ArchivedLogs:Cookies

Cookies
A tale of /truly/ inappropriate patient interaction...
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah
In Absentia	9 March 2013 "Is this a kissing book?" (consider yourself /warned/ XD)
Location Phones, then <NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts - East Village
RING RING. Hi Micah's phone! Jax is calling you. Some time around mid-afternoon on Saturday. Hey now! It's a number Micah recognises for once. A name comes up on the screen and everything. He flicks off the radio and stabs the 'accept' button on his phone with a fingertip. "Hey, Papa Bear. What's goin' on?" "Papa -- um, hi," Jax sounds a little worn, but manages to work up to warm when he tries again: "Hi! Hi, Micah. Uh -- what's up? Are you, um, are you busy?" Micah’s brow furrows at Jax’s…not sounding very Jax-like. There may be evidence of this in his concerned tone. “Jax, hon, is everything okay? I got time. What d’you need?” "It's been kinda a, um, a week. I kinda actually wanted to talk to you about, uh, work," Jackson says, somewhat apologetically, "but s'the weekend so I get if this ain't a good time to -- you sure you ain't busy?" “For the love of little green apples, /Jax/,” Micah is on his way to proving just how practiced he is in fretting, as well. “I am free and somethin’ is /wrong/ and you gotta tell me or I’m just drivin’ over there anyhow.” "That wouldn't be so bad," Jackson admits, but it's quiet. "Sorry," he says immediately afterwards, "m'a bit tired, I think. Um, right. It's just, I got a friend and I -- wanted to talk to you 'bout what would be involved in getting someone uh fitted with -- she needs a leg. I don't really know what's the -- process. For that." “It’s a…it depends a lot. Whether the amputation is traumatic or congenital. How long it’s been.” Micah stops listing the full litany of concerns, remembering a discussion with Hive. It sounds like it almost hurts him to ask the next question. “Is she bein’…uh. Does she have a doctor workin’ with her?” "Traumatic," Jackson says, "-- Recent. She -- kind of, sort of," he sounds uncertain about this. There's a moment of silence on the line. Jackson draws in a deep breath. "I mean, she got seen by someone. But she don't have like. A -- dedicated -- someone who knows what they're doing with this stuff." “Oh, honey…” Micah sort of /sighs/ these words. He was afraid of that answer. “Usually, we should have a surgeon. Is she stable? I can do wound care, at least.” He’s already ticking off things that need doing, mental checklist in full swing. “Should I come now?” "I mean, she had a surg -- she's been stabilized. We've taken care of the worst -- It's just -- it's been kind of a --" Jackson sounds a little lost and a lot tired. "Just don't really know where to go from here," he admits. “Well, I can talk to her doc in that case. And meet her. And we can get a plan together. It will be okay,” Micah tries to give Jax what reassurance he can. “These first parts… It’s all in gettin’ the limb into shape again. First prosthetic usually doesn’t happen until 6 to 8 weeks after surgery. And that’s a trainin’ one. People don’t keep those long term, so I can definitely help with that without havin’ to worry much about materials. I can get donated base parts easily.” There’s a pause, near silence on the line. “Jax, you sound /rough/. Anybody takin’ care of /you/?” "Okay. A plan," Jackson repeats, slowly, drawing a deep breath in again. "Right. Six to eight weeks -- okay. So no, um, no rush right now." There's more silence, for a moment, and then, as if he hadn't even heard Micah's question he continues /determinedly/ onward: "Alright, once I -- if we figure out who'll be -- working with her long-term, I'll get you in touch with them and you can come meet her and it'll be okay." “Absolutely. No one’s gettin’ neglected on my watch. We’ll work it out. You just pass me the information and try not to fret yourself sick.” Micah is aware of the hypocrisy in that advice, but two can play the stubborn game. He tries a different tack. “Jax-honey. Don’t be bull-headed. I see this all the time with caregivers and they /burn out/ tryin’ to be Superman for everybody. Unless you can assure me you’re gettin’ fed and slept an’ all, I’m gonna come over and make sure of it in person.” There is a pause after this, just long enough that it's likely Jax's light tone doesn't come entirely easily: "I don't need sleep," has an undercurrent of laughter in it, "I run on sunlight." But then another pause and, a little quieter: "Where, um, where you at today?" “That’s handy. And you’re not even green. Well, not all the time anyhow,” Micah teases gently. “Ended up at Evolve kinda late last night, and haven’t