Meus ex Machina, Chapter 8: Reaching
A public domain image of two hands reaching for each other. The background is colored with indigo blue and neon green light.
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Rated: T - WC: 2472 - CW: non-graphic discussion of self harm
Some people can't help but reach out, no matter how many times they're burned. And maybe that's a good thing, in the past and now.
“And this is the kitchen, kiddo!” Patton grinned, arms open wide to show off the shiny new refrigerator and sinks he and Lucas had installed in the old house.
“I’m not your kid,” the boy muttered, hands shoved deep into patched and faded hoodie pockets. "And you're not my dad."
“Oh, well, yeah, I… I know that. I… I’m sorry. You're right.” The boy never spoke of his parents but, unlike Patton and Lucas, he'd actually known them before they abandoned him at the hospital. He almost squeezed the boy’s shoulder but pulled back at the look he—Virgil, Janus had called him—gave him.
Following Virgil’s lead, Patton tucked his own hands in his pockets and smiled just a little brighter. Man, Janus and Lucas were better with this kid than he was. He'd cast his eyes about the kitchen, looking for a distraction, when his eyes landed on the big mixer Janus had bought last week.
“You know," he said, sauntering over the kitchen and pulling out a box of Eggz and tin of margarine. "Even grown-ups get hungry.” He tried to hide it, but Patton couldn’t miss how Virgil’s were trained on the food. “How about we whip up a batch of my super-secret chocolate chip cookies?”
Virgil licked his lips, eyes narrowed. ""Chocko Chip' cookies," he said, pulling out his hands long enough to make air quotes. "Or chocolate chip?"
Patton grinned and pulled a heavy block wrapped in plasticene paper from the back of an upper cabinet. "Chocolate."
~
Soft footsteps announced Patton’s and V’s return from The Muse's room. V tapped an order into the cabinet and Patton spoke quietly with Silvertongue in the corner as they worked together to put away a tote of medical supplies.
Logan watched them from his med bed, eyes widening when he recognized a suture tray and a drained IV kit. V caught his gaze and gave him a little shrug. “I’mma go see how I can help Princey.” He shrugged, glancing at Patton with an odd expression. “Up on the roof. Glad to see you’re feeling a little better, Mac.”
“Let me know if you need anything, Kiddo, okay?” Patton called after him and V gave the three of them a little two-fingered salute before disappearing down the hall.
“How was he?” Logan blurted out once V had left. He gnawed at his lower lip, the barely controlled hurt on Patton’s face almost more than he could stand. The two Powereds exchanged a long look, then Janus inclined his head and followed the way V had gone.
Patton moved to Logan's side and patted his hand. The touch was warm, really warm, like holding a too-hot cup of coffee in an antique ceramic mug while waiting for it to cool. “The Muse needed stitches,” he admitted, jerking his chin toward the sharps disposal and the medical tote. “But you probably figured that.”
“Do his…” Logan’s hand twitched beneath his and Patton removed it, too quickly to stop him. “Do his powers cause him physical harm?” he continued, pushing away the ghostly echo of Patton’s warmth radiating through his skin.
“Well… Not… directly.” Patton pulled up the stool Silvertongue had used and folded his hands on his lap. His fingers were long but broad and strong-looking, with little nicks and calluses. He had a half-dozen tiny horizontal scars in various stages of healing over the backs of each hand. With a pang, Logan remembered tracing the fading scars on the backs of his own mother’s hands from her job at Entenmann's before they’d converted.
Suddenly, Patton nodded and reached for Logan’s hand again, lightly brushing his fingers. He didn’t prod Logan’s scars, but he didn’t avoid them, either. He simply treated them like any other part of his skin.
Logan inched his hand closer.
“Did Silvertongue explain his powers to you?” Logan nodded and Patton took a deep breath before continuing. “The Muse sometimes… well, often behaves erratically when the rest of the world gets into his head. It’s—”
“Overwhelming,” Logan interrupted without really meaning to.
Patton gently squeezed his hand and didn’t let go. “Yes,” he nodded. “His room is protected, no sharps, no chemicals. He…” Patton tilted his head, gaze focused on Logan’s eyes. Assessing.
“Is he suicidal?” Icy slurry pooled in his stomach.
