InsaneJournal

Who: Micah and Iris (completed log)
What: One of these days, Micah is going to get over this woman.
Where: The wine shop, France
When: Day 3
Warnings: None

The wine shop was a little cleaner than the rest of the city, but not by much, and being inside it didn’t make Micah feel any better about Iris’ injury or the possible threat of infection. His one-track mind was even starting to drive him crazy, not to mention Watson, who felt it was Holmes’ job to worry about Iris, not Micah’s.

Micah had settled Iris in the back room, and she was resting comfortably, and Watson was being a royal pain in his ass.

Holmes should be watching her. This is not your place, my boy.

Micah paced. “Eliot isn’t here, and Eliot isn’t fucking Holmes. He’s Eliot. And he hasn’t done shit all for Iris, so don’t try to tell me-”

Think about your blood pressure, my boy.

Micah hated Watson. He reached for a nearby bottle of wine, and he took a swig from it, and he sat on a wine crate. He could live in this place just fine, he knew. He felt useful here in a way he didn’t in Bellum, like he had a purpose and could make a difference. He’d missed that. But Iris, Iris worried him. It had been less than two days, and she’d already gotten hurt. She hated guns and violence, and this was a place that was all about guns and violence.

He sighed, and he watched her sleep. Fuck, they needed to get home.

I’ve been telling you that-

“Shut UP.”

It was probably the increased volume of his voice that pulled her into waking. Her breathing didn’t change, and her eyes didn’t open, but she was awake. After a moment of listening, sensation and thought, she let her eyes open and focus. She hadn’t been dreaming, or even sleeping, really. The blood loss and the adrenaline turned her mind out like a light, and there was a lot of nothing in between waking. It was such a novel experience that she didn’t think to be afraid of it. Her eyes flicked over his face, registering him as friend, and then she took in the room around them. It was dank and smelled of oak and the wine breathing at Micah’s side. “Who are you yelling at?”

He turned as soon as he heard her voice, and he moved to crouch beside her. “Como estas, mamita?” he asked, brushing her hair back from her forehead and checking for any sign of fever whatsoever. His expression was tight, stressed and worried, though his smile when he looked at her was genuine and fond. “Watson. He’s an asshole.”

She looked up with shadowed eyes, but eased back against the rough cloth. No sign of fever yet; her forehead even seemed significantly cool. She looked tired too, even though she'd just woke up. "Watson's never an asshole," she said, smiling a little but honestly confused.

"He has a one-track mind and a disgusting case of hero worship. Holmes is only a man," he said bitterly, his hand soft as it moved to her cheek.

Now she really smiled. "He wrote books about the man, Micah."

“Obsessed,” he repeated, moving his attention to her arm.

Irene and Iris were totally indulgent of Watson's preoccupation with Holmes. She sobered, however, and asked said, "He's talking to you?"

“He’s telling me to find Holmes every five minutes, if you call that talking,” he said carefully unwinding the cloth around her arm. “If you call that talking.”

Iris sucked in a breath between her front teeth and gave her arm a look of annoyance. "Do you have to do that?" It didn't hurt as much when he wasn't touching it. To distract herself, she said, "If he is here, I'm sure he can take care of himself at least as well as we can." Her brow furrowed with faint concern. She didn't know if Holmes knew French, she realized. Irene did, but that was only because of the opera; the same reason she knew Russian and German, to sing the syllables appropriately, one had to make a study of the language.

“Shhhhh,” Micah said as he looked at her arm. “I don’t know if he’s here. I haven’t seen him,” he admitted. His tone said he didn’t have much faith in anything Eliot would do if he was there. “How did you get shot, Iris?” he asked, looking up into her eyes, his expression entirely serious (worried and serious).

“There was a fight in the crowd,” Iris said, simply. “I guess it went off in the struggle--” the last syllable was cut abruptly as she took another breath through her teeth and looked away. The bullets they used in this century were like miniature boulders. It was no wonder she couldn’t close her hand all the way into her palm. “I guess it could be worse.” She could be dead, or paralyzed... or dead.

“We’re going to make sure it isn’t worse - now or in the future, entiendes?” In this, Micah was positive he had more experience than Iris. “Revolutiones, mamita, are dificil. They’re about causes and things people believe in. You can’t just jump in; we shouldn’t be here. If you’re worried about yourself here, you get shot. Revolutionaries are martyrs,” he said, and it was obvious he was speaking from years of personal experience. “This isn’t a fight people intend to live through. It means everyone is careless, and it’s too dangerous.”

“I grant you that,” she said, staring intently at the wall rather than at her torn flesh, “but I fail to see what good knowing that does.”

“It means we stay away from the city, Iris,” he said, re-wrapping her arm. “No matter what the people out there say, you are staying away from the city.” He sounded determined and sure. This wasn’t New York, and it wasn’t Bellum. This place, this type of living, it was familiar to him in a way it wasn’t to her. He understood what motivated these people, why they did what they did. He wasn’t backing down on this.

She turned her head around, still steadfastly ignoring the injury and looking steadily into his face. “You’re going to try to send me away?” The question was so bland but stated so specifically that there was no doubt he was going to have a hard time separating her from the rest of the group--and himself.

“We, mamita,” he corrected, looking up at her face with a dimpled grin. “I’ve missed you.” He said it plainly, bluntly. It wasn’t a romantic declaration precisely; it was simple truth. He had missed her.

“Ah,” she smiled back. “I still think it would be better if we stayed with the group, Micah. If something else happens--something like the building effects--it would be better if we’re together.” After a moment, she reached her good arm over and touched his hand. It was a quick pat of affection, and better than anything she could have said in reply, which might have ended up an apology or worse.

He watched her pat his hand, and the expression that crossed his face was a tired one. Micah was exceptionally stubborn and doggedly determined, but even he knew what that pat indicated. He stood, and he took his time brushing off his pants, then he gave her a smile that was distant, detached and completely polite - a medical smile from a doctor. “Entiendo,” he said, and it was evident he wasn’t referring to her comment about staying together as a group. It ‘s about time, my boy. He looked down at her hand, still on his, and then he slipped his own hand away. “I’m sure Eliot’s fine,” he said reassuringly after a moment. “I’ll go check on the others.”

Iris felt as if she had done something wrong. She'd never seen that smile before, and she wasn't sure she liked it. Her hand hung there for a moment, and then she took it back too, hiding it on her opposite side. She moved her eyes away to prevent any reaction from being too obvious. "I'll be up in a little while."

His instinct was to go to her, because he noticed the averting of her eyes, and to tell her everything was going to be fine. That he loved her, because it was hardly worth denying that he did at this point. But he stayed where he was. This revolution, it was too close to home and open wounds that had never healed, and her rejection on top of it was more than he could smile and flirt his way through.

He nodded once, and he disappeared up the stairs.