ArchivedLogs:Needling

Needling
Dramatis Personae Hive, Micah, Jax, Doug, Flicker	10 May 2014 Insulin is /totally/ sexy.
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. It's been a dreary grey day and it's turning into a dreary wet night, rain pattering down against the windows and slickening the sidewalks outside. In here it's cozy dry, though, bright and warm and full of chatter. Well, lots of the tables are full of chatter, anyway. Off to the side the large table Flicker and Hive have commandeered for themselves is dead quiet -- with Columbia's exam period started yesterday and continuing all through this week, Flicker just looks wired and underslept as he forges ahead to the end of the semester. Neatly dressed in teal button-down and black corduroys, he has an organic chemistry textbook open beside him, his laptop in front of him, a large cup of hot cocoa sitting next to all that and rather prominent dark shadows beneath his eyes. A crutch is propped up against the empty chair next to him; he's stretched his leg out to drape across Hive's lap. Hive, for his part, has left his scooter in the corner behind the table and is sitting in a comfortable armchair at it, slumped tiredly forward over /his/ laptop. Nominally working, too, at least there's some sort of designs up on his screen though his glassy-vacant eyes aren't entirely focused. He has a similarly large cup of coffee, still steaming, as yet untouched. He's dressed somewhat /slouchier/ than Flicker, baggy jeans, a (new!) t-shirt with a picture of the Death Star reading 'ceci n'est pas une lune' beneath it. His head has lolled forward into his hand, fingers scrunched up into his short scruff of hair. Micah is back to using his crutches in the slippery-wet outside, not quite trusting himself on slick surfaces without the balance assistance. He has his olive newsboy cap and army green canvas jacket on to fend of the rain, a plain navy T-shirt and faded jeans on beneath them. His auburn hair is spiked and curling around his hat from the damp. Pushing the door open, he holds it for Jax to follow in behind, then makes his way over to Hive and Flicker's table with a little wave. Hive gets an extra back-pat and small kiss to the top of his head since he's not really paying attention. "Hey, guys! Anythin' good on the menu today?" Jax is bright, entering the shop from the dreary night outside -- he's always bright, though, really. A long sleeveless asymmetrically cut dress, multicoloured and embroidered all over with dragonflies, worn over top of purple skinny jeans and tall silver boots. A black ten-gallon hat is on his head, rung around with a silver tasseled braid; his makeup today is purple and silver, a bright purple eyepatch speckled with little glittery stars on his eye. He follows Micah in with a small restless fidget in his step, fingers drumming against the messenger bag at his hip; his mind is an odd mix of exhaustion and /racing/, fret-fret-fret-/hi/, his greeting comes mentally even before he manages to make it out loud. "Hihihi," his thick drawl is cheerful-bright as he heads after Micah towards Hive and Flicker's table, dispensing kisses in reverse order. Flicker's head, then Hive's. "Ohgosh school. Y'all eaten, should I grab food?" He pulls out a chair for Micah first beside Hive before setting his bag down next to the one Flicker's crutch is leaning against. Doug either wasn't expecting the day to turn this wet, or forgot his umbrella at work. This is evident when he enters sans bumbershoot, his blue button-down shirt and grey slacks pattered with dark spots. His hair is similarly damp, although it's still dry enough to feather into place when he runs his hand through it. He looks a /bit/ rested, although there are still dark places under his eyes, and a fading bruise on his jaw. Unslinging his laptop as he comes through the door, he pauses on the threshold, trying to determine which person behind the counter might be the person he was referred to on the phone. Deciding on his target, he scans the room briefly, eyes catching on Hive and Company with a rush of panic/guilt that roots him in a half-step towards the counter. Flicker's smile is bright and immediate despite his absorption in studying; he glances up straightaway, lifting a hand to curl it around the back of Jax's neck with that small kiss, squeezing briefly. "Hey, guys." He rubs the backs of his knuckles against his eyes, blinking as he rolls his head in a slow stretch. Hive doesn't look up. Doesn't respond to the greetings, really. His eyes do narrow, just faintly, jaw tightening in a slow grind of teeth. "Huh?" Flicker's head turns at something unheard; his brows lift as he glances towards Doug, smile dimming and his head dipping in abrupt awkwardness, his cheeks flushing dark. "-- What, no. You definitely /can't/." This is -- /firm/. Hive scowls, slouching down further in his seat with a harder grind of teeth. << Fine. >> His voice is a whispering chorus in the minds of