Michael Ginsberg (jewsinspace) wrote in spaceodyssey, @ 2015-12-30 00:51:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | 2015, 2015.09, } x |
BEAUTIFUL DEMONS FLY OUT
September 4, 2015 • after these events
Lee is already in bed, sleeping again. They’ve been stuck at home for the past two weeks, unable to get back to New York without Michael’s help (or rather, his permission, since it’s not that hard to magic your way from one place to another) but having absolutely nothing to do in New Jersey. They’re bored. They’d picked New Jersey only because it was close and a lot cheaper than Manhattan, not because it’s a great place to live. Boredom and medication lead to a lot of long naps.
They stir when the door opens and raise their head briefly only to lower it again when they see who it is. They’re trying to go back to sleep, but now they’re awake, so when footsteps cross the room they roll over onto their side and pull the covers up around their nose.
“Mmmmmhi.” They reach out blindly with a hand, seeking Michael’s. Their fingers wrap around his and then they tug, pulling him down with them. “Where you have been?”“I went to the doctor,” Michael replies tiredly. His shoes and socks are already off by the time he’s in the bedroom; he’s down to his boxers once he falls onto the mattress. He’s let the house stay warm for Lee and refuses to use any of his abilities around them, but it’s left him miserable in the late summer heat. He doesn’t stay too clothed when he’s home.
The dry sheets feel good, though, and being able to see and touch and hear Lee and know they’re safe does something to help him calm down after a stressful hour-or-so. “Is everything okay still? No one came around, right?” he asks, smelling their hair and brushing some of it away from their face.
“You went?” Lee sits up, yawning heavily. They wriggle a little closer, trying to wake up fully but their head feels heavy and cottony. They sound genuinely surprised, they’ve been on him for two weeks trying to get him to see a doctor, not counting all the weeks and months before that, and every time either Michael has some excuse or he starts to panic. It’s so hard to get through to him sometimes.
“How was it?” They stubbornly ignore his questions. They’re still mad at him.
Michael notices their lack of answer. It gnaws at him, makes him nervous. He chews on his lip for a moment, considering getting up and doing a once-over of the house to make sure nothing smells or sounds weird or has been moved—but Lee hates it when he does that. They’ve also made him stop asking if they feel sick every time he sees them. He’s gotten better at that.
“It was weird,” he says, forcing himself to lie down and not squirm around too much. His skin feels itchy. He knows Lee is fine, why can’t he just forget it? “I had to tell her a bunch of stuff, personal stuff. That was awful. But she didn’t make fun of me or get scared or anything. And she knew things, and that was... I dunno.” He turns half of his face down into the pillow, confusion and exhaustion marking his face.
“I told you that’s what it’s like. It sucks and is terrible. But it helps.” They wrap their arms around him, and after a second, their legs too. It’s important to them that he goes. If that means positive reinforcement, well.
“She has to listen to my crazy arse.” They kiss the back of his neck, right where the little bump is where his neck turns into back, run their hand along his side over his ribs. It’s weird to be mad at someone and not mad at them at the same time. Weirdly compartmentalised. “I’m proud of you. I know it was hard.”
Lee’s embrace is one of the only things that has been able to consistently put him on a more even keel lately. It’s so much easier for him to breathe like this. He inhales deeply and sighs it out, focusing on the solidity of their fingers and the pressure of their legs. They could crush him and he’d be alright with it.
“I didn’t want you to be afraid anymore,” he mumbles, trying not to think about what he’s saying. He doesn’t want to get all worked up again.
“I’m not afraid. You’re afraid. I’m worried.” He’s so hot — literally hot, burning like a fever — and the house is so warm it’s almost uncomfortable to have the two of them in bed together. They stay where they are anyway. Their fingers tap-tap-tap along his spine before they rub his back. Despite the heat Lee pulls the sheets around the both of them, curling up under them like a fortress.
“Do you feel any better?”
Michael almost says something about the sheets, about how he’s so overheated he feels a little dizzy, but he wants Lee to be comfortable. The image of them pinned down by shadows, miserable and shivering and strung out in the freezing darkness, is seared onto the backs of his eyelids. It’s kept him from sleeping, impacted his work, scared him away from sex all over again. He doesn’t know what to do. He can’t stop seeing it.
“No,” he replies honestly, ready to be a disappointment. “But I guess I don’t feel worse. Flimsy. I feel flimsy. Like I got a bunch of holes poked in me. I’m basically Swiss cheese right now.”
“I’m glad you tried it.” They press their face into his neck. They’ve got a long litany of complaints — I’m bored, I’m tired, I’m sad — but they don’t feel like confronting him with them right now. There’s a lot they need to talk about that they keep tip-toeing around and it’s weirding them out because Michael is not usually the avoidant type. Frustrating. “It’s hot. I miss your shadows.”
