ArchivedLogs:Flourishing

Flourishing
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jim, Melinda, Sprout
In Absentia	2014-04-18 Blossoming.
Location <NYC> Mount Sinai Hospital - Harlem
On the cutting edge of many medical technologies, Mount Sinai Hospital is often ranked as one of the nation's best hospitals. The medical school attached is one of the best in the world, meaning that even your med students know what they are doing. Chin up, then -- when you come in here badly mutilated after the latest terrible catastrophe in Times Square, you're in good hands. Labor has never been described as a serene nor soothing pasttime; it's called freaking LABOR. There's been sweating and straining, loud noise and bodily fluids. Nurses and doctors, trays wheeled in and trays wheeled out. Preparations discretely happening in the background, to collect cord and placenta, once The Main Event takes place. Possibly screaming. Definitely words of encouragement, of urging, a great deal of strain and perhaps a few long, ominous moments of silence, wherein breathing is loud and meaningful by contrast. It takes time, too. So much time. At first Jim was - not obstructive, but /lurksome/, hanging back and tight jawed, arms crossed /hard/ against his chest like the worlds tensest serial loiterist, his eyes locked on Melinda's face. It takes a nurse elbow-nudging him impatiently to knock him from his awkward hovering /trance/ and shuffling forward. And first standing alongside the bed. Then possibly slipping a hand into Melinda's in offering. Leaning over, to push her sweaty hair back from her face... and settles in from there, leaning over her bed, focused on her face and hands and -- probably just letting her /scream/ at him, really. Or /not/, just focus on her SHIT. After all the doctor's appointments and ultrasounds, he's at least had some /vague/ birthside manner explained to him by now. And from there he remains... there until too much time goes by, and no amount of stoic patience can keep a different kind of strain off. Consciously keeping organs wet and squishy is a burden when they are then trying to sustain a body that isn't entirely structured to /be/ sustained by human organs. And soon he's forced to withdraw with a few muttered words and a last squeeze on her hand. No telling how awake /Melinda/ is to even hear them. Leaving the mother alone in her room. Not alone for long, though. There are quiet shuffling steps at the door, a trail of fingers against the wall. Hive is slow as he makes his way back in, just as he was slow to make his way /out/ many hours before. He doesn't say anything; there's a heavy /touch/ of mind to mind, squeezing, pressing; it precedes the shaky touch of his /hand/ against Melinda's. He thunks down, heavy, slumping, into the chair beside her bed. He looks half asleep himself -- but isn't. That press of mind stays, lingers, bolstering up solid against her mind. And waits. There's been a lot of that, tonight. On Melinda's side, there's been a lot of grunting and crying, a lot of pushing and a bit of yelling, but she's done her best to mostly keep it to wordless expressions of exasperation. And hand squeezing. Clutching. Possibly breaking that poor, newly fleshy hand of Jim's. By the time Jim needs to take a break, Mel is desperate for one herself. She's exhausted and tired, wracked with contractions that leave her spent when she gets a free moment to breathe. When he leaves, she barely registers the words he is speaking, but does begin to panic (and probably inwardly curse his name) when she watches him leave. The kid is just... not quite out yet. She wants this done. Why isn't it done. Where is he /GOING/. Another contraction hits and she's bearing down, trying to get the kid in motion. It's noisy, it's distracting, but there's something that just clicks into place and settles the panic inside her. She doesn't see Hive come in, but she feels him inside her mind. When the pain of the moment passes, she seeks out his physical hand, turning her head toward him even though her eyes are closed by now. "The baby is crowning!" This comment is meant to encourages Melinda, but it is pretty much nonsense to her brain. << Yay. Words. They said wooords. Wake me when it's over. >> Hive's hand closes around Mel's, bonier and shakier than Jim's had been, calloused fingers curling in against hers. << Words -- kinda overrated. >> His thumb just sweeps against the back of her knuckles, the press of his mind against hers not -- actually particularly carrying much of /anything/ with it. Not encouragement or affection or anything but simple-steady /presence/, a quiet unspoken << (here) >>. << (i'm here.) >> His fingers -- don't squeeze very /well/. Mel can probably handle the squeezing part just fine. His mind is strong enough where the rest of him /isn't/. It's taken a rough lumbering bout of what was probably public arboreal homicide, potentially scaring the shit out of whoever was on the street when Jim committed it, and a moment of just. Standing there, with his brow pressed against the withering trunk, not catching is breath (he has none) so much as catching his /mind/. Then he's stalking back, the slow encroaching stalk of a roaming haunted forest, taking long ponderous strides with his eyes locked on each next goal. The door. The elevator. That turn, at the end of the hall. Then he's back into the room, turning sideways to angle around an obstructing tray. And there is Mel, on the bed. There is Mel, filling his mind with the sound of her voice