“Not directly,” he said again and the ice spread through Logan’s veins. “He… injures himself. I don’t believe he intends to hurt himself. His… his perceptions are…” Patton shook his head. “It can be difficult to follow all his thoughts when he’s activated. He’s told me he needs to reach the sensations he picks up. But it’s all in his mind. There’s nothing to reach.”
Logan stared down at his thighs and the stumps where his legs abruptly ended. The painkillers Silvertongue had administered dulled the ever-present ache of his phantom limb pain. But even ketorolac couldn’t free him completely of the pain of injuries in limbs he no longer had. ‘Nothing to reach,’ indeed.
He frowned. But stitches? IVs? Surely that part wasn’t from his own mind. “But how?” he finally asked. “How did he cut himself? The lower levels… What’s beneath it all? Cement?”
“Stone and wood. There were carpet tacks.” Patton stroked Logan’s hand but looked away. “We thought we’d gotten them all and replaced them with adhesive. They were… old. Zinc and non-magnetic aluminum alloy that won’t interfere with the EMF shield.” He met Logan’s eyes and continued at his little nod of understanding. “That meant we couldn’t use the sensors to double check we’d gotten them all.”
“So… nothing magnetic or… electrical can go in The Muse's room?” Logan’s eyes fell on his battery-powered wheelchair tucked in the corner. “And he can’t come out?”
“No.” Patton’s whisper still managed to sound sympathetic.
“I see.” Logan’s fingers curled a little tighter around Patton’s hand, his thumb tracing swirling shapes against the back. It didn’t seem to bother him, though, so Logan didn’t stop. “The… the next time you see The Muse…” Logan finally braved a glance up at Patton’s eyes. He smiled back at him, listening.
“The next time you see him, will you tell him how sorry I am?” Tears burned his eyes, the memory of The Muse’s pain sizzling through his brain. “I—” His voice cracked and he looked away.
“Oh, Kiddo…” Patton squeezed his hand back, voice soft. “The Muse knows it was an accident. He was in your mind,” he reminded him. “He feels bad for the pain he caused you.”
“He doesn’t need to.” Logan looked up, eyes wide. “It’s not his fault. I wish…” He looked down at the broken bits of a body he'd been left with. The only way he could see The Muse and speak to him in person would be in the arms of one of the team. Even if one of them were willing to carry him, his stomach churned at just the thought of helplessly clinging to one of the Powereds, even one as kind as Patton.
He closed his eyes, head falling back against the pillow.
So worthless you can't even apologize to him. Can't even thank him for helping Silvertongue find you before the police did.
“I should let you rest,” Patton murmured. “Even with Ja—Silvertongue’s healing assistance, you’ve been through a lot and need to take it easy. Would you like me to lower the bed?”
His eyes snapped open. The med bay was like a fishbowl, surrounded on one side with the main common room, the other by the short hall to the cold steel kitchen. If he slept here, he’d be on display for the entire team. Good for people who needed close observation. Not good for him. He shook his head. “Would you bring my chair?”
“Of course.” Patton rushed to fetch it then stood next to it. “Can I—” He reached for him then let his hand lower. “How can I help you?”
Even with the med bed lowered, it was a bit of a drop down to his chair. But if he was lucky, he could make it on his own. “Perhaps… would you be willing to hold the chair steady for me?”
Nodding, Patton put one foot behind the wheel and locked his grip around the handles. Logan shimmied himself closer, scrabbling for a hold when he listed dangerously close to the opposite side of the bed. After a bit of work, he wiggled toward the edge, parallel to the seat, then pushed himself off the bed.
He landed with a quiet oof in the seat, grunting when his hip grazed an armrest.
“Are you alright?” Patton asked, hands fluttering closer before pulling them away.
Logan smiled, tight and not quite able to speak in a normal tone as pain radiated over his hip and down his phantom leg. He reached over his shoulder to pat the Powered’s hand and nodded. “I’m good,” he managed and turned on the chair motors. “Thank you. For your help.”
“Absolutely anytime, Machina.” Patton gave him another smile. “Anything you need, please don’t ever be afraid to ask.” He watched quietly while Logan turned his chair and moved to the hallway. “I’ll call you for dinner in about an hour?”
“Actually,” he started, then turned around to face him again. Patton’s brow pinched with worry but he waited and listened. “Would you call me when it’s time to…” He shrugged and looked toward the common room. “Perhaps I can help set the table?” Logan tried to smile and moved his chair back and forth a few inches at top speed. “Use my unfair advantage?”