moved the van since. So not far. Seriously, I can be there in a few.” "Only sometimes," Jackson admits with another quiet laugh. "I -- yeah. Okay. It's kinda a madhouse in here right now but -- but yeah. I'll -- see you soon, then?" “Eeyup. Soon as safety and legality of drivin’ allows. No crashin’,” Micah adds with a chuckle. “See you.” There’s a beep and the line clicks off. True to his word, it isn’t long before Micah’s at the door. He’s already out of his hat and coat, down to a pair of patched-up jeans and a chocolate brown T-shirt with a stegosaurus whose speech bubble is cursing a neighbouring T-rex’s ‘sudden but inevitable betrayal’ on it. Jackson answers the door with a quick smile and a finger held to his lips -- shh -- beckoning Micah inside. He's dressed bright but comfortable -- soft purple yoga pants, a pink t-shirt that reads, 'I'm one of the bravest girls alive.', bright mismatched socks. His hair has been cut a bit shorter, but is still vivid, pink and blue today. Behind him, the apartment is -- well, rather different than it was last time Micah was here. The couches have been pushed up against the wall, and mattresses are laid out on the floor. A couple have people sleeping on them. There's a pair of women sitting up in the loft, speaking quietly together. A wide-eyed young boy with his arm swathed in bandaging perches on a stool at the kitchen counter, eyes swivelling to lock onto Micah as the door opens. "Sorry," Jackson says, in a low voice, "might'a been better to, um, go -- out somewhere." Micah is initially smiling brightly when Jax opens the door, but his brows knit and his lips press into a thin line of worry when he surveys the scene behind Jax. He steps in quietly and keeps his voice low, as requested. “Jax, what is goin’ on. Are all these folks okay? People look hurt.” Hazel eyes are darting over the many figures in the room, taking in telltale signs of recent injuries. “Are you okay? We can be not-here if that’s best.” Jackson /looks/ okay, at least, no visible sign of injury; at least not at first, though he's notably limping when he steps back. "People are kinda -- different levels of --" He shrugs, a little stiffly, closing and locking the door behind Micah and heading further in, away from the people -- all of whom are staring now -- and towards his bedroom. He does, at least, pause to assure them: "S'okay, s'a friend." He gestures Micah to follow, fingers trailing against the wall as he heads into the apartment. The boy at the counter is not the only one with apparent injuries; up in the lofts one of the women bears bandaging wrapped around her head, and where the sheets fall over a thin young girl on one of the mattresses, the outline of her leg ends abruptly half as early as it should. "Can I get you somethin'?" Jax is asking Micah, as he heads down the hall slowly. "Tea maybe?" Micah trails along after Jax, offering a reassuring little smile at any frightened faces that look his way. Jax’s limp earns a little, short-lived frown, however. “Not today, sugar. You got enough folk to take care of this time.” His hand rests lightly on Jax’s shoulder as he says this. “Has anyone checked on you yet? Whatever happened, it…you were…” He interrupts himself with a sigh. “Look, I study how people move for a livin’ and you’re movin’ /hurt/.” Even the light touch makes Jackson tense, with an inadvertent breath drawn in sharply through his teeth. His bedroom, at least, is not swarmed with people, though it is somewhat messy all the same, clothes strewn in a pile on the bed, first-aid supplies gathered in one corner. His art supplies, normally neatly arranged and central to the space, have all been clustered to one side, his easel pushed up against the wall with a half-finished painting on it, a disembodied pair of hands with eyes nestled in the centers of their palms. Jax closes the door behind them, resting his hand on the knob and looking at Micah with a quick smile. "It'll pass," he assures the other man softly. "Like I said, s'just been -- been a week, I ain't the worst off 'round here by far." He lifts a hand, absently pushing his sunglasses up firmer into place. "It was -- it's real nice of you to come out here," he says, a little more bashfully. "Honestly I ain't even sure why I --" But this just trails off into nothing but, "Thanks." Jax’s tensing brings the frown back. “Not bein’ the worst off in the room is only important for /triage/. Might put you in the back of the line, but doesn’t take you out of it altogether. And it looks like somebody’s already seen to the others.” Micah looks for a place to get Jax to sit down and finally pushes the stray clothing away from a corner of the bed. He pats it to indicate /sit/. “You’re