“I have another appointment set up for next Saturday,” he tells them. He’s already dreading it. “And I dunno how you could miss them when they maybe almost killed you.”
“They did not. You would never.” They put their hands on either side of his face. Their fingers are so long they almost reach the top of his head. “You saved me. God knows how long I would have sat in that cell. You know how often people die in custody?” (Don’t let them get started on cops, they’ll be here all night.) “I knew when you came for me I would be safe with you.”
Michael’s heart lurches. Or maybe it’s his stomach. Both? He can’t tell. Of course this is how Lee responds. How else have they ever reacted to him? He doesn’t know why he’s only now saying something about what happened that night with his powers, though he hasn’t been able to say much lately. He doesn’t understand how he can trust Lee so deeply and still be so terrified of hurting them.
He swallows a hard lump in his throat and hesitantly brings a hand to Lee’s waist. A moment later, a large blanket of black creeps across the bed and the light in the room dims to an early-evening grey. The smothering heat is quickly lifted; the only thing left burning is Michael’s skin. He closes his eyes, tries to ignore the thrumming of his heart, the gushing of his blood, the way he can feel that ghostlike extension of himself covering them both.
“The doctor said some things. Like, uh... like she thinks I’m being over-protective because I’m compensating for, um.” Fuck. This is embarrassing. He and Lee talk about how they feel all the time, why is this so weird? “Basically for being scared, I guess. And she said I’m not supposed to feel like a failure if I can’t watch out for you all the time. I told her I promised to protect you. I dunno how she felt about that.”
“I am sorry that I scared you.” They rub their nose against his shoulder. “But Michael, keeping me here is not doing any good for anyone. I’m bored, you’re worried anyway. And there is work to do in New York. Peaceful work. I mean the protests. I won’t march if it makes you feel better.” Since the riots a series of protests have taken the streets of the District, some peaceful, more often turning violent as the light gives way to evening. Lee is as afraid of violence as he is, but they’re better at ignoring that fear, at leaping headfirst into a firefight because their fear for others is stronger than their fear of others. “But I can help people there. I can’t just sit here and do nothing while people out there need support.” Shifting up the bed, they rest their chin on the top of his head, breathing in the slightly sweaty scent of his hair and scalp. “I know you need me too. I promise to come back. We don’t break promises.”
Michael presses his face to their chest. He knows they can’t stay hidden in the house. It’s only been about—how long has it been? barely any time at all, right?—and they’re already unhappy. He’d rather have them unhappy than dead, but he’d rather die himself than earn their resentment. Facing this—hearing them say they’re returning to New York and knowing it’s going to happen—has him so afraid he’s clutching at their back and tensing up all over.
“Say it again,” he demands, needy, voice thin and rough like a needle on a scratchy record. “Say you promise.” It’s not that he doesn’t believe them. He just wants to hear the words as many times as he can.
They wrap their legs around him and hold on tightly. There are studies showing that this kind of pressure is calming. It’s why people buy weighted blankets and why they invented a hug machine for cows.
“I promise to come back to you.” Though all they want to do right now is lay here. It’s cold with his shadows draped across the room and it’s making them sleepier. Their toes are starting to freeze, so they tuck them under the comforter. “I love you.” It is impossible for him to not know that by now, but it bears repeating, always.
Michael tries to accept it all: their promise, their love, their vulnerability and his own. He goes quiet as the vise of Lee’s full-body embrace slows down his heart and eases the echoes and vibrations in his skull. Two full minutes might go by before he manages a single-word reply.
“Okay.” He’s not sure what he’s going to do with himself, but okay.
“I will punch anyone in the face if they get between us. Right in the face. I’ll punch a bird, I don’t give a heck.” Their hands go to either side of his head, holding on to his temples, then stroking through his hair. He’s so hot still, even with the shadow pulled up over them, they’re thinking maybe they should get him in the shower or something. Lee presses their lips to his forehead, then either side of it, then right over his third eye. “Neshama. My handsome man.”
He doesn’t know how they can call him handsome right now, not when he can feel how sweaty and awful he is, not when he’s acting so pathetic, but that’s Lee for you. Their touch has turned cool, they always chill so quickly; Michael, of course, is continuing to struggle against the flush that’s come with this drawn-out panic attack. The instinct to make the room colder and darker is there but he keeps fending it off. This is good enough. He’ll make it be good enough.
“It would be pretty amazing if you punched a bird,” he admits weakly.
Lee pats the back of his head affectionately. For a while it’s comfortable to just lay there, their eyes closed, half-falling asleep, but they can feel the way he fidgets, how he still feels like a furnace against them. It makes them worry, but there’s only so much they can do; it’s why they pushed so hard to send him to a doctor, someone who knows what they’re doing. Lee can only try the best they can, and sometimes it’s not enough.