those at his table, soft and echoing and undercut with a heavy dose of /grump/ at whatever Flicker is forbidding him. His greeting to Doug is quiet, too. No words. Just a steady succession of /memories/; Liam playing Smash Bros on Geekhaus's couch, R.T. wrestling Zombie in the sprinkler on the Lofts roof, Spencer teaching Liam how to operate Jerusalem, R.T. (very /futilely/) attempting to teach Dusk how to play the bass guitar that lived in Dusk's room. And on. And on. Snippets of memories either his own or borrowed of the dead fluttered over to Doug as his eyes slowly lose even more focus, muscles going kind of slack where he slumps in his seat. Settling into the seat Jax pulls out, Micah's fingers brush over the back of his husband's hand with a little nod and smile of thanks. He wraps his crutches into their black nylon holster with that lovely ripping sound of velcro opening, then a softer patting closed, and hangs the sum off the back of his chair. "Yes, food. I gotta check the menu, but there's almost always some kinda wonderful soup thing here an' this rain's just callin' out for soup. Y'all ate yet?" he echoes this last to Flicker and Hive, though the final word trails off into a brow-knitting look of concern. "Can't what-now? Somethin' wrong?" Hazel eyes dart from Flicker to Hive, the concern only growing at the telepath's slump. He leans in, a hand on Hive's shoulder. "Honey, are you okay?" "Hm? What are we can't hm?" Jax is the picture of eloquence, really. His fingers brush lightly against the back of Micah's neck, resting there for a moment once his husband has settled in. "Anyway alls I see at this table is coffee an' cocoa. /I'm/ gettin' y'all food, aright? Even if s'only a soup, what's everyone want?" He glances over towards the counter, squinting up towards the menu though -- from his distance with his current difficulties not doing a great job of identifying much of /anything/ over that way. "If they got their white bean soup t'day it's fantastic. Flicker why're you gettin' all. Dom-my at Hive for?" Doug trembles a bit, as those memories come marching in, and he files each one alongside the ones he's already etched there. The panic that accompanied his guilt recedes, to be replaced with a flood of sadness and near-paralytic regret. When he begins to move again, his step is slow and draggy, and he swallows in a sudden jerk. His original intent for coming in is lost in the sudden /jumble/ that his mind becomes, and he stops again, closing his eyes and grinding the heel of one hand into them. He stands in pained silence, trying to collect his thoughts, and ignoring the biggest question in his mind: Whether to flee or not. When Micah asks if something is wrong, Flicker tips his head over towards Doug in indication. His eyes shift back to Hive, cheeks dragged in between his teeth to gnaw on their insides briefly. His brows rumple as he watches Hive slump. Eventually he leans forward, thwapping Hive on the back of the head and then sitting back. "-- I'm not getting. /Dommy/," he protests, right after this hit, cheeks flushed darker. The steady march of memories falls off into nothing. Hive exhales shakily. << Not hungry, >> he finally answers. "You haven't eaten all day." Flicker frowns at Hive's answer. "I'm getting orzo pasta. And getting /you/ a gazpacho." He grabs his crutch, pushing up to his feet and then hesitating with a long look at Doug before drawing in a deep breath and making his way towards the counter. He stops by Doug, though, biting down on his lip and leaning heavily on his crutch. "... Hi." Okay, Jax accusing Flicker of Dommy activities in time with Flicker hitting Hive and /denying/ it is enough to earn an almost-snort of laughter, no matter how concerning other things are at the moment. Micah's fingers knead at Hive's shoulder gently, planning to stay at the table with him if Jax and Flicker have elected themselves fetchers of soup. "Could y'grab me a mocha an'...if they have that Sriracha corn chowder again, that. If not, the white bean. If not that then...some other soup that sounds delicious?" He looks over his shoulder at Flicker's nod, eyes widening a little and cheeks flaring scarlet before he very quickly turns back, sliding down in his chair a bit. Jax leans down to press a kiss to the top of Micah's head. "Mocha an' corn chowder, got it. -- Oh my /gosh/ you can't even hardly deny it I'm gettin' you a paddle for him." There's a quiet giggle in his voice as Flicker smacks Hive, and he trots off along with Flicker -- slowly, out of respect for the other man's limping pace. He stops short once he's close enough for his still-slightly-disjointed vision to /recognize/ Doug and finally catch up to the same page everyone else is on. His eye widens, and he rocks back on his heels, flushing dark. He draws in a deep breath, attempting to think calming thoughts -- his thumb presses against the sunstone ring that newly sits on his finger -- to combat the sudden spike of anger flaring