welcome, honey, but… Have you rested at all? Eaten anything? Had any cuts and bruises tended to?” Jackson takes a seat on the bed, settling himself carefully and resting his hands in his lap. "I've -- I ate," he says, after a moment of thought. "And I wasn't kidding about the sunlight, you know." This comes with a slight duck of his head, if his usual blush is notably absent. "You don't gotta take care'a me, honey-honey, I just -- it was nice to have --" He shrugs, his head ducking. "Someone around I ain't supposed to be, um, looking after," he admits guiltily. Micah sort of hovers near Jax, still looking concerned. “It’s no trouble. Somebody’s gotta take care of you…I think you forget to.” He smiles warmly with this. “Even if it’s just bein’ here and not makin’ any demands. I’m not kiddin’ about the first aid, though. You just say the word, I make a good nurse.” The smile gives way to his usual lopsided grin. Jackson hesitates, his head tipping downwards to drop his gaze towards his hands. "S'just been busy," he says, sounding apologetic about this. His fingers lace together, then unlace. And then, slowly. where skin a moment before had been whole and healthy, the flesh reddens, stippled and flecked with small pitted marks that mar the colourful ink on his left arm and spread, red like burns, up his arm, the side of his neck, his cheek. "It looks worse than it is," he's quick to say, and this time there is a blush spreading through his face. "And I mean, some of the people out there --" He shrugs. Micah worries his lower lip with his teeth, silently surveying Jax’s injuries. “Honey, those look like chemical burns. You gotta /handle/ those. They can actually get worse without a lotta warnin’.” He nods to himself. “You sit. I’m gettin’ supplies.” He’s out the door before Jax can protest, in search of first aid materials. "They were from a dragon, actually," Jackson murmurs under his breath as Micah heads out. He slumps tiredly back against the pile of clothes on the bed, careful not to touch his damaged skin to the cloth. Outside, the kid at the kitchen counter stares at Micah again when he returns. "Who are you?" he asks, after a pause. Micah bustles around the kitchen, obtaining large bowls and filling them with hot and cold water. “I’m Micah. I’m helpin’ Jax out.” A reassuring smile is sent the kid’s way again as he gathers a small collection of clean towels. "Helping out with what?" The boy's eyes follow Micah around the kitchen. He speaks quietly, rather timid as he watches Micah's bustling. He has a glass of juice that he holds tight, drinking it in small sips. “Just a couple little scratches. No big deal, but best to get them all cleaned up.” Micah continues smiling warmly, his tone very light to minimize any kid-worries. “You wouldn’t happen to know if there is a first aid kit here? Band-aids and stuff?” "Do you heal people?" the boy wants to know, still quiet. "Are you a superhero, too?" In answer to the question, he points a finger towards the bathroom door. There are quite a lot of first aid supplies in it. Far more than for just a kit. Clearly this apartment has been preparing for their injured-people-deluge. “Just in the first aid kit way, not the superhero way,” Micah replies with a little chuckle. “Oh, thanks!” He disappears into the bathroom for a moment, retrieving bandages, antibiotic ointment, and a bottle of anti-inflammatories. The smaller items are stuffed in his pockets before he returns to the kitchen. The towels he uses like a tray, lining his arms before loading other items atop them. The boy still watches Micah, through all this; he doesn't offer to help, just kind of stares. Up in the loft, the two women are looking downwards, too, tracking the stranger's movements carefully. “Well, there’s the whole shebang,” Micah offers, mostly to the boy. He does give a little nod in acknowledgement of the women’s gaze. He’s smiley in an ‘I am entirely non-threatening!’ way. “I should get this back to Jax. Thanks for lettin’ me know where the kit was.” He returns to the room where Jax is waiting, balancing the load of goods like a practiced waiter. It does take him a second to get the door open again. Jackson is up quickly when he hears Micah at the door again, at least, though his limp over is less quick. He winces at Micah's armload of goods, reaching to try and relieve the other man of some of his load. "Oh gosh. I -- it's -- you don't gotta -- oh gosh." He is blushing again, setting a bowl of water down on the nightstand. "Sorry," he murmurs, "I bet you're kinda taking care of people all the time and now here it is a day off and --" He shrugs awkwardly. “Ah-ah-ah, you /sit/,” Micah orders again, sternly, dancing by Jax to get