ArchivedLogs:Losing Battle

Losing Battle
Dramatis Personae Micah, Hive, Lucien	8 January 2014 Probably another bad plan? (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. Lighthaus is /warm/ on this frigid evening and smells of baking curried-stuffed sweet potatoes with particularly prominent notes of ginger. It is growing rather late, but a particularly late-running work day finds dinner still in the oven even now. Thankfully, there was a Shane with cupcakes to save the night with dessert-before-dinner foods to help with the waiting. While the oven does the work of cooking, Micah is scrubbing off the last of the dishes that were used in food prep, his fingertips a little turmeric-dyed for the effort. He has the sleeves of his pale purple henley shirt rolled up /almost/ to the hems of the sleeves of the T-shirt over it, this one black with a Firefly flying through an interpretation of Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' on it. His faded jeans are colourfully patched, socks decorated in little rainbow Space Invaders. He is humming quietly to himself while he scrubs a frying pan. Hive is -- a particularly unhelpful houseguest when it comes to the making of dinner. At some point earlier today before work he did clean! Though evidence of this was mostly in -- the scrubbed-clean kitchen and not in actually /seeing/ him work; he's been locked back in his (or Micah's, really) room again since returning from work himself. But the siren call of -- actually it's not dinner that lures him out, it's Not Enough Caffeine. He trudges out of his room in khakis, a black-and-grey plaid button down, thick black socks, his hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes are lazily half-lidded as they often are; it gives him a perpetually sleepy expression even when his mind is very /keenly/ awake. "Gonna have company," he tells Micah. Sort-of-informing. Sort-of-apologizing. And look at that! Right on cue, here is a knock. Three times, small, /polite/, at the door. Outside, Lucien is already starting to shed winter layers. Warm wool peacoat draped over an arm; he's unwinding his green-and-black cashmere scarf to drape it there, too. Soft leather gloves still in place. Beneath the coat he's dressed rather elegantly for a casual visit, a well-tailored three-piece suit and polished oxfords, all black on black on black. Micah rinses the soap from the pan and sets it in the drying rack before rinsing his /hands/ and setting them to a dish towel. "Hey, you're out!" he greets brightly, pleased to see Hive /not/ shut in a dark room. He takes three steps toward the other man before hesitating and asking, << Hug? >> rather than just hugging him right out. "Company?" is what he asks aloud, however. He doesn't sound like he was looking for an apology, certainly. "Well, they showed up in time for dinner, provided they wanna hang out long enough for it t'finish." He continues walking over to the door, opening it for Lucien with another bright smile forming in time with recognition. "Luci, hi! Pleasant surprise." He gestures the other man in and takes his coat and scarf to hang up rather a great deal more carefully than it typical for him. "Yeah. I -- actually met with a client today." Hive sounds surprised at this, himself. "Like. One that wants to pay me money." His head shakes slightly, hand reflexively lifting to brush through his hair, though his hair's been neatly ponytailed and is slightly resistant to the thread of fingers. There's a beat of hesitation at the question, shoulders tightening faintly, but he steps in to curl a bony arm around Micah. He releases the other man at the knock, continuing into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee brewing. "Company," he agrees. "Yo. Lucien. Jesus, you look fancy." << House is bugged. >> His mental projection comes as it always does with a hard spike of stabbing pain; by now the reminder is just /reflexive/ to anyone who walks in the door. "Bonsoir." Lucien tips his head in greeting as he enters, murmuring a quiet thanks as Micah takes his winter gear; he removes his hat and gloves as well, tucking them into coat pockets before relinquishing the bunch. His teeth clench at the telepathic intrusion, expression tightening as he stoops to pull off his shoes and leave them by the door. There's a lancing-sharp spike of pain in return, one that courses through /him/ (with a harder clenching of jaw), more than severe enough to be picked up by nearby psionics. It's reflexive too, though. It fades shortly, Lucien's face just a /little/ paler than before. "Work often requires