ArchivedLogs:Ways To Help

Ways To Help
Dramatis Personae Micah, Lucien
In Absentia	15 November 2013 A break from research, but not from the current state of affairs.
Location <NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. Micah is in the cafeteria preparing warm drinks: cocoa, coffee, and the one English breakfast tea that is available. The cocoa is new, at least, thanks to Shane. He has taken it upon himself to make sure the researchers at least eat and drink, since convincing them to sleep is an exercise in futility more often than not. His days are largely occupied with knitting, reading, and his laptop otherwise, when not actively being used as a guinea pig. He is finally dressed in his own clothes: patched jeans, a white T-shirt with a T-rex holding an adaptive reaching aid in each hand under the heading 'UNSTOPPABLE!', and an unzipped black Batsignal hoodie. His idle humming is barely audible as he busies himself with mugs and hot water. Lucien certainly looks like he hasn't exactly been heavy on the sleep, lately. Far too pale, the dark shadows beneath his eyes more marked for it. He's actually showered at some point today, though his hair just flops down kind of lank over his forehead. He's dressed in dark jeans, a black t-shirt, dark boots, and these last make his steps all the more noticeable as he approaches the kitchen. He stops in the entryway, looking from Micah to the mugs and finally giving a /weary/ sigh. "This is what the world has come to," he laments, in a heavy tone. "Teabags. I know we are in hell." The sound of footsteps startles Micah /before/ speaking happens. He manages not to spill the mug of tea he has in hand as he places it on the tray. “Lucien, hi.” A lopsided grin pulls at the corner of his lips at the tea commentary. “Not every place is well enough stocked with tea to survive a zombie apocalypse. Though I have the feelin' the same would not be said of your house.” He tucks a small handful of sugar packets onto the tray, as well. “There's actual cocoa in the cocoa, though. Ain't an instant mix or anythin' like that. The coffee's...eh. Caffeinated. Can't be too fussy when it /exists/.” "Don't say that word," Lucien murmurs, glancing from the tray of drinks down to his hands. Shaking. He folds them behind his back. "My house's tea stores can weather most things. Including the looters that went through the Village. Tea -- not so eminently /useful/ in this crisis. They scattered the tins everywhere but did not take them. I wish I could say the same of my computers and I would really like to know just how my sound system will help them in this battle." He shakes his head at the mention of coffee, though, tongue clicking once against the back of his teeth. "I have not yet sunk /that/ low." “Oh, hon, I'm s--” Micah's brow furrows. “That's horrible news. About everythin' but the tea, I guess.” He removes the teabag from the one mug of tea, tossing it out. “Y'know, I never quite /realised/ how often I used /that/ word until this thing.” The turning down of coffee earns a snort. “Or maybe y'/can/ be that fussy. Could just get you some aitch-two-oh instead? Won't be warm, though.” His eyes track to the shakiness of Lucien's hands. “How are you holdin' up? Is there anythin' I can do other than offer substandard drinks?” "Perhaps this will do you a favour. Break yourself of the habit of apologizing for your very existence." Behind his back, his hands clench, the muscles in his arms tensing up. "Cocoa would nice. It is hardly cold in here but there's still something --" He exhales slowly, his eyes squeezing shut tight. "I," he answers the question softly, "have had better weeks. Is there -- much left by way of actual food?" “I don't!” Micah argues, his nose crinkling. He takes one of the prepared mugs of cocoa and sets it on the little cafe style table pressed against one wall, sliding the chair next to it out. “Sit. It depends on your definition of 'actual food'. Apparently Luke Cage came by with some supplies earlier, but it's mostly...nonperishable snack food kind of things. I've been makin' odds'n ends soups out of the canned goods people've been findin'. We been addin' a fair amount of liquid t'those t'stretch 'em out longer. I can heat up some for you in a minute. Just gotta run these cups over t'the folks workin' before they go cold an' will be back in a second. Ain't a far trip an' most of 'em are like as not t'not notice I'm there.” He gathers up the tray before ducking out of the room. "Soup. That would be -- {yes. Please. Thank you.}" Lucien doesn't entirely seem to notice when his words lap from English into French. He nods his head slowly, sitting when the chair is pulled out. He unfolds his hands to curl them around the mug, still shaking although less so with a firm object to grasp. His eyes close, and slowly he slumps forward, pushing the mug back so that he can rest his head on the table, a position he doesn't move from while Micah is gone. Micah returns to the room with a tray full of empty dishes needing to be washed. He sets this on the counter with a little frown. Fortunately for Lucien, his French-slipped words were basic enough to be recognised by someone who has studied the language not even a little. He pulls a pot out of the refrigerator, setting it on a burner and turning the heat on under it. The contents receive a quick stir with a large spoon before Micah moves back over toward the other man. “Honey, I think you need to...sleep. Somethin'.” He pulls another chair