his kit set up as he needs it. “I do take care of people because that’s what I like to do.” His tone has softened, the smile returned. “And I’m well rested and not /injured/ and you’re gonna let me do this.” Hazel eyes flick between Jax and the bed once, indicatively, before he’s back to readying the items he brought in. Jackson ducks his head, sitting back on the edge of the bed obediently at this order. "-- Yessir," he says, with a deeper flush. "I slept," he protests, too, and then frowns slightly. "Um. On Thursday. Are you /sure/ I ain't keeping you from nothing? I feel like I should be getting you food or -- there's hot chocolate," he offers, brightly. “I am seriously gonna tie you down if you try to get up and start kitchenin’,” Micah threatens with…questionable amounts of jest to his tone. And ‘kitchen’ is totally a verb. “NSAIDs bother you any? Like, Ibuprofen and Motrin?” He’s fetched an unopened bottle of water from the pile of towels, which he must have found somewhere in the kitchen. He twists it open, then does the same for the bottle of pills he’d brought with him. “If not…I’d say 800 mg for you. It’s not just for pain. Controlling the inflammation will help you heal faster.” "Yessir," Jackson says again, at this threatening. He sits up straighter! Pushes his sunglasses back into place. Folds his hands carefully in his lap. "No, they don't bother me none." He glances downwards, a smile twitching at the unmarked half of his face. "I feel kinda like Two-Face," he admits sheepishly. "If I suddenly start carrying around a coin and, uh, turn from doing good to a life'a crime, hit me or something to snap me outta it, 'kay?" Micah shakes four little round pills out of the bottle, pressing these into Jax’s unburned hand and holding out the water for him. “Well, y’certainly aren’t creepy-purple, at least,” he teases with a little giggle. “And I’ll make sure to tie you down if you try /crimes/, too.” He has selected a fluffy hand towel and is dipping it in the bowl of chilled water. "Tie me down? I thought you was trying to /discourage/ me." Jackson says this quietly down towards the pills in his hand, blushing deeper as he lifts them to his lips, following with a quick gulp of water to wash them down. He eyes the towel, his hand lifting gingerly to the red burns on his face. He's a little hesitant before he gingerly takes off the large sunglasses he wears, his left eye underneath sort of sunken-misshapen where the eye should be and isn't. "I like purple. Sometimes I'm purple," he's talking a little faster, now, one leg bouncing up and down, jittery, "but hopefully not the creepy kind." “Fine then, maybe I’ll only tie you down if you /don’t/ try crimes,” Micah rolls with Jax’s teasing, blushing a bit himself. He’s looking down at the towel, but the redness is obviously creeping along the back of his neck, too. Once he feels capable of looking up again, he tugs gently at the hem of Jax’s shirt. “This needs to come off.” Oh. OH, bad timing! What was a bit of blushing proceeds to become /intense/ blushing. “Because the burns I need to get to them.” This statement comes out like it is all one word. "I'm gonna be the crime-freest person in the city," Jackson promises, even as his blush spreads, flushing deep up his face and tinting the air around him briefly pink. "Yess-- oh. The burns, um, right." He's still deep red as he shifts, gently peeling the shirt up and off. The faint red burns are stippled down his left side, his right largely untouched; thankfully, because the tattoo that climbs up his right side is extensive and detailed, a large peach tree bearing fruit and flowers both, a small blue-haired fairy boy perched in one of its lower limbs. The dove above his heart and the bright blue dragonfly by his left shoulder have not been nearly so untouched, nor one half of the large red-and-black wings that span most all his back. Micah has decided that he is going to ignore the blushing because otherwise nothing will ever get done again. Ever. His eyes scanning over Jax’s form /could/ just be assessing the extent of the wounds. Maybe. “Um… You might wanna lay down actually. Kinda on your right side? This is probably gonna sting like the dickens.” He wrings the excess fluid from the towel, then pushes up onto his feet. "Yes -- um. Right. 