Patton chuckled and nodded. “You got it, Machina. I’ll call for you. Get some rest in the meantime.”
“I will. Thank you.” Logan’s smile strengthened, then he turned with a little nod and rolled down the hall. When Logan returned to his room, though, he didn’t lie down. Instead, he closed the door and wheeled himself to the window.
The Prince’s Illusion only worked one way and though from the outside, Logan sat on the other side of a boarded up bay window, he could see perfectly through to the violets and daisies growing outside. The sill was nearly the same height as the seat of his chair and it had only taken him a few days’ practice to work out the best way to wiggle out of his wheelchair and onto the soft cushions.
He hadn’t yet worked out which of them had set this up. While the window frame was old, likely renovated from the original structure, the pillows were stitched from the same durable ecosynth cloth as the Mad Lads’ suits. Throughout the house, there were other window seats and benches, but none at this height. They'd built this for him.
Leaning back against the pillows in the deep window seat, Logan closed his eyes. If the prisoner in the basement wasn’t quite a prisoner, what did that mean for the rest of the team’s behavior? Was all of this, the accommodations, the care… Was it all… real?
And how would he ever make amends for not once, but twice, harming one of their own?
~
Despite Logan's best efforts to stay awake, it felt like only seconds later when Patton’s soft voice spilled from the comms speaker in his room. He jerked upright, hand reaching automatically for the spot next to his thigh for his chair’s control box. His fingers closed on air.
A half-second of panic later, Logan remembered where he was and took a deep breath. “I’ll be right there,” he called back. Moving carefully, he slid back into his chair and hurried out to the kitchen.
His stomach grumbled before he’d even gotten past the med bay, the aromas of fresh tomatoes and beans from the team’s backyard garden blending with cumin and cayenne. Patton smiled at him, stirring a bubbling pot, and gestured to a stack of bowls, napkins, and utensils on a low counter.
“If you meant it, it would be a big help if you set the table. Ultraviolet and The Prince are up on the roof and Silvertongue’s on a call.”
“Of course I meant it.” Two at a time, Logan transferred the stack of bowls to his lap, then added the napkins. Taken together, he was able to lean and use his stub of a left arm to hold them steady while he steered his chair to the table.
He steadfastly ignored the way Patton pretended not to monitor his progress. He did appreciate, though, how he’d been spared the indignity of having to wait as he took down the dishes for him and placed them in his lap as though he were a child.
Setting the table went slowly and by the time he’d finished and returned to the kitchen for cups, Patton had already transferred the chili to a serving bowl and was filling a pitcher with ice and the sweet electrolyte drink the team favored. Though reluctant to admit it, Logan had begun to enjoy it with their meals, as well.
What Patton hadn’t done, though, was pull down the drinkware from their high cabinet. After scanning the counters one last time in case he’d somehow missed them, Logan swallowed his dwindling pride and looked up at Patton. “Would you mind getting the cups down for me?”
“Oh, right!” He sealed the lid on the pitcher but didn’t move from his work. “We transferred them to the cabinet by the fridge.” Patton pointed to the low cabinets in easy reach from his chair. “Silvertongue mentioned your bloodwork showed signs of chronic dehydration. Figure it’s easier for you to drink more if you can reach them yourself.”
Logan opened the first cabinet. Recessed lights glowed, revealing stacks of cups and bowls and plates. The front of the shelf ended in an inch-tall lip and, experimentally, Logan tugged it. It rolled toward, putting the dishes in easy reach. He looked up at Patton, eyes wide.
Patton shrugged. “I’m still working on the rest of the kitchen, but we’ve got all the basics there.”
“This is…” Logan bent in his chair to look under the cabinet and slid the shelf back and forth. The rollers were pneumatically assisted, allowing him to use just a single finger to move it. “This is very thoughtful, Patton. Thank you.”
“We’ll need Ultraviolet to make more parts,” he said, picking up a dish of cornbread and the pitcher. Logan quickly followed and stacked the cups between his leg and the side of his chair. “There’s a lot more to do,” Patton admitted. “Maybe after dinner you could help figure out what’s the next best mod to tackle?”
“I—I’d like that,” Logan nodded and followed him out of the room, casting one last glance at the steel kitchen. The whole room felt just a little warmer. “I’d like that a lot.”
