quincy sparks ⚡️ [lincoln campbell] (carpentry) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2019-02-21 20:28:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !narrative, r * laura, r: quincy sparks |
WHO: Quincy Sparks
WHEN: 2/21, mid-afternoon
WHERE: the house of one of Quincy's clients
SUMMARY: Quincy gets another glimpse of Lincoln's powers and decides he needs to call someone about it. :)
WARNINGS: Nah
He hadn’t had another flare-up in nearly a month -- long enough that Quincy was starting to wonder if it’d been a fluke. He spent his days a ball of anxiety, dreading each morning because he didn’t know if that would be the day it came back. He didn’t know if it would be the day he lost control. Quincy knew how much power there was under his fingertips. He’d seen it in his dreams, the way Lincoln could send shocks of electricity at a target, the way he could manipulate electrical currents at their smallest to levitate Daisy with the sort of gentleness that Quincy knew Lincoln had worked hard to find. What Lincoln was capable of was insanely dangerous. Quincy could knock out the entire town’s electrical grid if he tried. He could probably knock the power out all along the Virginian coastline, up to D.C. and down to Virginia Beach. It’d been tempting -- more than he wanted to admit to his family -- that he considered other ways to try to keep it at bay, to numb himself until he didn’t have to worry about hurting anyone. He’d gone to his therapist instead, not to tell her about the memories or the powers but to say he still felt out of control (the truth), to say he still felt lost (also true). What he was fighting was a life-long fight; she understood that, even if she thought he was talking about something else. The problem was, he discovered, was that it hadn’t been enough. He was on-site at a kitchen remodel when he felt his fingertips tingling. The remodel was about halfway -- they’d gotten through the plumbing and electrical work, the framing, the drywall -- so Quincy felt grateful that when he noticed the white tendril of electricity dancing off the tips of his fingers, they were only installing the cabinetry. He called for fifteen before his crew could notice -- something he rarely did on a whim like that, his breaks were always scheduled, always prompt -- and stepped outside of the house to let the cold winter air jolt his lungs. Ten minutes passed, and he felt like himself again. It wasn’t anything like the first time he’d felt it, and Quincy had no idea what that meant or what he’d done. “Shit.” Quincy kicked at a mound of dirt. His fingers toyed with the phone in his pocket. He should tell Violet. He would tell Violet, later. But there was someone else he wanted to talk to, too. He pulled out his phone and tapped through until it brought up Oliver’s number. His brother was probably working, he thought, but that was fine. Quincy still had work to finish up, too. This was more about holding himself accountable, about making sure he actually followed through with leaning on the rest of his support system. “Hey, Ol. It’s me,” he said to his brother’s voicemail. “No emergency, just … wanted to talk to you about something. I’ll swing by later if you’re not busy.” |