'kay." Jackson doesn't add the sir this time! But he does lie down, prompt but careful, on his right side, his left arm hanging loosely downwards onto the bed. "S'aright," he says, lightly, "I can handle some pain." Which just prompts a further blush. "I mean, um, it's -- it's fine to -- right. Burns. Okay." Micah’s superpower is apparently turning /crimson/. He half-sits next to Jax on the bed. “Also, it’s gonna be cold.” He starts to dab at the wounds with the towel, starting at the ones furthest up on Jax’s face. It’s cold…and sting-y. As advertised. The touch is as gentle as it could be while maintaining efficacy. Micah shifts back and forth from bed to bowl, switching towels as he moves to the next body region to avoid cross-contamination. Jackson draws in a sharp breath, hissed through his teeth. His muscles tense hard at the cold touch, his good eye squinting shut as Micah dabs at the burns. For once he is quiet. He is still flushed deep red, but mostly he is just concentrating on breathing. Slowly. Once all of the burns have been cleaned, Micah pats them dry with yet another towel. There is going to be a lot of laundry. He fetches the tube of antibiotic ointment and a large cotton swab, which he frees from plastic wrapping. “Okay, this is probably gonna sting, too. Sorry for all the tortures, but hopefully you’ll come outta this without scars.” His tone and expression are both apologetic. He only applies the ointment to the few spots where the wounds were more than superficial. It does sting, clearly, judging by Jax's continued tensing, by his careful breaths and tightened jaw. But after the first few dabs this relaxes, somewhat, enough that he offers Micah a shy smile. "S'okay," he says, quiet, "like I said, I'm used to --" He blushes. "I just mean I've done this, um, before. Maybe, uh, not with a dragon. But still." Micah hadn’t caught the word ‘dragon’ when it was muttered earlier, but now… The word stops him in the middle of opening a self-adhesive bandage wrapper. “Wait, what? Dragon? Were you in a terrible LARPing accident?” Jax's smile here is a little wry. "Yeah," he says, "I was playing at being a superhero." A shy little grin tugs at the corner of Micah’s mouth. “Playin’ nothin’. From the look of the rest of this apartment, I think you just /were/.” As Micah continues to work, Jax becomes dotted with soft, white squares of bandage in the areas where the burns were worst. “Uh…you can leave these on until they get wet. So pretty much when you want to shower, you’ll have to change ‘em. You’re gonna be stuck with room temperature until this heals some more, though. Hot water on burns is bad.” He tidies up a little, containers closed and placed on a tabletop, wrappers tossed into a trash basket, all of the towels wrapped in the biggest dry towel to await delivery to laundry facilities. “Seriously, though… Dragon?” Jackson's blush returns at Micah's first words, his smile easing into something just small, and warm. "I did what I could," he says, but then the smile fades away as his eye turns downward. "But it wasn't quite -- super enough." He sits up, slowly, once Micah is done, flexing his fingers once and then resting his hands back in his lap. "If you'd'a told me on Wednesday night I'd be fighting a dragon soon I'd'a thought you was crazy. Starting to think the world's kinda crazy, though. Man," he adds, flicking a glance up at Micah from beneath his colourful fringe of hair, "this is twice this week you done come out and save me. S'getting to be a habit." “Maybe the world is crazy. Or Consensus Reality is just gettin’ real /lax/ in its standards.” Micah shakes his head at the idea because /dragon/. “Somebody’s gotta be around to patch up the superheroes when they get in over their heads.” A faint pink creeps into his cheeks, but it’s nothing after all the /red/ that happened earlier. “Guess I get to be Alfred. Uh…/young/ Alfred. Keep the Batcave runnin’ while you’re out fightin’ crime.” He grins broadly at this silliness. "Yeeah, but I didn't think with Alfred Batman ever wanted to --" Jackson stops, ducks his head, his cheeks flushing. He lifts his good hand -- well, okay, his mutilated hand, one finger missing, but currently it's the /healed/ one! -- to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Guy turning into a dragon, I guess it ain't all that weird. I mean, I eat sunlight and spit out forcefields." He shrugs a shoulder stiffly, looks back up at Micah. "Is nice," he admits. "Not, um, necessarily the, uh, patching up. But I -- was glad you came over Wednesday," he says quietly. "And glad again today." Micah takes a seat next to Jax, because just standing around was getting a little awkward. And then…his imagination has probably completed Jax’s trailing-off sentence with /interesting/ things, because drastic colour-changes are happening with his skin again. “I think weird is good, usually,” he submits, just to be able to /say something/. “I…um…me, too.” Apparently Micah’s hands are incredibly fascinating, because he is staring down at them. Jax is staring at his hands, too, which have folded in his lap again with a restless fidget