When he’s not getting any better they untangle themself from around him, peeling their legs back and sitting up on one elbow. They tug at his. “Come on. You’re too hot. You need to cool down.” Literally. They’re not flirting. Reluctantly they get off the bed, pulling him with them and leading him to the bathroom, half-supporting him to keep him upright. They start to fill the bathtub with cool — but not cold, they don’t want to torture either of them — water and sit him on the closed toilet, kneeling between his legs, tipping their head up to press their mouth to his.
Michael kisses them back gently, lingering. He keeps his eyes closed and a hand on Lee’s shoulder, still dizzy for some reason. His head hurts, his stomach hurts, maybe his skin hurts. It’s not as bad as it was when he got home from the doctor’s, and definitely better than it was yesterday, but still. Not great. He hadn’t thought about his body much since Lee went missing, it seemed like someone else’s problem, but now that they’re touching him again and treating him so carefully and pointing these things out—they’re the only one aside from Morris who’s ever been able to tell when he’s actually overheated—it’s hitting him squarely how horrid he feels. Between the stress and the anxiety and the lack of sleep or food, though, it shouldn’t come as a surprise.
“I’m sorry.” He kisses them again. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Kiss, kiss, then no more. If they start making out here it won’t do any good in the long run. He needs to cool down.
When the water’s full they turn off the tap and stand him up so they can finish undressing him, then help him in. Their damp hand runs through his hair, wetting it and letting cool water trickle down his back. They wish they could just wave a hand and fix this. Cast a spell and make it better. But healing doesn’t work that way, not really. It would just be like cutting open scar tissue.
Michael shivers and sighs and mutters a curse or two. The bath feels amazing. He sinks down in it and spaces out as Lee touches him. Did they ask him something? He can’t remember. The sound of the water echoing off the tile is everywhere, hypnotizing. Among drips and sloshes, the day’s words begin swirling in his mind—his, Lee’s, Dr. Wu’s. An unknown amount of time goes by as a question begins to build inside him.
“Neshomeh, do you know anything about ‘dissociation?’” He sounds like he’s halfway in a trance.
At some point Lee got up and got a blanket, draping it around their shoulders when they sat back down on the other side of the tub, leaning into the porcelain. Their hand occasionally strokes his hair or his shoulder, but not much beyond that. Their sex life has been so weird lately. It’s always been weird, actually. They’re not sure he wants them to touch him that way just yet.
“Mm?” They raise their head, eyes sleepy. “Mm. It’s where you feel outside your body I think. Like you’re not a part of it anymore.” They rest their head on the edge of the tub again, warm enough to be comfortable here. “Why, do you feel that?”
“I didn’t know what it was, but the doctor said that’s what was happening. She described it, you know, all the stuff that goes on, and it was terrible because she was exactly right. Like she was there, like she saw it.”
Lee’s hands are part of what’s keeping him so calm. His face is tilted toward theirs, taking their next touch for granted. This is the most accepting he’s been of physical affection since the raids.
“Well, that’s good, right? That there’s a word for it?” If there’s a word for it, that means more than one person has experienced it. If more than one person has experienced it, that probably means there’s a cure, or at least a treatment.
They pat the back of his hand. “Don’t google it. It only makes it worse.” They’d know, surely, from experience.
Michael has never tried to look up anything about all the possible ways he could be insane, or even about mutants. For most of his life he was convinced none of it applied to him. Instead he read about aliens, ghosts, possession, alternate dimensions, space, monsters, curses, ESP. His existence has been a horror story. It’s difficult for him to reconcile that with starchy medical terms and the concept of brain chemicals, even when some part of himself—that strange shell he’s always trying to shuck off—has been suspicious of his delusions for years.
Long story short, “I’m not gonna read about that stuff. What the hell do I know?” He takes their hand in his, eyes still shut. “If you think it’s good that it has a name, then I guess it is. You’re the smart one.”
“No, Michael, this isn’t—” Lee rubs their face with their free hand, getting it wet, not that they care. It’s so hard for them to say what they mean in English, and now is one of those times where they find communicating incredibly frustrating. They have to translate everything in their head first, and they never quite feel their words have the context that they want. “You’re smart, too. I am not a doctor. I don’t want you to think a thing is right just because I said it. I just mean that, when I found out this thing I have has a name, and that I’m not the only person, it made me feel better. It felt like something that can get better. Something that other people study and know about.”
Michael looks now, tired eyes opening and reflecting light back at Lee in flat circles. He spends a moment just watching them, moving his thumb back and forth across Lee’s skin.
“You make me feel like I’m not the only person,” he says.
Lee sighs and brings their joined hands up, pressing the back of Michael’s hand to their cheek. He’s starting to get all wrinkly.
“How do you feel now?”
“Less like I’m gonna die. How about you?” He shifts in the water. It’s gone lukewarm. Probably time to get out. How long had he been drifting?