it," he answers (still through slightly clenched teeth. "Your apartment smells lovely, Micah." "When /don't/ he look fancy?" Micah teases as he hangs the winter gear and closes the closet door. "Okay, maybe /fancier/ t'night." He smiles and blushes faintly at Lucien's compliment. "Thanks, hon. S'dinner in the oven...little on the late side since my day got shifted down a fair bit on account of a meetin' at Spence's school this mornin'. Can I get you somethin'? Tea, cocoa, juice?" His host-prattle is interrupted by Lucien's pained expression, his own turning abruptly concerned. "You okay, honey?" Hive draws in a sharp breath, eyes squeezing shut as he slumps back against the counter. "{Mother/fucker/.}" He bites off the profanity in sharp Thai, angry-cursing /tone/ clear enough, at least. "Gnnnh. The fuck did you want to talk to me about, then." There's a small meaningless twitch at the corner of Lucien's mouth, not pronounced enough to tell if it is smile or otherwise. "Delightful," he murmurs, lining his shoes neatly against the wall and standing. "I never say no to tea. Forgive me for calling late, Micah, I had --" His green eyes slice across to Hive, hands spreading. "Business. You know, it is polite to ask before you push yourself into another -- are things alright with Spencer?" His attention falls back to Micah as he drifts further in to take a seat on the living-room side of the counter, taking off his suit jacket to drape it over the back of the chair. The concern at Lucien's jaw-clenching gets amplified and turned at Hive with his louder reaction. "Are /you/ okay? What's goin' on?" It takes Micah a moment to put things together. "Can't you boys just play nice? We got enough hurt goin' 'round without all that nonsense." He frowns, cheeks abruptly colouring at Lucien's word choice in reprimanding Hive. "Ain't late enough t'need apologisin'. You're more'n welcome t'stay for dinner if y'can spare the time for it." He pads over to the tea cabinet, pulling the door open. "Y'got a preference for tea variety...?" Yet another frown tugs at Micah's lips. "No, not really. Kids at school been givin' 'im a hard time 'bout Jax. He hit another kid an'...at least it's only an in-school suspension an' not bein' chucked out altogether, but...he's upset about it on top of what already happened. Ain't never really been in trouble at school before." "Tsss," Hive hisses out sharply between his teeth at Lucien's reply. "Like /you're/ one to fucking talk, do you even know a --" << single fucking person whose brain /you/ haven't gorram raped, it's no /less/ unasked for just because it feels /good/. >> He switches back to mental talk halfway through his sentence, broadcast to Lucien and Micah both. << And I can ask or I can just /talk/ about your brain-fucking for all the FBI recordings to hear. >> He pulls himself upright, pulling out mugs from the cabinet. "Little bastards. Even if it /was/ true, the fuck does Spencer have to do with any of it." "Some variety of oolong, if I may. Preferably unflavoured." Lucien's eyes track after Micah, watching that sudden colouring with a small tilt of head. His hands fold on the countertop, lips pressing together at the mention of Spencer. "I cannot imagine how hard it is on the children. Spencer -- hardly seems the type for troublemaking. Except perhaps ill-advised science experiments. And Desi tells me the twins have not been to school all week." His jaw clenches faintly again at Hive's ever-abrasive mental voice, but he only inclines his head this time in mild acceptance. << Very well. We should have to talk this way anyway, I suppose. I need your assistance. >> And Hive's typical delicate wordsmithing guarantees that Micah is going to be staying red for awhile. He ducks into the tea cabinet with the vey convenient excuse of having to search out a particular tin of oolong. "Don't know how we can expect the kids t'be actin' any better when full-grown adults can't keep their heads t'gether enough not t'be makin' threats at the twins or throwin' things at me. Ain't remotely fair, but it also ain't a surprise." He locates the appropriate tin and pulls down three mugs. Apparently Hive needs tea, too. "No...the boys...tried t'go back over the weekend an' didn't make it a day without gettin' into fights, either. I /had/ been a little more hopeful--" << --that /their/ school might be more understandin', considerin'. I mean, they know an' love Jax there. An' they should be sympathetic to the Prometheans with /so many/ of them there. If any place was ever gonna be okay... It don't make me too hopeful 'bout our whole