Methadone (substituting) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2010-05-19 17:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | codeine, methadone |
Who: Methadone and Codeine.
What: Baking sugar cookies, catching up.
Where: Methadone's Upper East Side apartment.
When: Early Wednesday evening.
Warnings: Methadone trying to bake?
Gardening was not Methadone's strong suit. Many things were not Methadone's strong suit, no matter how many scientific, medical and technological skills he had. But since Opium had visited, since the two of them had planted poppies in the nature feature of his new apartment, Methadone had done his best to ensure that his brother-father's plants flourished and wanted for nothing. So far, none of them had suffered or wilted under his tender and anxious care and that was an accomplishment that brought as much pride to Methadone as did ensuring that addicts were properly weaned from the substances that harmed them so. And there were other small accomplishments littered around his apartment; the garish green entertainment area was now a subtle blue-gray, painted carefully by Methadone's own labour, the bedroom was no longer a stark, hospital white and instead boasted a subtle brown shade, there was a piano in the living room should Heroin ever visit and wish to play and the nature feature that did not house Opium's poppies had been transformed from a small pond into a chemistry laboratory enclosed in glass. The space, after much work from Methadone when he was not busy at the clinic, had been turned into a home.
And Methadone was slowly cultivating the single city block around his apartment building into his territory, winding careful threads of power through his surroundings, sending a subtle message to other immortals; this space is spoken for. While the message was clear, the weaving of part of his consciousness around his apartment also allowed him to feel the approach of other gods, particularly and especially his Opiate brothers and sisters. And when he felt a slight twang in the back of his mind, he immediately knew that his sister, his dear sister Codeine, had passed the threshold of his fledgling territory. He stood up from where he had carefully been tending the poppies he had planted with Opium previously and made his way into the kitchen to carefully wash the dirt from his hands. Of course, it wouldn't be proper to receive a family member while looking unkempt; Methadone had learned well from Morphine and Heroin all those years ago. Leaning back against the counter, Methadone allowed himself a moment of contemplation, thoughts coming both slowly and quickly and turning over in his mind like a dragon made into an eternal circle with its own tail lodged firmly in his throat.
When his sister Codeine had found him, during the horrible transition from ailing painkiller to effective anti-addictive, Methadone had been a mix of awkward disbelief and still-developing grace and poise, taught by the older siblings he had betrayed with his new purpose. Even during those years, he had tried to comport himself with the dignity befitting the Opiate family, but had not likely succeeded, having been far too preoccupied with inner turmoil to care too much about regaining and retaining cool composure. But he was different now, changed, had reconciled his purpose and existence, had matured enough to graduate from medical school and begin his residency, had matured enough to put the decades-old lessons from his elders into practice. Methadone hoped Codeine would see the change as fervently as he hoped that she had fared well during her time away from him and from the family at large. Letting the thoughts slip away, however, Methadone felt her ascension toward his floor and dried his hands carefully, rolling down the sleeves of his crisp brown dress shirt and coming forward out of the kitchen area to await the knock at the door.