up close to Lucien. “Soup's on t'heat. Cocoa's in front of you. Does...anythin' else help?” Lucien doesn't answer, at first, just stays slumped where he is with his head down on the table. But when Micah sits down next to him he turns his head, slowly, cheek pressed to the table and his eyes fixing on Micah. Slowly, he uncurls his fingers from around his mug, turning his hand palm-up on the table and sliding it out towards Micah. His fingers curl inwards, beckoning. The legs of Micah's chair scrape against the floor as he scoots closer still. He reaches his hand out toward Lucien's. It hovers just a hair's breadth above the other man's hand, close enough to feel without touching, to radiate heat across the gap. Yet he doesn't actually make contact, letting the decision of that final motion be Lucien's. Lucien's fingers curl upwards, wrapping around Micah's hand. The contact comes with a wave of unpleasantness, a wash of nausea, a sharp stab of headache. Eyes blurring, a mildly disorienting sense of vertigo. These things don't really vanish, but they do grow more muted after a few moments as Lucien slowly gets a better grip on the spillover that his abilities default to. His eyes close once more, head still resting on the table. He stays quiet for a while. "This helps," he finally says softly. "It's like this knot. This ugly writhing -- /tumour/ in your brain, twisting it into contortions. But it's smaller than it was. We're going to solve this. That -- that helps. At least for now." Micah's eyes close, not quite a wince, at the uncomfortable sensations accompanying Lucien's touch. Though he has become entirely too familiar with headache and nausea himself of late. His head nods forward, kissing Lucien's knuckles lightly. His own touch transfers primarily feelings of worry and concern. The anger that had been eating up much of his mind is now a smaller thing, huddled and hidden in a corner as if fearful or cold. “Helps you...or just us? You're stretchin' yourself awful thin. Gotta take /some/ time t'hold yourself together.” "I am not sure --" Lucien's fingers tighten around Micah's hand. His head turns, eyes drifting over towards a window to the street outside. A lone figure is dragging its jerky way past. Lucien shivers, the nausea briefly rising again and then mellowing. "I do not quite know if I can," he admits. "But we're close. And once this is over --" His hand is still shaking, in Micah's. "Then we can all rest." Micah's hand squeezes back at Lucien's. He twists his chair to facilitate wrapping an arm around Lucien's shoulders, pulling him into a hug. “I want t'help. If there's anything. Okay? Don't hesitate to ask.” He drops his head down to the other man's shoulder, letting his head rest against it. “Well, on top of soup an' cocoa. I been kinda sittin' around here bein' sort of useless.” Lucien tips his head forward to rest against Micah's chest, but only for a moment. He sits up, his other hand moving to pull his mug towards himself. "Cocoa is a good start. And you are hardly useless. The barrage of drugs we have been pumping through you all --" He grimaces. "The world owes you a debt, though I doubt it will ever pay." “If it weren't for that barrage of drugs, I'd prob'ly be dead by now. Ain't...no kinda...just sittin' here bein' a body for y'all t'work on. But if that's all I can do, I guess it's all.” Micah holds Lucien tighter for a second before loosening his grip to let the other man up to his drink. “Y'all are doin' all the real... You guys almost killin' yourselves findin' a cure. Jax'n Dusk'n everyone keepin' folks fed an' as safe as they can be. That's...somethin'.” His hand rubs along Lucien's back once it is loosened away from his shoulder. “Just want t'be sure all of /you/ make it through this, too. S'been enough...enough already.” "I do not think that I will." Lucien says this softly; he sounds musing more than particularly concerned. "There will be much more death before this is through, Micah. Though. If he does manage it /and/ live through this," a small smile curls his lips before he lifts his mug to take a small sip of cocoa, "I suspect Rasheed may be in line for a Nobel prize. Not that his career really needed the boost. -- You could," he finally suggests, "take the ferret and go purchase more food. Just remember not to /speak/." “You don't think you will...make it through this? Don't say that.” Micah's fingers grip into the fabric of Lucien's shirt. “There's gotta be somethin' that helps...an' a way t'get t'the solution for the illness without takin' y'all out in the process. There's...” His teeth dig into his lower lip. “You remember the friend I was tellin' you about, before all this? Was hopin' maybe he could help with what your ability was doin' t'your brain /before/.” The fingers twitch in the shirt fabric. “If he's...still around. An' willin' an' able...maybe we could bring 'im here? Let 'im sit with you while you work an' maybe stop it from getting' too much worse, if not better? I'm. I dunno. Graspin' at straws. But there's gotta be somethin'.” "Is he even alive?" Lucien sets his cup back down after another small sip. "I am not /injured/. I imagine it has as much potential to kill me /faster/ as it does to help. I would rather help find this cure /before/ attempting experimentation on my own brain. I am not sure New York can hold out all that much longer." “I...don't know. I'm not really good at that answer for more'n a few people anymore. Changes too fast.” Micah's gaze drifts down to