ArchivedLogs:Insha'Allah

Insha'Allah
Dramatis Personae Iolaus, Rasheed
In Absentia	2013-06-09 Not long after Kyle's death, Rasheed gets a visit.
Location <NYC> 806 {Rasheed} - One Sixty-Seven - Upper West Side
Spacious and elegant and impeccably kept, this apartment is pristine enough that it looks barely lived-in. The living room is just a short hallway down from the entrance, set down a couple stairs in a wide sweep of pale hardwood floors. Dark leather couches and armchairs and pale wooden furniture sits on a plush rug of soft grey. A large balcony runs along the side of the living room, accessible through wide French doors and shaded by an overhang; below, there is a clear view of Central Park. The kitchen adjacent sits a little bit higher, a few stairs leading up to its dark tiled floor. It is roomy as well, granite countertops and sleek new appliances and a wealth of elegant dinnerware. There are two bedrooms, here, both set opposite each other down a short hallway and both with their own bathroom. The end of the hallway holds a large study, with book-lined walls. Another half-bath sits off the living room, underneath a carpeted lofted area accessible by ladder and big enough to be a room itself, though it lacks walls; instead, a short balcony looks down on the living room beneath. Sunday evening, late, is perhaps not the best time to be traveling in the city as police cars zip up and down the streets,flooding Central Park with officers. It is doubly not a good time for a very visible face of the mutant rights movement. Good, then, that Iolaus' face is not currently his own - or, at least, not that anyone would recognize him, thanks to the companion who steps them right through the security at 167 and to the elevators. They are both well-dressed enough to fit among the comers-and-goers of 167 - Alec, more so than Iolaus - and neither of the men speak as they make their way up to Rasheed's apartment. Iolaus is the one to ring the doorbell and stand in front of the peephole, concerned face shimmering back into recognition as they stand alone in the hallway. The doctor looks down at his watch and his frown creases deeper in his expression. "Shit," he murmurs under his breath. "Shit, shit." Rasheed's apartment is breezy. The doors to the balcony are thrown open, letting in eveningtime air. Also, the faint flicker of red and blue lights flashing seven stories below. There are noises that drift up on the breeze. Yelling. The wail of sirens. The rush of police cars. Rasheed's expression is a little bit /drawn/ as he opens the door for Iolaus, phone tucked against his ear. "... understand that," he is saying, "are they /certain/ that -- yes." He holds up a finger to Iolaus apologetically, beckons him inside, and disappears down the hall into the back study. Iolaus opens his mouth to speak before he sees the other man on the phone. He closes his mouth quickly with a little clack sound and steps into the room. Alec follows quickly, closing the door behind Iolaus and applying himself to the locks. The police are a little bit too busy to respond to anything, right now, and safe is better than sorry. Despite himself, and despite being here before, Iolaus looks around the room with an almost wonderous look. "Jesus, I always forget how wealthy he is," he mutters under his breath in Greek. A bemused smile twists briefly at his lips, one that quickly fades as he steps over to the balcony to look down at the flashing lights far beneath him. Alec, too, steps out closer to the other man, and the two of them stand, staring down, as boring as just another rat running down the streets. It is a couple of minutes before Rasheed makes his way back to the living room. In accordance with the quiet elegance of his home there is a quiet elegance to his dress, pale tailored kurta hanging down to his knees, dark blue embroidery accenting it; it's paired with lightweight dark trousers. He joins the others at the balcony, looking down at the flashing lights below. "I suspect by morning this city will be badly in need of your clinic." "I'm afraid it is little but a frame, Rasheed, and I have but two hands." Iolaus says, quietly, as he turns to look over at the other man. "Nor will the clinic have the resources to treat some of the patients that are sure to come out of this night. I'm not hiring surgeons, nor do I have operating rooms. It was never /meant/ as a hospital, nevertheless a warzone one." The younger man's words are sad and almost annoyed. "Perhaps it is not too late to ask the architect to redesign it." This last is, hopefully, a joke. "It's not a warzone," Rasheed answers this as he rests his elbows on the balcony railing, turns his eyes downwards. The breath he exhales is slow. One hand lifts, rubbing palm against his chin, a rasp of sound