attempt t'sway public opinion t'help get Jax out, it... >> One of his hands has gripped rather tightly to the edge of the counter and he notes this now, forcing his fingers open and returning to measuring out tea, calmly filling the tea pot and setting it to heat. "Their school's full of teenagers," Hive answers in a grunt. "/They're/ teenagers, god help them. Sometimes forget it, they never really got to be fucking -- kids." He moves over to drop down into a chair at the kitchen table, elbow propped on it and his forehead dropping into a palm. His eyes close at the mental conversation from the others; his mind /squeezes/ uncomfortably in at either of them as he rebroadcasts silent conversation between the others. << My assistance? >> His brows raise, a slow hiss of breath forced out between teeth and lower lip. << ... I guess I kind of owe you. After. Everything. Help with /what/? >> "No. I suppose not surprising." Though there's a tinge of disappointment to Lucien's quiet tone all the same. "/Throwing/ things, that is rather gauche. I do hope it dies down once you are a little farther removed from that video. Though I believe at least, you and Jackson have helped to provide -- some semblance of the childhood they lacked." << Quite a bit, >> Lucien's dry reply comes, on the subject of Hive owing him. << But this time I imagine it might benefit you just as much. You had -- for some time, a number of Promethean employees in your grip, non? >> "I don't know...people are hurtin' bad an' Malthus just stuck Jax's picture up on a bull's eye an' told 'em all t'have at. Gave 'em permission t'put it all on one person, an' people are takin' it. They can't get t'him, thank goodness, but we're nice substitutes, I guess. 'Specially the twins. They got harassed constantly /before/ all this." Micah's head shakes a little at the idea of twins getting to have any kind of childhood. "Gave 'em a family, maybe. But they ain't never got t'just be kids. Ain't never really goin' to. Y'don't /get/ to when you've got all that in your head an' are convinced the world hates you an' wants you dead with /pretty/ good evidence t'the argument." << I couldn't bring m'self t'even /tell/ 'em t'go back t'school. They already were thinkin' people were awful an' school was pointless /before/ all this. I feel like a fraud tryin' t'tell 'em any different. >> He finally quiets, staring down at the mugs and waiting for the water to heat, letting the others discuss their business. "Yeah, the world kind of does want them dead," Hive agrees heavily. "Might be almost a blessing for Jax to be in solitary for -- now." Though his unhappy grimace shows how much he doesn't really agree with this. "You're a shitty substitute, man, you're a fucking. Human cripple who builds legs for kids with disabilities who the hell thinks /that's/ a good target. You're like the poster child for the worst person ever to punch, there's no way to do it without just looking like a jackass." << People are awful. And school's pretty fucking pointless for them. Just a distraction from how shitty the world is, I guess. But when /it's/ shitty, too, what's the point? -- Yeah. >> His teeth grind briefly, fingers rubbing at the side of his head, dislodging a few strands of hair from his ponytail. << I had a crapton. Just a fucking -- metric. Shitton. Was spreading out. Trying to find -- >> His eyes narrow. << I had a lot. >> "The twins do make for more socially acceptable punching bags," Lucien admits wryly, eyes sweeping over Micah briefly. "Except durable or not, they are /very/ small. That is its own misstep." His eyes lower, across the counter to watch the heating kettle. "I suppose," he muses, lashes lowering to half-shade his eyes, "that it is rather hard. To get back, after -- enough trauma." His eyes fix on the teapot, a very small smile curling his lips at Hive's answer. << Good. How many can you find again? How many could you /take/ again? >> "Think people are pretty sure I went sick in the head an' helped m'mutant husband kill their loved ones. S'a lot better of a target then. Kinda /helps/ when y'don't gotta worry too much about the target comin' back after you, though. For certain kindsa people." Micah's jaw clenches as Lucien describes the twins being better recipients of violence. "Yeah. Small, abused /children/. If y'look at it right, which one's the worse t'be goin' after now?" His arm reaches out, hand twisting the knob on the stove to turn off the heat. Gathers the tea pot, fills the mugs, returns the pot. Swipes at a timer on his phone before shoving it back in his pocket. << No. /No/, Lucien. That's