ArchivedLogs:Feelings Are Awkward

Feelings Are Awkward
...especially when some of them /might/ be the brainworms.
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Micah, Iolaus	10 November 2013 Test subjects and researchers regroup, sort of. (Part of Infected TP.)
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. It's late Sunday, by now. Quiet, inside and out. Some are sleeping, for once. And outside the doors there are no zombies, at the moment, just a whole lot of gore where an enormous mass of zombies used to be. Lucien is in the cafeteria. It's not exactly gourmet cuisine he's whipped up, composed entirely of what scavenged food Dusk and Shane have dropped by the clinic, but it's better than the junk food from the vending machines. Stew, of some sort. Peas and potatoes and corn and tomatoes and carrots. Largely frozen. The lone pot looks lonely in the industrial kitchen. It simmers still on low on the stove. Lucien has moved out to the cafeteria proper, and though he's retrieved bowls to bring dinner down to his family, at the moment he's just kind of leaning against a table, blank-eyed and silent. The sounds and smells of someone working in the kitchen draw Micah in from the hallway. He is carrying one of his neon orange forearm crutches in one hand, just by the hand grip, much of it spattered with dried blood. He is cleaner now, at least, dressed in some spare set of pale blue scrubs that someone found for him to replace the blood-caked and torn mess of the clothing he had arrived in. His hair, though tousled, is also free of blood. His arms still sport a number of suspiciously bite-shaped bruises and reddened splotches of healing burns. Micah is well into the cafeteria before he notices Lucien standing at the table. He comes to an abrupt halt, just watching and biting at his lip. Iolaus' entrance comes not long after Micah's, though he doesn't look at either Micah or Lucien. He heads straight to the wall to pour himself a fresh cup of coffee. Or, rather, a new cup of coffee made long ago. It doesn't seem to bother the doctor, though, as he takes a long swig and places the mug down on the countertop with a bit more force than might be strictly necessary. It's only after he's swallowed - choked down - a mouthful of the caffeinated sludge that he looks up, somewhat blearily, at his surroundings. At Lucien, and Micah. He blinks a few times, then rubs at his eyes before raising his hand in a weak salute. "Hello, Lucien. Micah." Lucien has yet to shower. He's in the same jeans and dark shirt that he's been wearing for a good while now, face still pale, eyes shadowed, his normally artfully-messy hair now just /messy/-messy. "There is stew. You should eat. It even has garlic. Onions. It is not entirely unlike real food." He says this all without moving, or looking up. When attention is drawn to him, Micah's cheeks flush abruptly redder than the vaguely-sunburnt tone they have borne of late. "I was just...gettin' my..." He holds up the bloody crutch by way of illustration. "It was down...um. I left it in the hall when..." He winces, the expression matching his somewhat folded-inward posture. "I mean. Ohgosh, I'm s--" His eyes widen as he catches himself, folding his right hand into a fist and rubbing it in a circle over his heart instead. Even for those not familiar with it, the gesture certainly /looks/ contrite. "You've been cookin'. Y'shouldn't have to... Y'must be dragged down past exhausted'n back by now," Micah /frets/ at the other man but doesn't move any closer. Iolaus glances between the two other men, his eyes moving slowly. They close for a minute as a yawn splits his face and an arm comes up to cover his lips. "This latest medication makes me nauseous. But..." He looks over at the food, a conflicted look on his face. "Real garlic does sound good." Iolaus does not hesitate to walk forward past Lucien into the kitchen to spoon himself a shallow bowl of the stew. He comes back out and glances between the other two men, teeth worrying at his bottom lip for a moment. One hand rises to scratch at the crook of his left arm, nails flashing against the bruised skin through the thin cloth of his scrubs. "Let me take that for you, Luci'. I'll go bring it down to the kids." he offers, voice quiet. "You should get some rest." His voice is tired, soft, scratchy yet sweet. "And eat." "I have been cooking." Lucien is quiet, still. His fingers clench down hard against the table, the muscles in his arms flexing as his weight shifts slowly against them. "The cooking is over, now. You may as well eat the food. The work part is passed." His head turns, slowly, to look at the others, eyes skimming slowly down over them and then back to his table. "Don't scratch at that, you'll only worsen the bruising. -- Are you feeling nauseated as well, Micah?" Though