against the faint eveningtime stubble that's accumulated. "... yet." It's a grudging follow-up. His chin stays in his palm. "Oh, come, Rasheed," Iolaus says, turning to the other man and leaning against the railing of the balcony. "I'm no military strategist, but even I can see where this is headed." He waves his hand at the park down beneath him. "A mutant kills a New York City police officer how many days after a ring of New York City police officers are busted up holding a mutant fight ring?" He shakes his head and fixes Rasheed with his gaze. "'Yet' is only a matter of time, and I suspect it is not even a long one." "One of the same, I imagine," Rasheed murmurs, eyes still turned towards the park. "There was a woman at the clinic, wasn't there? Shadows --" His head shakes. He turns, too, elbow propped against the railing but his body angled towards Iolaus. "Such an optimist." His teeth flash; it's not a very /cheery/ smile. "Or maybe just realistic." The smile fades. "My clinic --" But he gets no farther than this before flicking his eyes sideways to regard the flashing lights below. "Yes. There was. I am hoping - I am praying - that it is a coincidence. I know two shadow-people; I am hoping that it is a common expression of the X-gene and there are more than two of them running around." Iolaus says, darkly, but the resignation in his voice indicates just how reliable he must find this hope. The younger doctor falls silent, then, hands rising to rest on the railing and look out over the park. "Hm?" "You know two?" Rasheed sounds mildly surprised at this. "There are certainly some expressions of the gene that we see in our clinic far more frequently than others, but that one has not been one of them." His eyes still fix downwards, tracking the movement of police cars around the park. "I suspect the shadow people you know will not have an easy time of things, this week." He pushes himself upright, palm braced against the balcony railing. "-- My staff has been calling me quite concerned with --" His hand gestures out at the park. "How to proceed." Iolaus looks at Rasheed for several moments before he gives the other man a sad smile and claps his hand on the older man's shoulder. "{Blood doesn't turn to water.}" he says in Greek, squeezing his shoulder. "Say what you are going to say. We will still be brothers." he says, eyes searching the other man's face. "My staff didn't sign on to work for a clinic like yours," Rasheed answers, a heavier note in his voice as his shoulder sinks under Iolaus's hand. "That level of risk is -- not what they planned for. Some are scared to openly treat mutants in this environment. Some are willing. But -- none of them joined my clinic to put their /lives/ on the line." Even though Iolaus was clearly expecting it, his face falls further. He nods, slowly, looking to his left and down at the flashing lights beneath him. "I understand, Rasheed." he says, voice quiet. His hand does not move from the other man's shoulder, and Iolaus looks back up into his face. "With a little bit of luck, the city will calm down, and there won't be such a need for services anymore." He does not sound particularly hopeful about this, but he says it all the same. Rasheed just turns back to the railing. "Insha'Allah," he murmurs, mostly to himself as he settles back in, quietly watching the city lit up below. As the other man turns away from him, Iolaus' lips press together into a thin line, looking upwards towards the sky. Under his breath, he mutters a quick murmur of lilting Spanish that sounds too well-practied to be anything but a prayer - and the quick of his hands against each other mark it further. But it lasts only moments before he turns back to the other man. "I am already hearing calls all over the city of people being turned away by ambulances, by hospitals, and I don't know what to do but to... bear witness." Rasheed's jaw tightens, his head bowing. Perhaps with a touch of guilt in his expression. "What else can you do?" he asks, quietly. "Even that much is more than most." "Perhaps, but watching gives me little to assuage the feeling that I should be doing /more/." Iolaus shakes his head and gives Rasheed a faint smile. "I don't mean to give my burdens to you, my friend. They are mine to have, and I will think of something." he says, eyes searching Rasheed's face. His hand once more comes down on Rasheed's shoulder, a firm, friendly grip. "There is always more you could be going. You would run yourself ragged trying it /all/." Rasheed turns, turning his back on the lights and sirens below to head back into the apartment. "Iolaus, I /did/ sign on to work for your clinic. I suspect," there's a wry note in his voice as he gestures the other men inside, "that I will be sharing your burdens for a good while to come."