the table. “Honey, y'kind of are. If you're havin' seizures an' strokes? That's injuries. But...I guess. If you're afraid of it makin' things worse, I won't ask. Y'gotta promise me you'll sleep some, instead?” He looks back up to pose the question. "I sleep. More than Iolaus does. More than your boy does." Lucien's mouth curves into a wry smile. "And it has only been the one stroke, so far. The seizures are getting worse, though." His eyes drift back to the window. Absently tracking the movement outside. "Less than I should, though," he does admit. "These walls are so /safe/. In here it gets so easy to forget what it is really like out there. But then when I sleep --" He lifts his hand, knuckles digging against his temples. "-- They emptied my liquor cabinet. If you want to help you could acquire us some /Scotch/." “Well, y'need to. For your brain. Jax at least has the half-excuse of bein' solar powered.” There is a slight bit of /grump/ to his tone that is likely the result of many, many conversations on the topic with the boy in question. “Oh, just the one?” he asks with more than a touch of sarcasm. “I'll see if Joshua can be spared for an out-of-area supply run, but...is alcohol the best idea? Usually lowers seizure thresholds.” Micah brushes another kiss to Lucien's knuckles before releasing his hand. “Need t'go stir the soup before it scorches on the bottom of the pot.” He considers the fingers massaging at Lucien's temples. “Head rubs help at all? Got hands.” His fingers wiggle illustratively before grabbing up the pot lid in one and the spoon in the other to get to that stirring thing. "I am sure Joshua has many important naps to be taken and coins to hoard and small rattly toys to chase around the floor but perhaps if you ask him nicely he can spare a moment for supplies." When Micah stands, Lucien stifles a yawn and sets his head back down on the table, arms folding as a pillow for his forehead. "Alcohol is a terrible idea. But I think I have earned a drink by now. Perhaps you could also pick up a bottle of champagne. For when this is over." “Ha. I /meant/ that Jax has been runnin' around with 'im like a magical ferret /stole/ lately t'get where he needs t'be faster an' with fewer zombies.” Micah replaces the lid on the soup pot before returning to the table. He scoots his chair up close again to press his fingers to the spot where Lucien's own left off, making little circles gently at first. “You have a point. Need t'pick up some real meat for Shane, too. An' 'Bastian, if we ever see or hear from /him/ again. S'troublin'. He doesn't answer his phone or messages.” "Sometimes," Lucien's voice has dropped to a low murmur, "it strikes me just how surreal our lives have gotten. It's strange but teleporting ferret-scarf drives that point home still more than the roving gangs of carnivorous corpses. -- Ohh." This last breath kind of shivers out of Lucien at Micah's touch, and he quiets, just savouring it. But adds with a frown: "-- You have not heard from him? I just assumed he was in touch. I saw him this week. He seemed -- far healthier than Shane does, actually. /He/ looks like he might drop at any minute. Bastian seemed quite well." “Yeah, I guess I don't really even stop'n think about how /odd/ things are anymore. We still gotta find a way t'/unferret/ him once things...calm down again. S'a fair number of things need doin' once we can devote any resources t'other things again.” Micah's fingers push more firmly as they move in wider circles. “No. He hasn't talked t'me or Jax or even /Shane/. I just...don't know. Been tryin' not t'think of reasons why he wouldn't. It's good y'saw 'im alive, at least.” His teeth worry at his lower lip again. "I could think of quite a few." Lucien lifts his head just enough that he can pull his mug in for another sip. "Alive and well. Disaster agrees with certain temperaments, it seems. -- I don't know why you would unferret him. He is rather charming this way. Seems to enjoy life a good deal more." Outside, there is a banging on a window. Thud. Thud-thud. Lucien closes his eyes, just sipping at his cocoa. Enjoying the headrub. Ignoring the thumping. "-- Perhaps I will take my soup downstairs." “Good. Good. I just...don't know why he wouldn't answer, then. Maybe it's somethin' wrong with his phone. That's better than somethin' wrong with /him/, at least.” Micah continues his attempt at reducing some small fraction of Lucien's tension, ignoring the now-familiar thudding as well. “Well, I s'pose we could always re-ferret him afterwards, if that's what he wants. He just didn't get much say in it the first time. Seems a rude thing t'do to a person all unconsentin'-like.” He doesn't move from his task without a direct request to do so. “Stay if y'need... Go if y'have to. Gotten used t'totin' trays of things around by now. Ain't hardly anybody botherin' t'leave what they're doin' long enough for food. Likely wouldn't be botherin' with the food if it weren't sittin' in front of their faces magically.” Lucien does not request anything, really. He finishes his cocoa and pushes the mug aside. "No, I doubt I would. You are a good kind of magic. I do appreciate the --" He breaks off, here, head sinking back down to the table. Perhaps seizing again. Perhaps falling asleep. Perhaps just enjoying the touch. “Luci, hon, are you okay?” Micah gently rocks Lucien's head to one side in case of seizure to better protect his airway. Noting the time for similar purposes. And just sits with him, either way.