his brows furrow after asking this question: "-- I cannot tend to that for you. We need to know all the side effects." Micah's brows stay huddled together tightly, as if for warmth. "We'll...have t'make sure y'get rest when y'can, then. I'm--" He grimaces, letting out a slow breath before continuing. "I apologise y'ended up doin' this. I...ain't been thinkin' straight enough t'be as much help as I should've." He fidgets with the crutch, sliding its end back and forth along the floor over about a two inch square space. "Maybe?" he sounds uncertain answering the question. "It's hard t'say with all the...everythin'. An' thinkin' about...things. Keeps givin' me a queasy feelin'. Don't know as it's anythin' t'blame on the meds., though." He shakes his head at Lucien's comment. "Shouldn't be tendin' nothin' like /nausea/, Lucien. Y'need t'be restin' yourself up. Only doin' the things as /direly/ need doin'. You're gonna run yourself out." "Lucien," Iolaus says, softly, a hand rising to press to the other man's back before he stops, as if against glass, a few inches away, and then drops back down to his side. "You need to rest. I might be a test subject for you, Lucien, but I'm still a doctor. Stop worrying about the side-effects and rest. Take the rest of the day off, and pick up tomorrow. Parley needs the rest as well, I'm sure, and we have models to run through before we'll have more tests to run." The doctor's voice is soft and soothing, the kind of even tone you might give to a wild animal, but it is blemished by tiredness. "Let me take the food down to your family, and then why don't you go get some sleep?" He looks at Micah, one side of his lips twitching once, pressing just a hair firmer together. "You need to rest. You need your strength for what's to come. We can't afford to lose you." "Parley has left. If there is any rest to be /found/ lately, perhaps he is finding it." Lucien's shoulders twitch forward, a tiny but irritable motion when Iolaus's hand nears. "You are a doctor, Iolaus. You are not /my/ doctor. I am perfectly capable of tending my family. Go tend your own affairs." He pulls himself up to sit on a table, feet resting on one of the chairs pulled up to it. "In the past few days, Micah, you have been pumped so full of drugs and so much /fuller/ of stress I am honestly impressed you are thinking at all. The first shipments of medication are being distributed tomorrow, though. For what it is worth, some good is coming of all this." “Good. He should do that. We been overextendin' everybody,” Micah murmurs at the news about Parley. He can't quite bring himself to look /away/ from Lucien, but neither is he meeting the other man's eyes. “Maybe I'm not. Or haven't been. I don't...even know. Everythin's kinda horrible an' surreal at the same time. S'gettin' clearer now, I guess.” The crutch continues to scuff against the ground, the way a guilty child might scuff the toe of his shoe. “It's gotten t'distribution,” he sighs out, that much a relief, at least. “Thank goodness. For all of you. Doin' this work.” Iolaus takes a step back when the other man twitches, almost as if Lucien had raised his hand to strike. "As you say, Lucien," he says, and there is a tone of hurt underlying his voice, hiding underneath the exhaustion and the softness. "Progress is being made. Hopefully, we will have more progress soon, and then we can get this c-city back on the track to normality." There is only the slightest hitch in his tone, but it is noticeable enough for him to scowl down into his bowl of soup. "Damn. Definitely more progress to be made." His retreat is a quick one, his farewell said with his back turned and already stepping towards the door. "Micah. Lucien." At the frame of the door, he turns back to look at the two men remaining for only a moment before he slips through the doors and vanishes down the hall. Lucien's jaw tightens, at the note of hurt in Iolaus's tone. He doesn't answer the doctor. He leans forward, resting elbows on his knees, and his hand drops slowly into his palm as he exhales. "It has. Did you know that Dr. Toure's family owns one of the world's largest pharmaceutical companies? Certainly a boon with mass-production." His fingers are shaking slightly as he drops his hands, laces fingers together. "We still have a ways to go before this treatment becomes a /cure/, though. I do not suppose you and Jackson are staying any longer? I cannot imagine it is – pleasant." Micah flinches as Iolaus catches on his words, as if someone means to strike him. He does manage a weak wave as the doctor makes his exit. "Have a good night." He takes a few steps toward Lucien's table, almost within reach of the nearest chair. "I didn't know that. That's incredibly useful." His head shakes at the question of staying, at least at first. "Not...not