that implies they would /like/ to be doing something else. He turns his head, slightly, flicking a sideways glance to Micah when the other man sits beside him. He draws in a deep breath. Swallows. "-- I'd really like to kiss you, right now," he says, very quietly. "But only if you'd, um, also like that.” Micah loses the ability to breathe for a second and has to remember /how/ before he can respond. “Yes, I think that…” Oh, shut /up/. “Yes,” he reiterates simply. He leans toward Jax, but gently. He has already been inflicting pain on those poor burns today… Jax is careful, too. Almost cautious. His good hand drops to rest over Micah's, and he meets that lean, his mouth curving into a quick wide smile at Micah's answer before he remembers oh yeah, /using/ that! It's a soft kiss, gentle, careful, and by the time Jax pulls back the air around him is glowing again. Not red, this time, just a faint warm yellow in faint halo around him. Micah manages to open his eyes again after a moment and actually look at Jax. His smile shifts into the biggest, dopiest grin. “You’re glowin’,” he offers in a hazy near-whisper. Just an observation. And a giggle. The glow brightens, slightly, as does Jax's smile, wide and warm. He laughs, too, fingers curling around Micah's hand. "Happens sometimes," he says with a deep blush. "When things are -- when someone's -- when I'm feeling --" His blush deepens. "Was nice," is what he says instead. Like Micah’s one to talk. The shades of red he’s shifting through are /impressive/. “I kinda know the feelin’.” A little trembling shiver travels from that hand to his spine, a subtle movement, like a cat’s skin twitching. He winds his fingers around Jax’s hand in return. The glow around Jax's hand expands, slightly, encompassing Micah's as well. His thumb brushes slowly against the backs of Micah's knuckles, and he leans forward to rest his forehead gently against the other man's. His fingers squeeze just a little tighter around Micah's. "I should sleep," he says, sounding apologetic about this, "but I -- but you --" His cheeks flush deeply. "Thank you." Micah bends his head to meet Jax’s, nuzzling gently, again catlike. “Mmm, I think I told you to sleep a few hours ago, so it would be really /hypocritical/ of me to stop you from doin’ it now,” he muses softly, voice smoky-low since the two of them are so close together. “You gettin’ some rest is the best thanks I could get.” He pauses, as if considering his own words and deciding they weren’t quite true. “Well…maybe not /the/ best, but it’s up there.” Jackson's blush does not fade. He tilts his head, lips brushing for a moment light and soft against Micah's again. Briefer than before, but his smile afterwards lingers. "-- What's /the/ best?" he wants to know, and, with a quick grin, "cuz I can bake a mean cookie let me tell you." That little almost-kiss draws a small noise from the back of Micah’s throat, somewhere between a whimper and the beginnings of a growl. The /look/ Jax gets then is…probably adequate answer to his question. “Honey, if I don’t go /now/, you won’t be gettin’ to sleep like you should,” he admits. "Oh -- oh." This tints the glow around Jax deep red, his fingers curling tight through Micah's. Just for a moment, before, reluctantly, he lets go. "With all these," he says, fingers gesturing towards the bandages over the stippled burns down his left side, "I don't think that'd be the /good/ kinda pain. Maybe after s'healed a bit -- um. /Cookies/." His nose crinkles, his smile nearly as bright as his blush. His hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly against Micah's cheek but then dropping away again. "Right. Okay. Sleep. I -- right." For a moment he lingers close, and then with visible effort he pulls away to gingerly make himself a nest in the pile of clothes-and-sheets-and-blankets that covers his bed. “Hmm, I know,” Micah says as he nods, agreeing that it would be a /bad/ idea. “Just…burnin’ through some willpower points.” He grins, shaking his head a little, as if it to clear it /physically/. “Cookies,” he repeats with amusement. This is how new euphemisms are born. He manages to convince himself to stand up, but…pauses to lean over Jax, kissing him gently on the forehead. “Sweet dreams.” Micah /somehow/ manages the presence of mind to gather up the items he’d brought in for wound care purposes, carefully hauling the load to the door. Jackson just offers Micah a smile at this. With the burns he wears, with the houseful of injured people he's sheltering, it's probable sweet dreams this afternoon will be hit or miss. But judging by the smile before he nestles down under the blankets, probably also Micah's at least tipped the odds more in their favour.