and the /smell/ of birth and on his mind. And seeing Hive at her side, through all the confusion and rapid changes in the world it doesn't even surprise him because it feels (natural) right. The want of them, the relief that they're here and alive and (yell at me again; hit me with flowers; punch my mind; call me an asshole)) -- /fighting/. All of them fighting. His mind leans for Hive. /Wants/ to lean for Melinda. And he reaches for Melinda's other hand, to put physical strength alongside mental. And fills up with inner words seeming intended for both of them in one. << Stay. Just here. >> From the depth of heartwood and ancient alien depths just, it's like a prophesy. << The world is changing. >> Melinda appreciates the support, trying to hurt -- squeeze Jim's hand just a little harder as Hive's is shaking enough as it is, but she turns that concern into leaning on Hive mentally, listening for his words when things don't make sense in her ears. She pushes when the gesture at her to, when the urge is just that bad, and she stops when her strength dissipates. It's not very long after the initial crowning, perhaps three or five more contractions, but soon she's managed to nudge one tiny child out of the birth canal. There is silence at the other end, nurses looking confused at each other and the very real feeling that some of them are frowning, but behind the masks it is impossible to tell. There is a small smack and then a cry that fills the room. The child is lifted and rested very gingerly on Melinda's chest, the cord still attached. "It's a... girl," the midwife offers, a wistful little note in her voice. "Never delivered a flower before." The blanket is nudged away by Melinda's fingers as she collapses gently back onto the waiting bed. The child's skin is green and instead of hair, she has little tiny flower petals, all of them white and slowly peeling off her scalp as they dry. Hive's thin hand stays right where it is, in Mel's, though in his shaking posture as Jim returns there's a distinct moment of /withdrawing/ where it seems like he might /not/ -- stay, shifting in his chair to start to stand. Start, but not /complete/ the motion, shaking-unsteady legs unfolding to the ground but then not actually propelling him all the way upright. He slumps uncomfortably back in his chair, bony shoulders tensed up even as the rest of him just slackens down into a wilt towards the floor. Only where his hand meets Mel's (where his mind meets Mel's) does he stay constant, strong-steady against hers with small bits of relaying-message that come more in concept than in words. When to breath, when to push. << (still here.) >> The lean of Jim's mind against his finds a wall to lean /on/, and it's solid but it's /silent/, sturdy and /there/. Steadfastly strongly /there/, and past that -- past that, right now, just uncertain-quiet. Rocky-calm-blank. At least until there is a /cry/ and a cord and fingers and toes and -- /flower petals/? And he sits up straighter, drawing in a slow breath. Shaky-quiet. His fingers /finding/ some strength to curl-grasp around Melinda's, some quiet-background murmured name whispering in Thai in his mind as, over that rocky wall against Jim's mind and where his mind presses up against Melinda's, a sudden expanse of lotus flowers blossoms pure and white. "-- Oh. /Oh/." It's not feeble, the weight of Jim's mind. Slow and confused, it uses the familiar touchstone of Hive's to stay present and balanced, uses the touchstone of Melinda's /killer grip/ to stay with his human body. Twining fingers(mind) with them firm, /passionate/ and suddenly flushed with painful-fierce protectiveness that braces as it leans. A wall that spills over into gripping Melinda's hand against his forehead, bowing down to press his face against it. And lets out a shaky breath that sounds a bit /thick/, eyes welling up. The expanse of lotus flowers spreading out from Hive's mind is just - agreed with. Syncs with, as small corresponding petals open down the back of his head, over his shoulders. "Hhh-hhh. Mel--" "Would... Either of you want to cut the cord?" The midwife asks, holding out a pair of scissors. There is a container waiting, marked with official company logos of a local cord blood and placenta preservation company. Mel is allowed another minute or so more with the child before she is swept up and weighed and measured and given all of the usual infant treatment, which includes a gentle washing to remove more of the slime that sticks to her. Having had to release the fathers' hands while her newborn was on her chest, she reaches for them once more while she is away, squeezing them with affection this time and bringing their knuckles to her lips for soft and terribly aimed kisses. She's still pretty weepy, but some of the pain is subsiding, now that the bulk of the work is done. << Thank you. >> she offers, eyes heavylidded and spent. She tries mumbling it out loud, but the words are slurred and it's pretty ineffectual. Their daughter is returned with a fresh blanket and Mel releases their hands once more to hold the child close for a moment. There's a little more pushing to be done and a little more poking, but it's mostly over. Hive's hands are still shaking, when they're released. He eyes the offered scissors -- eyes his shaking hands. "Oh god I'd mangle her." He waves the scissors over to Jim, half-lidded eyes opening a little wider; he scoots his chair slightly closer to the bed, leaning in to press a small kiss to the sweatygross side of Melinda's