village
Dusk's bedroom is a messy place as might be expected, cluttered with books and clothing, forgotten dishes, boxes of Magic cards, other miscellany. His bed is not 'bed' so much as 'mattress on the floor'; though there /is/ a full bed against the opposite wall, it's neatly made and has been untouched for a while. His desk holds the desktop -- somewhat literally. /Far/ more elaborate of a setup than his lack-of-bed, the desk /itself/, with see-through glass body and softly glowing lights inside, has been configured to /be/ the computer case. Closer inspection of a pair of small decorative aquariums sitting to either side of its three monitors finds them to /also/ be computer cases, their inner workings submerged in a pale blue liquid on a bed of aquarium pebbles alongside plastic plants and little plastic castles or fake coral. Things have been slowly growing quieter, around the Lofts, as one week stretches into two, as two weeks creep on towards three; the intervening span of time has been enough to get many of the refugees, at least, on the path back towards Lives. There are still some, scattered here and there, waiting for paperwork to finish or school enrollment to process, and so it is never really /empty/; at the moment a rather exuberant young girl is in the living room wrestling Alanna on the floor while Reed sits on the couch with Dusk’s Nook, outclassing the vampire for corpselike pallor today. Dusk is tucked away into his bedroom, /looking/ slightly better than he did the day before, colour returned to his cheeks. The steady buzz of a sewing machine comes from behind the not-quite-closed door; Dusk has cleared off the unused second desk in his room to set up there, currently well enough into his project that by now it is identifiable as a jacket in black denim. The wastebin beside the desk, bearing a rather large amount of crumpled-up tissues, suggests he’s not really at /full/ health though. As do his intermittent pauses to cough into the crook of an arm. Micah wanders over shortly after work, shower, and clothing-change had time to happen. He has switched into a pair of faded, patched jeans and an olive green T-shirt depicting a Darwin-inspired sketch of finches with adaptive /technology/ upgrades. He knocks lightly on Dusk's door, peeking his head in rather than opening it all the way. “Hi... Hey, are you busy?” Dusk doesn’t immediately look up from his sewing, head just tilting at the sound of Micah’s voice. He stretches out a wing, still focused on his sewing as he hooks a claw around the edge of the door to pull it open wider. His wing stays extended, brushing gently against Micah’s arm before he pulls it back. “Hey, man. Nah you’re good come in.” There’s a bit of scratchy roughness to his voice. “Not really ever too busy for you. What’s up?” Stepping through the door as Dusk opens it, Micah pets at the wing against his arm. He pushes the door completely closed behind him. “You look better,” he comments approvingly, tilting his head slightly a moment later. “But sound worse. Getting a cold?” His hip stays pressed back against the door, leaning where he had pushed to close it. “Came t'check on you, like I said. See if you need any help with a changin' your dressin' out. Make sure you're eatin'.” Dusk pulls his other wing away from his side, where it’s been draped in fuzzy blanketing; the bandaging underneath it was applied fresh that morning though the subsequent day’s activities have left it considerably more worn, its tape peeling. “Eh. Maybe cold I don’t know. /Bastian/ was actually online today from bed I think it might be the first time he’s skipped classes since ever -- could be something going around.” Which puts a small grimace on his face. “Happens sometimes after these things. Too many people on top of each other, not enough sleep, too much stress --” One wing shrugs. His lips do peel back into a smile, though, despite the brief shiver that passes through him. The tip of his tongue traces briefly across his fangs. “Did eat this afternoon. … Probably not very responsibly, if I am getting something.” “Yeah, that could use changin’ out. Y’gotta first aid kit in here, right?” Micah glances around in case it is immediately obvious somewhere. “‘Bastian was sick? I don’t think I’ve /ever/ known him t’be sick before. Everybody