in his mind. But, then, a moment later his fingers relax; with an absurdly relieved feeling he stops trying to Stay Calm; there's a brief strange moment of pleased thrill at the thought that he can /be/ angry and the cafe isn't at risk of /blowing up/. /Huh/. This realization is counterproductive to indulging in angry-feelings, though; the moment of oh-yay derails his fury /anyway/. He exhales the breath he's drawn in, rocking up now onto his toes. "Hi, Doug." The memories fall off, but they run through Doug's mind on a loop for a couple of minutes afterwards. The teenager grinds his hand deeper into his eye, screwing the other one shut tightly. He ought to leave, and deal with apologizing to the management later. That seems like a bad plan, somehow, and he remains fixed in his uncertainty. When Flicker speaks, followed by Jax, his eyes snap open and he jumps in surprise. Taking a reflexive half-step backwards, he colors deeply when he sees who is standing next to him, and flashes a look at the door before he exhales a ragged sigh, and responds in a rough, weary voice. "Hi." Then, in a small rush of words, he continues. "I'm not staying." << Anger leads to hate, >> murmurs in quietly self-deprecating amusement across the others' minds, at this realization. Hive's musing seems directed more /inward/ than it is at Jax, though. He leans to one side, slouching into Micah's kneading fingers. << Apologizing for /what/? >> Maybe it's a trick question; Hive doesn't usually have to /dig/ for answers, asking tends to summon them to the forefront already. Flicker rubs a hand against the back of his neck, his cheeks still flushed dark. "I mean, you don't -- have to /leave/. We're just. I was studying. And – dinner." Micah's attention splits between Jax and Flicker on one side, Hive on the other. His blush is taking its sweet time in fading. "Thanks, Yoda," he says softly with a hint of a smirk to Hive. "Pretty sure we don't have t'worry 'bout anybody fallin' t'the Dark Side with Jax around, anyhow." His fingers press a little more firmly at the telepath's lean. "Oh -- we was. Just. Havin' dinner." Jax's blush deepens further at the murmur in his mind, his nose wrinkling up as his head bows sheepishly. He sidles a little bit further towards the counter when Doug steps backwards, scrubbing his hands against his face to place their whole /table's/ order before he forgets -- mocha and spicy corn chowder, gazpacho, vegetable orzo pasta, a large soy vanilla latte and a white bean soup. He's quietly ticking off items on his fingers to make sure he hasn't forgotten anyone before he turns back towards Flicker and Doug. "Um -- were you -- gettin'. Food? Things? You only jus' got here." As advertised, Doug's mind needs little prompting to recall the events of Thursday: a young Latino man, in a dark leather coat and bearing no name, and a sudden punch. There's a flash of thought of Dusk, his injuries related by said young man and probably not too far off the mark in Doug's imagined gruesomeness. Outwardly, the blonde shakes his head at Flicker, coloring a bit. "I wasn't planning on staying," he says, his voice uncertain as he shifts his weight. He can't quite seem to make eye contact with either Flicker or Jax, his shadowed gaze flicking around the front of the restaurant. "I just came in to, uh, settle a misunderstanding from the other day." He /does/ look at Flicker, then, taking in his wounded leg before he looks at Jax -- and then quickly away again as his brain races to find a neutral sort of topic. "Um...you had any of your finals, yet?" Yeah. That seems safe enough, for now. Flicker slips his wallet from his pocket as Jax orders, offering his credit card to the cashier as their order is in /just/ in case Jax gets any sneaky ideas about paying. He takes a table number, fidgeting with the little piece of plastic restlessly between his fingers once he's put his wallet away, weight shifting to one side to lean heavily against his crutch. "Um -- just one. But it was -- philosophy so that was --" He trails off with a small dip of his head. "You?" Hive's shoulder tenses hard at the thoughts of Dusk. His teeth grind hard, his eyes squeezing shut. He slumps forward, pushing his coffee back as he drops his head onto the table, pillowed against a forearm. << Some of us are already there, >> he answers Micah. Micah moves in to curl an arm around Hive's shoulders when his head falls. "That was just a...light joke. Apologies." His arm squeezes reassuringly. "You okay, hon? Maybe y'really /do/ just need some food in you..." Jax's nose wrinkles again when Flicker moves to pay, his hand already moving towards his pocket. He drops his hand with a small exhale, and reaches instead to pluck the little plastic table number from Flicker's hand. "Right. Well. We're -- just. --" He waves his hand over towards their table, cheeks still deep crimson. "I -- hope you're. That you're doing --" He presses his teeth down against his lip, though almost