both of us. Someone's gotta...one of us actually has t'go home an' see t'Spence. He is /so/ scared, an' can't even keep himself in one place. An' Jax...this is pretty much the worst thing. After what he's been through." The hand not gripping the crutch rakes through his hair roughly. "I can stay. If y'need me to." "I imagine it is where his fortune comes from. It certainly does not come from that clinic of his." Lucien's eyes follow Micah closer. He shifts one foot off of the chair nearest him, turning to push an adjacent one out from the table towards Micah. "Jackson takes to it well, at least. He is habituated already to the processes." His eyes don't leave Micah, just fixing there for -- a while, kind of blank with only a small repetitive twitch of his fingers. He closes his eyes after, giving his head a very small shake. "Your family -- needs you, I imagine. There is no shortage of infected in Manhattan. I am sure we will find more subjects to work with." Micah is in the middle of nodding at the information regarding Rasheed when Lucien pushes the chair out. He startles, just enough to interrupt the motion, to tense the muscles in his back, his fingers wrapping tighter around the handgrip of the crutch. He does move forward, slowly, sitting almost gingerly in the offered chair. “He doesn't. He really doesn't.” Micah frowns briefly, thinking of the dream projections Jax /usually/ has. And those that have been that much worse recently. “I'll leave it up t'the team here. You...already have data on me. Jax should go. I...can stay. If they need me.” "Most drug trials are conducted on more than one or two subjects," Lucien murmurs wryly. "Though we work with what we can get." Slowly, his fingers unlace; his hands are still a little shaky when he rubs at the bridge of his nose with forefinger and thumb. His head turns to rest cheek against the palm of his hand. "Is there something you wish to say to me, Micah? Because all this requires me working rather intimately with your brain. The days will be very long if you remain this tense around me." “I don't want t'hinder the study in any way. People need this an' /fast/. The kids...all need this.” Micah slumps into the chair finally, exhaustion apparent on his features. “No,” he answers in a small voice. “No. Lucien. It's not...you. Well, it is. But it isn't.” His lips thin in frustration. “It's me. I don't...I can't /trust/ myself yet. This thing is still in my head. I don't remember half the things I /did/ in the past few days an' don't /want/ t'remember the things I /do/. An' I can't trust anythin' I feel or felt about any of it because of this...damned.../thing/.” He props the crutch up agains the table, but not very carefully. It slides to the floor with a soft clatter. “I am incredibly angry at you an' I don't know if I should be. Or if I even /am/. An' I... I /know/ I attacked Dusk. I don't /think/ I even had a good reason for doin' it. What am I s'posed t'do with that?” "Tomorrow. There will be supplies tomorrow. I would be surprised if a few boxes of medicine did not find their way here to be distributed to -- everyone. Your family. Whoever you wish." Lucien's eyes follow the slide of crutch to the floor, his lips pressing thin together. "Anger is not always rational even without an illness. What /do/ you do with it? Jackson prays." His feet swing down to the ground, and he slides off of the table to stand shakily on the floor. "What you should do is first eat dinner. The rest can come – next." "As amazin' an' wonderful as that /is/. It's not a cure. We still need one." Micah shakes his head at the next question. "I...can't. I can't process it if I don't even know if it's from me or not. Got no judgement t'/use/. Can't trust memory or feelin'. Got no strictly objective facts t'parse. So it's just...here. If I knew it was all the illness I'd try t'make it go away. If I knew it wasn't I'd try t'work through that. But I don't...know. Anythin'. An' I don't trust myself too close t'you with this bein' what it is. An' knowin' what I did t'Dusk. So. If I stay. Prob'ly I should be restrained when you're workin' with me. Okay?" He nods in answer to his /own/ question, as well as acquiescing to Lucien's recommendation. "I should get food. Bring food t'Jax. Thank you for cookin'. Y'shouldn't. If I stay. I can do it. Don't need me for anythin' more than a pincushion anyhow." He bites down on his lip. "If y'do. End up pokin' around in my head more. I apologise in advance. I'm...not even sure I'm thinkin' what I'm thinkin' an' it's prob'ly not fair either way." "I killed your fiance. I imagine you are thinking a lot." But whatever it is will have to wait. Lucien is just going to the kitchen, to take one of the remaining bowls and fill it with stew for Micah. Soon enough there will be work again. But for now, dinner.