must just be exhausted from the late nights an’ the crazy goin’ on lately.” Another nod of approval meets Dusk’s announcement that he had eaten. “Yeah, it might’ve been a better idea t’go the needle-donor route this time, but if it’s just a /cold/ it’s prob’ly not /that/ big a deal. I will, however, hold off on offerin’ since you’re freshly fed an’ I can’t go into most of my workplaces if I’m sick, even if it /is/ just a cold or flu.” “Closet,” Dusk says of first aid kit, his wing poking out to point, “left side on the floor. Yeah, Bastian -- actually I don’t think I’ve seen him sick before either.” This draws his brows into a small frown. “Shane got the flu one year -- after a raid, too. Got over it in half the time everyone else did.” He turns aside from his sewing, looking over at Micah with a deeper flush of colour creeping into his cheeks. “Right. Yeah. No. I don’t -- want to get you sick you know I can actually bandage myself anyway.” “Pshaw, no. Side wounds are /hard/ t’bandage right yourself. S’all awkward. Trust me, I know.” Micah opens the closet, hazel eyes scanning until they rest on the first aid kit, which he retrieves and sets on the table next to Dusk to open. “I’m not too worried about catchin’ just from bein’ /around/ you. I’ve got a crazy immune system from bein’ in an’ around medical facilities since /forever/. Medically fragile children bring you all the school germs /and/ the hospital germs. It’s like immune system armour after a while.” He rubs some hand sanitizer on, then selects a few bandages for use after the current one is removed. “Direct introduction t’the blood stream is just a different story.” A wave of his hand indicates that Dusk should give him better access to his wounded side. “-- Well, yeah, but if this bug bit /Bastian/ it might be able to stand up to even your crazy immune system.” Dusk shrugs a wing, swivelling on his stool to turn his injured side towards Micah. His wing uncurls to allow access to the bandage, moving to rest lightly against Micah’s back but then pulling away. “No biting till I’m healthy again. Check. I can’t be /that/ sick though, I’m still starving. Even after Doug. Last night I pretty much felt like hell so maybe it’s just a quick -- whatever.” “It it’s /that/ virulent, prob’ly I’ve already caught it from one of y’all /already/. So might as well help anyhow.” Micah snuggles against the wing during the brief moment it wraps around him, hands busy removing the old dressing and tidying it away for disposal. “I am up again, so just lemme know when that is. Or if y’need before that, we could always do the /borin’/. way.” He slathers some fresh antibiotic ointment on before applying a new bandage, taping it securely in place. “Needed t’check in, too, about other things.” Micah chews on his lip before continuing, working at packing away the first aid supplies instead of making eye contact. “About the plannin’...if your contacts are willin’ or able t’help. If anyone has any ideas what t’do. If your...encounter has changed thoughts any. The first aid kit finds its home in the closet again, and he finally turns back to regard the other man. “I’m not gonna be able t’pull this off with ‘im the way he is, am I?” “Ngh -- maybe yeah. Probably /everyone/ around here should just, uh, get more sleep lately, I can’t imagine the schedules /you/ both keep are --” Dusk quiets, grimacing slightly as the bandaging is changed though past this slight tension it doesn’t seem to bother him overly. He tenses /further/ at the conversation that follows, though, hunching over to rest his elbows on his knees. “They’re willing to help.” He doesn’t sound particularly eager at this admission: “Micah, are you sure you --” But he cuts this question off with a slow breath drawn in. “Sure you will. Shine a flashlight on him. -- We’re still looking into tracking him /down/, though. His whereabouts any given day aren’t as easy to pinpoint as a beat cop.” “I’ll make sure t’take some extra vitamins an’ keep up on the hand sanitizer.” Which Micah demonstrates by rubbing more over his hands just then. “Oh...oh good. Do they have any plans?” His teeth go back to worrying at his lip. “I told you, I’m more than willin’ t’hear other ideas, if anybody has ‘em. But I don’t want...I don’t want, say, /you/ doin’ this an’ them comin’ after you