head. And /stare/ at the tinyflower in Mel's arms with abruptly bright eyes. The blossoms in his mind open further along the solid-strong walls of his mental presence, turning towards Melinda (and another, smallergreener mind that shimmers open to the other two to be /shared/ there for a moment, opening up /this/ mind to them like another blossoming flower) in quiet yearning. He leans in, slowly-tentatively reaching out a shaking hand to draw a finger against the blanket, push it slightly aside to brush his index finger down one tiny green cheek. "Can -- I -- ?" "Khhh," this is a kind of scratchy... not-quite... laugh when Jim reaches to take the scissors when Hive gestures them to him. And then bumps a wooden gnarly hand against them, having to /push/ the skin back to the surface enough to get his fingers into the eye holes. << God we're a fucking wreck between the three of us. >> His stomach clenches to cut the cord, from some residual fear of cutting (the mother/the baby/separating the two forever). And he grips harder on the steady wall of Hive's mind to carry through with it, for support(helpneed). Looking in wonder at this strange little - thing. Life. That he is shown. Accepting it easier /from/ the depth of his plantmind, where roots shiver and flourish, petals open wider with his racing human heart. He swallows and nods at Hive's question, though looks to Melinda to make sure, leaning forward to fit an arm around her to help her sit up a trifle; to lean against him, "...christ. You're already this kid's fucking -- godfather." Some faint quicksilver flash rushes down his cheek; lost amongst the cracks in the back. And asks, "...she got a name?" Melinda shakes her head slowly, when the last of the birthing process is over. (The placenta's away! and being taken to the lab for processing and freezing.) "Hive's more... of a motherfatherperson. Need a new name. He's been talking to her as much as I have, probably more so, since he gets responses." The child moves slightly. "You can hold her. Jim?" Make it happen, dude. Mel needs a little break from the moving. "Just... she's going to be hungry soon." << See? I told you. Americans. We want names /instantly./ Have you thought at all about Solada? >> There is still thick emotion swirling around inside the new mother. Everything aches, tingles, and burns in some places. She leans against the comfort of the wooden arm, her gaze locked on the baby and Hive, watching while she rests. "Given 'em a million names. None have stuck yet." Hive is still -- staring. A shaking finger brushes against one tiny white petal, gently. He blinks hard, the lotus flowers along the bolstering supports of his mind rippling with his shaky breathing, though the actual mental /presence/ does not waver. And, slowly, /carefully/ for the bony unsteadiness of his limbs lately, he accepts the aid to transfer the tiny-new-sprout from Mel's arms to his own, leaning back to support the child against the far /steadier/ plane of his chest. << Solada? That's pretty. Jesus names so fast. I still like Saengdao. Tesanee? Probably shouldn't saddle them with a clusterfuck mouthful like I have, Americans fail at that. /Samorn/ is 'beloved', sprog is definitely that. >> After a thoughtful moment he wonders, uncertainly, << Tola. That's -- flourishing. /Prospering/. Something plants and people are both gonna need. In this city and this world. >> And after another pause, out loud, glistening-wet eyes fixed downward: "... and something we're gonna /give/." "...talking to," Jim hffs, a kind of - weaklaugh, shakylaugh, bonking the side of his head on Melinda's to transfer moisture to her already sweat-damp hair. << motherfatherperson >> in his head agrees, wearily /amused/, to see bony Hive with the delicate infant in his arms. To envision their minds touching - one so /weathered/ and hardened and aged, one so (greenyoung delicate), together on a quest, seeking her name( << - Neverending Story, Jimmy? hhaaah. >>). "Fff. Alright. She can have a million /more/ if she wants. Little. -- /bean sprout/." When he touches her, to shift her against Hive, his touch would know her plant flesh, feel her tiny defiant petal-soft life, like a second pulse in his chest. And he shakily opens this feeling to Hive in exchange, creaking, "What the hell. She's perfect." Like against the odds she /shouldn't/ be. Folding an arm around Melinda to awkwardly-- mush. Her. To him. "Tola? Flourishing. I like that. Not just hope, but kind of carrying on despite everything." Melinda reflects and nods, sighing as she watches from heavy lidded eyes. "But we've got time. We'll figure it out. Give her some time to express herself too." The little sprout is pretty hungry though and feeling kind of chilly - all of these things very strange and new and upsetting to her. Little fists wave around with no coordination and her little face searches around on Hive's chest for something to nom. << See? Motherfigure is in there somewhere. >> Jim gets a weak armed hug against his arm, sleepy happy overwhelming Mel. "Kid's expressing 'mself just fine to me. Rest of you motherfuckers just need to learn the language." What? The telepath isn't having any problems. Hive tucks the blanket around the child with the feelings of chilliness, warmer, careful. Another blink dislodges tears that he wipes against a shoulder. "Yeah. We'll -- figure it out." << /Somewhere/. But not lactating. That part's all on you. >> He'll probably turn the sprog back over to Mel for feeding. In -- /just/ another minute.