immediately regrets this habitual tic at the pressure against his fresh new lip rings. "-- Doin' alright," he finishes with a small swallow. He looks down at the number in his hands, ducking his head and scooting around behind Flicker quietly to slip back towards their table and set the number in its holder. "I got you chowder," he tells Micah. "Only but Flicker poached the bill. Did you kill Hive?" Doug shakes his head. "I've got Econ on Monday," he says, furrowing his brow in a hard knot. "But nothing yet." He shifts his weight uncomfortably when Jax speaks, although he does offer a tight almost-smile. "You, too," is about all he can manage, and he watches the older man make his way back to the table with a sad expression reflected in his thoughts, twined with his intention to discover who placed the bomb. Visions of video screens winking out in staticky fuzz shimmer through his thoughts, and he blinks. "I'm going to find them," he says suddenly to Flicker, his voice finding some solid footing. As if Flicker might know what he's talking about. "I've been working on it." << We aren't half as fucking broke as you, >> Hive answers Jax, with an added grumbly, << Yes, >> for the final question. So dead. His head turns, eyes narrowed briefly on Doug before he turns his face back in towards the crook of his harm. << How the fuck -- you plan to -- >> This trails off into a struggling burst of /irritation/. Flicker glances after Jax, a little bit wide-eyed. He looks back to Doug with a sudden shake of his head, a furrow of brow. "Huh?" He gnaws on the inside of his cheek, just giving Doug a puzzled blank look. "Working on what? Your -- finals?" /His/ haven't been hiding. His expression is quite confused. "Thanks, honey," Micah offers to Flicker when Jax mentions the bill, giving Jax a sheepish look after. "I'd argue it harder, but Hive's right on that one." Despite being dead, of course. "An'...yeah. Somebody had t'beat 'im while Flicker was off. Guess I was a little too enthusiastic 'bout it. Oops." He leans in again to kiss the dearly departed on the top of his head before sitting up straighter in his chair, just leaving a hand on Hive's back. The other tinywaves at Doug. "Hi." Doug's response to the telepathic question is a fluid, albeit jumbled, stream of pictures. The video feeds seem to be at the center of them, a flicker of shadow in the corner of one holding the most interest. Littered in there are memories of Dusk and Jax, and the arrows shot into them, something niggling at the idea that there might be a connection, there. Arrows could take out cameras. He needs to explore it further. There's also an image of a dark-haired man -- Madrox, in his many bodies -- who is also seeking answers. Maybe. Outwardly, he shifts his weight, and lowers his voice as he leans in closer to Flicker. "The person who..." he breaks off, inhaling deeply through his nose as he wrestles with another wash of guilt. "Whoever did it," he says, glancing over to the table as Micah raises his hand. Then he's coloring /really/ deeply, and the roil of guilt is accompanied by a wash of nausea. His mouth works for a moment, and he blinks, shaking his head. " -- find them," he manages, then attempts that sentence again. "I'm going to find them." "Pretty right," Jax agrees with a small blush that -- isn't at all helped by the notion of Micah (enthusiastically?) beating Hive; it summons up some choice imagery in his mind that he pushes back down, hands pressing against his cheeks. "Oh gosh. Y'all been havin' some fun while we ordered, then. -- Oh /gosh/," this time it's dismayed instead of blushing, "/Food/ I'm s'posed to -- poke myself with needles I forgot I'm. Not /good/ at this new. Routine. Thing -- don't be dead," he adds firmly to Hive. "/So/ not allowed. Who's plannin' t'what?" He settles down into his chair finally, propping his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. "You're --" Flicker's eyes are still wide. He looks between Doug and Hive, confusion resolving a moment later. "Oh -- oh." Though now his expression just calms from confusion into quiet blankness. "Oh." He swallows, nodding slow and stiff. "That's -- oh. I mean, the police were -- they didn't find --" He pulls in a deep breath. "Right. That -- would be good. Good luck. I should --" He jerks a thumb towards his table. "Um. Good luck with exams." He summons up a small smile for Doug. << /All/ the fun. Someone had to keep me in line. Looks like you got poked with needles already. >> Jax's new piercings glint in mental image. << Guess the medicine kind's less fun. Would it be /more/ fun if Micah did the poking? Can you make insulin /sexy/? >> Hive finally straightens again, pushing slowly up to sit up in his chair. << Doug's planning. To find the bombers. >> His tone is flat, noncommittal as he relays this information. "This one does take so much lookin' after," Micah replies with a long-suffering tone and shake of his head, hand patting at Hive's back. "We're