for it. An’ everyone /else/. It always turns into a citywide mess, these things.” He moves to settle on the floor beside Dusk’s seat. “I’ll take other ideas, just not ones that are gonna get everyone hurt an’ worse again. Just...after how that last encounter went down. Been wonderin’ if I’m /physically/ capable.” “I -- don’t have other ideas that aren’t just killing him myself,” Dusk admits with a lower slump of his shoulders. “-- and yeah I can only imagine that after that the city would -- maybe -- not be /pleased/.” His wing shifts downward, resting against Micah’s back to rub there slowly. “Maybe Joshua can turn him into a ferret.” This might -- not be entirely serious. His breath huffs out in a tired sigh. “Maybe --” This is interrupted by a brief turn aside so that he can cough again into the crook of his arm. “-- Maybe Hive can eat his brain so he just /forgets/ to kill us.” Micah’s head shakes at...pretty much every one of those suggestions as he leans into Dusk’s touch. “I don’t think Hive bein’ attached t’that man is anythin’ resemblin’ a decent long-term plan. So, they’re needin’...t’figure out his routines an’ where he is an’ then they think they can come up with a plan that doesn’t immediately get people in jail an’ all the other-bad after?” He stares down at his hands. “I’m still sorry y’have t’be in the middle of this. I imagine your folks don’t wanna be too widely known, for me t’work with ‘em direct, though. So I’m just...sorry.” “I don’t mean attached. I just mean -- well, you’ve felt what his normal voice is like. That should be taken as -- kind of a warning. I’ve met telepaths who can, I don’t know, quietly change your memories or personality or terrifying things, he -- isn’t really that subtle he’ll pretty much just take a sledgehammer to your brain and lobotomize you.” Dusk lifts one hand, propping his chin in it, fingers rubbing absently against his dark scruff of beard. “But, yeah. So far the plan is mostly watching. To figure out when the best time is to -- pull this off. Without anyone getting dead /or/ caught. Because a man like this, both of those are /pretty/ likely.” “They’d figure it out, though, wouldn’t they. If Hive tried...anythin’. Bet this guy’s covered in anti-telepath stuff if Osborn’s finished makin’ any of it, too.” Micah shakes his head. “I couldn’t ask Hive t’do that, either. I know he...things were kind of that an’ worse-awful for ‘im. When they had control over ‘im. I couldn’t ask ‘im t’do that again.” It’s hard to tell if Micah’s expression now is sad or a little bit sick. “I’m /terrible/ at this. I got no ideas. Short of waitin’ for your people t’ /tell/ me what t’do.” “His trucks did have telepath-blocking shit before,” Dusk admits unhappily. “So he’s got his hands on some of it.” His fingers continue to scuff against a cheek. His wing pulls in closer, wrapping around Micah’s arm and pulling the other man in against his legs so that he can drop a hand and rub fingers at the top of Micah’s head. “I mean -- I don’t know how much of an idea you really -- need to have. There’s pretty much just one outcome we’re shooting for here. I don’t know if it needs a big elaborate --” He trails off, fingers curling in to scritch again at Micah’s scalp. Micah nods slowly. “He would. Of course he would. They have all the resources in the world t’throw at us.” He leans back against Dusk’s legs when he is pulled in, nuzzling his head into the other man’s touch. “No, less elaborate is prob’ly...easier. But it’s not like I can just go ring the man’s /doorbell/ an’ ask ‘im t’very kindly stop breathin’. It’s gonna be more complicated than that. ‘Specially if we’re lookin’ t’minimise repercussions. Ain’t like this kinda thing is easy t’get away with. Worse when it’s high-profile.” “That’s why we had witnesses,” Dusk admits softly. His fingers rub down harder, light scritching turning into a slow firm massage. “Once you get down to it it’s probably going to be pretty simple. It’s the lead-up that -- /Jesus/.” He stops abruptly, leaning down further to rest his forehead against the top of Micah’s head. “Jesus, Micah, we’re sitting here planning -- ngh. This is never -- /not/ going to be weird is it?” “That's /part/ of the complicated. The other part is where this is a military-trained individual with /superpowers/. An'...me.” Micah's