not a fair thing t'ask 'im. Alla that's been hard enough on 'im an' now he still ain't recovered from the last... You seen what this all has done prob'ly more'n anybody. >> His eyes lock on Lucien with a look of mingled fear for Hive and /disappointment/ that Lucien would even begin to ask such a thing. "You are kind of sick in the head, dude," Hive answers, "but if anything it's because you care too fucking /much/." Hive's jaw clenches, too, at Lucien's statement about the twins, the squeeze of his mind tightening briefly. "They're children." His voice drops lower, with this. "Tough skin and they talk big but they're scared. Hurt. /Children/." He draws in a slooow breath with this last question. His eyes press closed. His fingers rub at his head again, shoulders tightening, and he does not answer. "If you look at it /right/," Lucien agrees mildly, expression unchanging through the others' tension. "Which society rarely does. In the public eye they have largely been small inhumanly /strong/ monsters. These videos at least should -- shed some light on the abused part. It will take a greater PR effort to make them see the /children/ part clearly." His half-lidded eyes open wider as Hive's close, looking between the other two men. << I am, >> he accedes, also mildly, << /well/ aware of its toll. I am also well aware of my own abilities to mitigate it. And of Jackson's /chances/ if this ridiculous case against him proceeds. Do you imagine it will be a /fair/ trial? Malthus Rogers is far from the only person who would go to great lengths to destroy the very idea of a mutant hero. With the publicity so far we have already gathered the tinder but we still need to light the match. >> Micah leans against the counter, waiting for the timer on his phone to go off. << Don't think you're mitigatin' near as much as y'think you are. >> He darts a somewhat guilty glance at Hive before looking back at Lucien. << We can't just keep breakin' 'im over an' over an' expect 'im t'come out of it, no matter how much y'patch 'im up. We never even give 'im a chance t'get back t'the /last/ level of not-quite-healed he was at before we push 'im again. >> He turns back to Hive at this. << Honey, we can't...keep askin' y'to do this. >> Hive grunts unhappy acknowledgment of Lucien's assessment of societal views on the twins. "Well. You're the PR guy." The heel of his hand presses to his head, shoulders clenched tense enough now that a faint tremble ripples through them. << I'd be worse than dead if not for him, >> he reminds -- a little bit grudgingly. His teeth grind again through the talk of Jax's chances, eyes squeezing tight. << You have any better ideas, Micah? >> His tone here is uncomfortable. Un/happy/. << It would take a little while. A lot of them are farther away. Other states. I can reach but I have to -- >> He swallows. << But I can get to quite a few. What do you need? >> "And what a sad state we are in when I am the most /socially acceptable/ of the lot." Lucien's lips twitch up a little wryly. << Mmm. Alright. You convince the world to take a break from all this. Call truce for a while, perhaps? And then everyone can have a nice vacation. But until then -- >> His hand turns upward. << I need everything you can give me. Information on their lives. Their mindsets. Their sympathies. This project is widespread; I cannot imagine every individual working for it is a conscience-less monster. I need to find the ones who might be swayed to gather /hard/ evidence. As yet, all we have are the personal accounts of individuals -- all mutants, people are horrified but also predisposed to give their /word/ less weight. Employees -- /human/ employees, with video, records, gods forbid even bodies. Something tangible. But we need to /get/ to these people first. And make them come forward. >> << Y'don't have t'tell me about wantin' t'save /him/, Hive. I couldn't /possibly/ understand that any more than I do. >> Micah's phone buzzes in his pocket and he pushes a button to stop it. The echo of the intense anxious-protective-sad-sick-angry-desperate realisation of what /he/ had to do to save Jax is harder to stop. He tries to bury the thought in tending the tea. << But y'sure don't have t'tell me what this has been doin' t'/you/, either. >> Though /that/ comes with an entirely different wave of guilt to suppress. Delivering tea is also a convenient thing that needs doing. << I know...I prob'ly won't be able t'convince /either/ of you not t'do this. Help me, but I don't...I ran out of ideas m'self an' /those/ all went so well. I think I don't get t'make