gonna hafta set up alarms on your phone t'keep you on schedule, hon. D'you have the meds with you? I could inject it for--" His offer is swallowed by another brilliant blush creeping straight up his neck and into his ears as Hive's mental suggestion comes at nearly the same time. << Find the...is that /safe/ for 'im t'be doin'? Ain't the cops actually doin' that since there was so many not-mutants involved in it, too, that they had to pay attention this time? >> "Oh," is all he says aloud. "I /did/." Jax has a small pleased thrill at the mention of the new piercings, thoughts straying to the dove tattoo itchily healing over his heart as well. "So many needles. An' he was there for those /too/, it /was/ pretty sexy. Though not -- uh, medicated." He leans down, opening up his messenger bag to take a small zippered pouch out of it and hand it over to Micah. "I brung it. An' Micah," he tells Hive, "can make /anything/ sexy. Should we go to the bathroom I don't even know is someone gonna think I'm a junkie? Actually I don't care." His (newly pierced!) brows pull together as he looks over towards Doug and Flicker, worry flitting through his mind as well. << What but how but won't he die uh -- >> "... huh." He swallows, scooting his chair a little closer to Micah. "That's... somethin'." "I've been looking at the security network?" Doug's tone indicates that this might be a question, although he nods in a sharp jerk as he says it. Doubt floods through him, suddenly. What if he's on the wrong track? He might make things worse, somehow, if he promises something he can't deliver. "I...have a theory. I need to see how plausible it is." He shifts his weight again, and glances at the door. "Yeah," he says, when Flicker makes his good-byes, hunching his shoulders and echoing that small smile. "I don't think the guy I need to talk to is here," is a lie, but there's a sudden need to be /elsewhere/. If for nothing else, just to get his nerves under control. "Good luck to you, too." He looks back at the table, and he /almost/ lifts his hand, but catches himself, and instead offers a nod before he turns on his heel and heads out the door and back into the rain. "See you." Flicker beelines back for the table as fast as his limping gait will allow, once Doug leaves, resting his crutch against the side of his chair and dropping into it heavily. He scrunches his fingers through his hair, closing his eyes. "Well." << Yeah. >> Hive's back trembles beneath Micah's hand. << Dunno if the police have turned up shit yet. >> "I haven't heard a lot," Flicker admits. << Might not be safe, >> Hive adds in answer to Micah's question, less charitably: << But it's only Doug who gives a fuck. >> "Oh, okay. Um...have a good night." Micah's free hand gives another uncertain wave as Doug flees. "Yeah, I haven't really heard nothin', neither." Hive's answer earns him a little play-hit on the shoulder. << Hey, he's still a person even if you're mad at him. >> "/So/ much lookin' after," he reiterates aloud, not bothering to explain the hitting to the others. He takes the pouch from Jax, looking thoughtful. "Prob'ly oughtta excuse ourselves t'the bathroom, yeah. Just 'cause it's not generally considered a good plan t'use needles at the dinner table. An' there'll be a little more privacy, besides." Another layer of red settles into his cheeks. Jax lifts his hand, fingers curling in a wave as Doug leaves. "I ain't heard nothin' either. But I think they at least been actually lookin' this time. That's -- that's /somethin'/, right?" His nose wrinkles up. "Maybe t'ain't much." He frowns deeply at Hive's last comment. "Hey. Ain't no call to --" His cheeks puff out, briefly. << Still shouldn't be wishin' him /dead/. >> He blushes, too, slipping his hand into Micah's as he rises. "We'll be back in a – bit." << Yeah. A shitty person who's caused a lot of hurt. Not exactly hurrying to care that it's a little dangerous when he's actually doing something /worthwhile/. How much fucking danger are /we/ always in? Sometimes, >> Hive says, << a little danger is the cost of getting shit done. >> Flicker turns red, too, as the other men do. "'kay. Have -- fun. Oh!" He sits up a little straighter as a server arrives with their food, flashing her a warm smile. "Thank you so much." Though he's still giving a somewhat red-faced look to Jax and Micah. "Don't take /too/ long." << S'one thing t'be okay with someone else doin' somethin' dangerous 'cause it needs t'be done, an' another entirely t'... Oh, nevermind. >> Micah smiles as he takes Jax's hand in his own, leading him off with a gentle but eager tug. "Just enough time t'let the soup cool off. S'usually /lava/ when they bring it out." "Delicious lava," Jax says, taking a large /inhale/, at least, of the soups when they're delivered. "Thanks!" he chirrups brightly. His cheeks stay crimson with his /also/ bright answer to Flicker: "/So/ will." And then he is hastening off, following after Micah's tugging just as eagerly.