hands raise up to gesture vaguely at himself before flopping back into his lap. “With...what? A disguise? Some kind of weapon? I don't even--” He swallows hard, pressing himself more firmly against Dusk. “No. It's good that it's weird. An' hard. If it ever weren't... That would be worryin' in itself.” “Guns are remarkably equalizing. And if we could disguise /me/, we can definitely disguise /you/.” Dusk’s wing flexes in indication. His other curls more snugly around Micah, wrapping around in a soft blanket to hold the other man close against himself. “... I used a knife.” His voice has dropped lower, a kind of heavy sick note in it. He slides off his stool to sit on the floor, too, not so much next to Micah as tucked a little bit behind him, wing shifting to hold Micah against his chest. “-- If we can figure out /where/ he is it might be. Soon. I mean, after what -- happened -- with Kay, he’s probably. Already hurt.” Micah draws a deep breath in, letting it out slowly. “Guess it's important for figurin' this out, so... I've used a shotgun before, but that's it. Huntin'...one or twice a year since I was a teenager 'til I moved up here. I'm not exactly /good/ at it. An' I don't even /have/ my own. I don't have...pretty much any fightin' skills t'speak of. Know fair-precisely where all the stuff y' /really/ don't want stabbed, cut, or shot is, though.” He curls up against Dusk when the other man sits behind him, making him look very small. “Soon enough for that t'matter, y'think? That...sounds soon. But. I guess it should be. The longer we wait, the more chance that he's gonna hurt or kill somebody before we stop 'im. An'...” He presses his eyelids closed firmly. “I don't know whether the waitin' for it is worse. Every time I remember this is /happenin'/ I feel sick an' a little panicky. Can't imagine it'll be anythin' but worse after, though.” "Can get you your own. Not a shotgun, though, those are hardly discreet." Dusk's legs curl out around Micah loosely, his other wing wrapping inwards in a snug cocooning. His head tips down to press lips to the top of Micah's. "It'll be worse. But you already barely sleep so maybe you'll have less opportunity for nightmares. I'm starting to feel like after you see enough terrible shit in life insomnia starts to be a defensive strategy." “No, I wouldn't think so,” Micah replies with a bitter almost-laugh. “Is that...what I should do? I'm not really /trained/ with handguns, what if I hurt someone?” Another sound much like the first, near-laughter, follows this. “Hurt someone I don't /mean/ to. I mean. Y'all said you had t'set up witnesses last time.” He curls himself tighter into Dusk, a little ball of person surrounded by wings. "Seems the quickest. Least likely for him to overpower you. I mean, if he --" Dusk stops, hugging Micah closer when he curls inward, wings wrapping in snugly. "... You really should start coming to the twins' club." “Okay. If that's...the plan, okay. I'm assumin' your folks could get one through a less than legal avenue? 'Specially if this is happenin' soon. An' not obvious-like.” Micah is fairly well asking questions of his own patch-covered knees now, face buried with only a mop of auburn hair showing. “That's not a place for me, Dusk. That's a place where y'all go t'learn how t'protect yourselves from those of /us/ who want t'hurt you. I don't b'long there. An' I...I don't think I could make myself hurt any of you anyhow. Not that I think that'd be the issue. I mean, honey, I can't even /run/ unless I stop t'put on a different foot. Me bein' any kinda good at fightin' would take more'n one bout of beatin' on a week. It's a thing that /could/ be done...but s'other things more important I can be doin' with my time than spendin' all of it worryin' about not havin' it anymore. I ain't so scared of losin' a thing I'm not gonna try t'have it at all.” “/I’m/ worried about you losing it,” Dusk says unhappily. “The danger you’re always in around us --” A faint shiver passes through him, felt more in the ripple of his wings around Micah than in the rest of his body. “But I get what you’re saying. I just -- sorry. I -- sorry.” The upward rise of his wings above his own head provides still more curtain, a dark cocoon for both of them now. “Sorry. I just -- I love you, this is all -- really -- fucked --” His face drops to nuzzle into the back of Micah’s head. “No, I get it, hon. It's a worryin' amount of danger we all get into.” Micah unwinds himself enough to stroke a reassuring hand along Dusk's uninjured side. “I love you, too. An' you don't have t'apologise. This is...these are terrible situations we keep managin' t'find. An' it's /my/ fault more'n anythin' that /you're/ involved in this one, not the other way around.” "Hfff." Dusk hisses out a quiet breath, head shaking. The shiver in him continues even now, falling into a low-grade tremble. "I'd rather know than not. Rather help than not. I mean if you just went off alone to this kind of thing and then -- didn't come back that would be even shittier. Not like any of this is /not/ shitty." At Dusk's trembling, Micah uncurls, turning himself around to wrap his arms around the other man. “Yeah, it's pretty far into wish-this-would-just-go-away territory,” he replies softly. His cheek presses to Dusk's chest, partly monitoring, partly just for the contact. “Are you gonna be okay? For...definitions of 'okay' that fit our situations, anyhow.” Dusk’s trembling continues against Micah’s arms; his own lift to curl around the other man, fingers walking a slow path up Micah’s back. “Heh.” Overhead, his wings fold together, the warm cocoon they are in falling for a moment into darkness. His fingers still against Micah’s back, the brief harder shake of shoulders coming in silence. His cheek presses to Micah’s hair as his wings shift to let light back in. “For whatever fucked up value of ‘okay’ passes these days, yeah. I’m fine. S’all gonna be fine.” A brief silence, before: “-- You got any Halloween plans?” Micah shifts to nuzzle against Dusk's neck, squeezing tight against the shaking. “Y'don't have t'say that just so I can hear it,” he replies softly, not certain if he believes Dusk's claim at this point, the man's shudders at odds with his words. “Do you need t'eat again? I'm not sure with...illnesses an' injuries all at once. What's typical for you t'need.” He takes a deep, slow breath. In. And out. “No. I think there was mention of a party at some point? But...there's been so much craziness I don't even know. I pretty much forgot Halloween was a thing.” “I have to say it so /I/ can hear it.” Dusk tips his head back, a very low growl rumbling in his throat at Micah’s nuzzling. His fingers curl in tighter against Micah’s back, sliding down slowly against the spine to slip fingertips just under the other man’s shirt. “We were having a party. I guess we still are but -- Flicker isn’t feeling great either and if we’re /both/ sick Hive’s not. Exactly. The best party host on his /good/ days and now --” The breath he draws in is shaky. His fingers spread, resting against the small of Micah’s back. There is a touch of amusement in his voice when he speaks again, though it’s wry. “-- I always need to eat. I mean, the amount I /can/ live on and the amount I /should/ live on are --” He shakes his head with a sharp chuff of breath. “Harder when I’m trying to fight off sick and deal with hurt, though. But even on a normal day, what I /should/ have would kill a person. I just don’t have enough /friends/ to keep from going hungry. Kinda learn to live with this little constant voice in the back of my head telling me that everyone is food.” “Okay,” Micah agrees simply, brushing his lips against Dusk's throat as a matter of course when the other man's chin tilts. His muscles quiver slightly beneath Dusk's fingertips. “Maybe we should all just catch up on rest an' postpone any parties until half of everybody ain't sick anymore. Don't matter what date it is; we can have a costume party without it bein' Halloween, so's people can actually /enjoy/ it.” He continues talking breathily into the other man's neck, voice still soft and low. “I guess when I said 'need', I meant in an immediate sense. It would help your healin' an' your gettin' over bein' sick? Make you feel stronger? Less shaky?” Dusk’s hand slides up further, skin warm against Micah’s now, fingertips pressing to the muscles in Micah’s back. “Yeah. Eating /enough/ helps get over these things. Now, anyway. I guess at normal times it just makes me -- normal-healthy. Though uh, maybe I can’t complain about always being hungry, /normal/-healthy for /me/ is a liiittle bit past what most people are capable of.” The upward creep of his hand slides Micah’s shirt up with it, his other hand moving to skim slowly against the other man’s side. “Mmmh.” This time not a growl so much as just a quiet moan. “In an immediate -- I need --” His grip tightens, pulling Micah for a moment hard against him. Just for a second, and then his grip relaxes, hands dropping to leave the other man cradled only against his strong flexible wing. “-- Fuck, I’m supposed to be not-getting-you-sick.” Micah's spine straightens under Dusk's hand as if guided by his touch, pressing back against him. The brush of fingertips along his ribcage coaxes a sound from deeper in his throat, muffled slightly as he kisses the other man's neck repeatedly and licks at his skin. His arms wrap tighter at Dusk's moan, easily following when Dusk pulls him close. “Mmn. Think we're past the point of definite /exposure/ here. S'my own fault I'm bad at not touchin'. Either I'll fight it off or I won't.” He turns his head to rasp his teeth gently along the other side of Dusk's neck. “Lots of vitamins when I get home, promise.” “Oh --” Dusk’s eyes slide closed, his hands returning to Micah’s sides without a great deal more /protest/. One hand slides beneath Micah’s shirt, slipping around front to run slowly up over the other man’s chest. His palm presses flat to Micah’s skin and with another low growl he presses the other man back, wings shifting away out of their cradling grip. His touch here, in time with this growl, edges past ‘firm’ and into ‘rough’, but the direction he pushes at least has his mattress to cushion the fall. His body presses down against Micah’s, mouth moving to Micah’s neck now, not to bite but to kiss, sucking in skin between his lips. When Dusk's hand presses up against his breastbone, Micah's mouth releases and his arms unwrap from around his back, petting instead at the other man's chest and stomach in long strokes. The suddenness of the shove comes as enough of a surprise that Micah's eyes open and widen, though he doesn't struggle to remain upright or even break his fall. Trusting in the mattress, he lands on it hard, torso bouncing back up slightly as the springs recoil. The weight of Dusk then, suddenly on top of him, has him writhing slightly, pressing his hips up against Dusk's. His head falls back, as well, a loud purr rumbling in his throat strong enough to be felt through the other man's lips. Dusk’s hands both slide up along Micah’s chest, now, his mouth sucking harder at the side of Micah’s neck. He breaks off so that he can tug at the green t-shirt, up over Micah’s head. His wing curls down past his head, one long bone pressing down against Micah’s wrists to pin them. His mouth finds Micah’s neck again, hips grinding downward as his tongue flicks against skin lightly. “Love you.” It comes out as half a growl itself, Dusk’s kisses travelling down to collarbone and then chest. Micah's arms lift over his head to assist with removal of clothing, unwittingly placing them for easy entrapment by Dusk's wing. He bites down on his lip, tugging his wrists downward experimentally, not /exactly/ fighting the restraining limb. The lick at his neck opens his mouth again in a shuddering little gasp, his returned, “Love you,” a shaky, breathless whisper. His back arches, pressing against Dusk though he doesn't actually /move/ anywhere under the larger man's weight and his own lack of leverage. His stocking-foot slides up to stroke along the back of Dusk's calf. At the tugging, Dusk presses his wing down more firmly; the velvety skin over the long spar of bone makes for a restraint contrastingly soft even as it pushes strong against Micah’s wrists. The next time his lips close, it is against a nipple; this time with a quick nip of teeth. His nails drag down against Micah’s sides, fingers hooking into the waistband of the patched jeans and his other hand moving to unfasten them. The press against Micah’s wrists stills his arms, obedient to the silent command. Somewhere between the press of lips and teeth and the rake of nails, his breath catches again, noisily, in his throat. He whimpers softly, hips lifting again as Dusk works at his jeans. His eyelids flit closed briefly, giving himself over to the other man's hands. And wings. And teeth.