“Sleepy.” So, business as usual. They run their hand over his arm, trickling room temperature water down. An idea is germinating in the back of their mind, but it’s just a little bud right now. They’re going to have to tease it into something concrete. “You wanna go to bed?”
“Yeah.”
Despite his agreement, he sits there doing nothing for a moment; he feels noodley and is worried that if he moves too much, every awful feeling he’d had before he’d gotten in the tub will come rushing back. Lee is waiting, though, so he can’t cower forever. He slides his hand out of theirs and sits up, then makes his way to his feet, light-headed and swaying slightly.
He’s more conscious now of the fact that he’s naked. He hasn’t let that happen lately, either, not in front of Lee; he’s felt too ugly for that. Too dangerous and unworthy. He could wrap himself up in shadows and hide, but that wouldn’t make any sense. They’ve been right here next to him the whole time, they undressed him. They’ve seen him like this before. It doesn’t make sense, so he just steps out of the water and tries not to fidget like an idiot while they’re looking.
Lee, of course, has seen him naked many times. It has never bothered them. What bothers them is that it bothers him, but there’s only so many times in a day you can tell someone that you like the way they look, in that there is a finite amount of time in a day, typically. They should get one of those stuffed animals you can record a message into.
They grab a towel off the rack and wrap it around him, rubbing his shoulders and his damp hair. Their finger taps the tip of his nose, trying to startle a smile out of him. They notice him fidgeting, but what can they do? They pull backwards on the towel, tugging him out of their bathroom and into the bedroom, the sheets all mussed up now instead of how tidy they’d been before. Always happens.
Lee sits on the edge of the bed and takes off their shirt. Their shorts follow, and they only hesitate a second before their underwear follows too. Now he’s not allowed to be self-conscious because they’re both naked. Or now they can both be anxious. One or the other. They pat the bed next to them, blanket around their shoulders like a cape.
Michael sits by their side, put at ease by their equal levels of nudity. His legs are still wet when they touch Lee’s, only having had a moment to drip-dry, and the towel is hung over his head, nearly covering his face. He looks like a dork.
“Thanks,” he says. His fingers ghost across the inside of Lee’s knee before settling, his hand resting there in a loose grip, holding her against him.
“Of course.” It’s hard to be strong and supportive for him all the time, but they know he’d do the same, that they want to because it’s important. That the only reason Lee has their shit together at all is because they take a lot of pills and cry to their therapist instead of in the middle of the day over cat food commercials.
They lay down and carefully arrange the blankets around themself so they’re wrapped up like a burrito on their side, waiting for him to fit himself in the space in front of them. Ready to be the big spoon.
Michael puts the towel down on his pillow and takes his place. When he slides into their arms, he finds himself newly comfortable in the bed. It’s still warm—it always is for him in the summer—but not sickeningly so. He’s not sweating. He can breathe. Lee’s scent is everywhere, worked deep into the sheets.
He’s still tired, achy, probably dehydrated (should have drunk some of that bathwater), and his mind is far from fixed, but for now he’s calm. That’s more than anyone could have said about him since the end of August.
“Set the alarm for sundown,” Lee murmurs. Their arms snake out of their blanket burrito and wrap around him. “We’ll have a nice Shabbat dinner. Tomorrow we’ll stay in. We don’t have to do anything. I’ll tell you a story. It will be good for you.”
He sighs. One of his arms goes over theirs. He loves their stories. He loves them. The thought of Lee going back out into the dangerous world is awful, but they’re here now, and they’ll be here tonight, and tomorrow too. It’s enough.
The two of them lie there together for a while, long enough that Michael thinks Lee might be asleep. He’s continually on the verge of following them there, but for some reason remains suspended in wakefulness. Eventually a few words spill out of him, coughed up like swallowed sea water. “I’m sorry. I just love you. You’re all I have.”
“I know.” Lee trails their fingers over his ribs. “I want this to be forever. I’d have like a million of your babies.” It’s an embarrassing confession but it’s true. Their voice is slurred like they’re half-asleep, and their eyes are closed so they might be. They take in a deep breath and sigh it out, their legs bending so they can put their cold feet between his ankles.
Michael’s eyes pop open. He hadn’t expected a reply, but if he had, it wouldn’t have been that. “Um... oh. That’s... Really? Wow. Um. That’s. A lot.”
No response from Lee — they’re dead asleep. Which is for the best, that’s not a bomb you want to drop on somebody and then try to continue a conversation as if it isn’t now totally weird.
Go figure, Michael thinks. Just like Lee to leave him lying in silence thinking about something weird like how they possibly want kids. It’s a distraction, though, from other things—more depressing, immediate things—and however terrifying the concept of fatherhood might be, it’s abstract enough to eventually, finally, mercifully dwindle into slumber.