decisions anymore. I practically...need t'check out to a surrogate decision maker 'cause clearly I'm not even workin' on the sense I was born with anymore. >> His head gives a tired shake instead of any further argument. << You help him first, though, >> he demands of Lucien when he places the tea mug in front of him. << If you're gonna /ask/ this of him an' he's gonna do it? You need t'help put 'im back together more before y'break 'im again. So maybe there'll be somethin' /left/ t'fix once this is over. >> For some reason, this thought just trails off into a prolonged feeling of /apology/, even if it isn't put to words, spoken, silent, or otherwise. << This is killing all of us. >> Hive's jaw tightens at the sick-angry-desperate-guilty feelings from Micah. << In different ways. Maybe that's just how things are always going to be. >> Hive wraps his fingers around his tea, cupping them there to enjoy the mug's warmth. << I meant Lucien, >> he corrects Micah uncomfortably. << Think I'd still just be a vegetable if -- >> He exhales a heavy breath through his nose, his bony fingers trembling against the mug. << I can't just force them. I mean, or I /can/ but once I let them go they may or may not -- realize they'd been fucked with. All of them have worked with telepaths, it'd be dangerous to /make/ them do something they weren't leaning towards already. But, information -- I can get you. >> His /expression/ twists up into something more sickened, at this. "Think I'm not really that hungry, though," he mutters, chair legs scraping against the ground as he pushes back from the table. << That all you needed? Won't happen overnight. >> "Life does have a way of doing that. To everyone, eventually." Lucien answers this first thought aloud in dry murmur, taking his tea with a nod of thanks and drawing it in close. He lowers his eyes to his cup, a very faint tension in the line of his jaw. << Ask this of him. Goodness, Micah, you act as though I do this all for my /own/ gain. This is not my fight. If /I/ walk away, I return to a very /comfortable/ life with little political /turbulence/ and not a single person trying to kill me. These people tortured him. Stole years of his life. Rewrote his brain. Kidnapped and tortured and murdered his family. /I/ am not asking Hive a /favour/. I am giving him an /opportunity/. It is his to take or leave. >> The clench to his jaw slips away. His forefinger traces slowly along the rim of his mug. << No. Forcing them would be unwise. A subtler touch, perhaps, than yours. Thankfully, I can be quite persuasive. Find them for me. Tell me which might be most suitably inclined. You lead me to the right people and I am more than capable of motivating some of them. And if you /can/ manage that without compromising yourself again, all the better. It's the information I need. Not your -- more heavy-handed touch. >> << Sorry...I didn't. Mean it that way. I'm sorry. I know you're all just tryin' t'make it less /bad/ an'... I should prob'ly just stop...bein' around people for awhile. At least should stop tryin' t'help. Sure as hell need t'stop tryin' t'protect people. >> Much of this is the mental equivalent of muttering to himself as Micah gathers his mug and retreats to the beanbag he's been claiming most frequently as a bed, letting the planning happen and trying not to even listen to it. << Fff. Don't you fucking dare. You need people. And people need /you/. >> Hive's hands clench tight around his mug, but he lets it go as he stands up, abruptly. << Fine. >> Just that, short and sharp. << You help put my brain back together first though or I'll be shitall use to you. >> Though right this /minute/ he is just retreating. Rubbing at his head like it has a giant headache as he turns back to the bedroom. Lucien, too, lifts his hand, pinching forefinger and thumb at the bridge of his nose as Hive departs. When the door closes behind Hive, he picks up his mug. Retreats to the living room as well, to sit on the floor, near but not quite by Micah's beanbag. "Micah --" His voice is quieter than before. More tired than before. "I do not think any of us really know. Exactly what we are /doing/ here. We grasp at straws and chase every will-o-wisp that comes by and hope to all the gods we do not get lost. Or lose everyone else who is depending on us." Micah curls into a tighter ball on the beanbag, not looking up. “Sor--” He makes a frustrated sound and buries his face in his knees. “Y'really, really don't want me helpin' anymore. I'm not... I know it /sounds/ like I'm tryin' t'throw a pity party, but I'm not. I wish people would /stop/ feelin' bad for me an' /stop/ havin' t'hear what's in my head, an' just... I keep makin' everythin' worse. I'm not bein' dramatic. I am...literally. Every time I try t'help, makin' things heapin' piles of worse. An' the worst of it is that this is /literally/ all my fault. I started it. I wouldn't /be/ flailin' tryin' t'fix things if I hadn't /broken/ 'em all t'start.” He takes a deep breath, swallowing back the near-constant threat of tears that is resurfacing once more. “I should...prob'ly go somewhere. The food'll be done in a few minutes so I can take it out of the oven. Then I should...go somewhere. I'm hurtin' him just with my /mind/ bein' here like this an' I've hurt 'im enough lately. An' if I start...cryin' again I can't...Spence is gonna need t'come an' eat an' he doesn't need that t'deal with, either. Or the twins...” "Do I seem particularly given to sympathy, Micah?" Lucien's brows raise, eyes fixing on Micah calmly. "You did not start this. Prometheus started it. Malthus Rogers started it. Drink your tea. Cry, if you must. And then pull yourself together and eat dinner with your /children/ because whatever stress you think you are introducing into their lives they have dealt with a million times worse. And I can assure you --" His fingers press tighter against his mug, nailbeds draining of colour. "That to children who have never had --" A brief curl of tension threads through his jaw. "The world will continue to be terrible, Micah. They are well aware. They need you -- here. Hurting or not. More than they need to be shielded from all this." “Not especially,” Micah answers his knees, not uncovering his face. “But everyone else... I just keep hurtin' everyone else an' they're all hurtin' so /bad/ already an' so much of /that/ was my fault, /too/.” He grits his teeth until the grinding is audible, a tense creaking noise, refusing to start...fucking...crying...again. “I need t'stop talkin' about this before I say somethin' I can't say here.” He leans heavily on the 'here', thinking of the ongoing surveillance. “Please, just do everythin' y'can for 'im before he starts...doin' what he does. Or we're gonna lose him, too.” Lucien presses his lips thinly together, fingers still clenching at his cup. He lifts it to take a long slow swallow of tea, eyes slipping closed as he lets the drink roll down his throat. He sets the cup aside on the ground, rising to his knees to move closer to Micah. Rest his fingers at the other man's temples. "Everyone is hurting. And everyone fucks up. I see your family when they are with you. You do them far more good than harm. And the mistakes you make -- what matters is how you rectify them afterwards. So get up. I will tend to Hive. You tend /yourself/ so that you can tend your family." This comes with more than just idle suggestion, but also a powerful /flood/ of calm. Washing away tears and angry-sick-guilt and burying them thoroughly under a more steady-/stable/ frame of mind. For now, at least. "Guilt is by far one of the most useless emotions," he mutters, half to himself with this. "Nodon't!" Micah pulls away when he first feels the touch to his head, as if Lucien's fingers will burn him with the contact. "Don't," he reiterates, "touch me when I'm like this. I don't /want/ y'to feel it an' I'm not...it's not good for people t'feel what I'm feelin'." Regardless of how much of Lucien's push makes it through, Micah does stand. He doesn't /look/ at Lucien but retreats into the kitchen where the oven timer is alarming. Fetches potholders, turns off the oven, retrieves the casserole dish. And spends a minute just looking at it once it is sitting on the stove, as if he's forgotten what to do next. "Sor--" Quiet. "Apologies, I didn't mean...I don't. I just don't mean anythin' anymore," he offers softly before fetching plates. Flatware. Cups of water. Mechanically setting the table with his eyes half-closed. Lucien does not shy away from the contact; his lips press together when Micah pulls back. He picks up his mostly-full mug, carrying it back over to deposit it on the counter so that he can take his suit jacket from its chair and shrug back into it. "I do not think it is overly good for /you/ to feel what you are feeling, Micah." He heads back to the entryway to retrieve his outerwear from the closet. "Goodnight." “Prob'ly not,” Micah admits softly, placing a glass of water on the table without turning. “Goodnight.” In the entrance, turning to leave, Lucien cannot be seen. But the sharp breath he exhales at this sounds rather disgusted. The door closes quietly behind him as he heads back out.