Post by Mister Stewart on Nov 30, 2010 1:43:41 GMT -8
Time: Day 2, Morning
Weather: Raining
Warnings: None
Characters: Harry Stewart/Michael Tillotson
It was a rare morning where Mister Stewart was awake before Michael was.
He sat in silence in his wheelchair, staring out the large windows overlooking Velvet Falls. The rain poured down outside, lightning occasionally flashing and illuminating the lines of his mask. It was early - VERY early - and in truth, he hadn't slept at all. He was worried - something was most certainly wrong with his young aide. Meditatively, he drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, watching the faint purple haze drift across the surface of the water. He could see it, of course, but then he was hyper-aware of its very existence. To most, it would go unnoticed. He pondered it for a moment, not looking up as he heard footsteps behind him.
"Mister Stewart?"
Michael's voice sounded a bit raspy. He turned about in his chair to regard the boy, folding his arms against his chest; he could plainly see that the younger man's dark circles had deepened, his hands faintly shaking with fatigue at his sides. Michael realized too late what he was looking at and clasped them behind his back with a faint wince, but the damage was already done. There was a glimmer of vulnerability in his stormy eyes.
"Michael," he began, speaking aloud while they had the time alone, voice hoarse through his mask, "We need to talk." The younger man shifted uncomfortably, looking rather like a little boy in disgrace. His eyes shifted downward to a smudge on the floor. He thought about how he should probably clean that up. Mister Stewart continued.
"...It's getting worse, isn't it? I think, perhaps, you should see a doctor-"
"I'm fine."
Michael cut him off, eyes darting up, then down again. "That is to say...I am fine, do not worry about me. I am only tired, you see." Having dispensed with this, he pulled out a handkerchief, moving to awkwardly drop to his knees and wipe up the smudge. His movements were stiff, mechanical - he purposefully kept his face blank to hide his discomfort. Mister Stewart shook his head.
"No, Michael. You need to have it looked at. You could hardly move yesterday and and it wasn't even raining yet."
"I'm fine," the boy repeated, narrowing his eyes at the smudge that wouldn't seem to wipe up. The cloth squeaked against the floor with the force he was starting to apply.
"Your behavior yesterday wasn't like you-"
"I SAID I AM FINE!"
The force of his words echoed off the walls, startling Mister Stewart and startling himself. He stopped moving, still on his hands and knees and trembling softly. The older man in the wheelchair wheeled a little closer, his voice softening when finally he spoke again. "Be careful, Michael. You are not immune. You must watch your temper." He wasn't accusing, he was only concerned, his tone quiet. Gently, he reached out, gingerly resting his hand on the back of the younger man's head. "...I know. I am only worried because you have been acting a bit strangely as of late."
Michael didn't look up. His trembling increased under Mister Stewart's hand. Before he spoke, he licked his lips - they had suddenly gone rather dry.
"...I am sorry...I didn't mean to shout...." he mumbled, shifting to sit back on his heels and look up at this older man. He was pale, fear plain across his face for a change. "...But I can handle this...nothing to worry about." His tone was far less than convincing, and the little smile he tried to offer even less so. They both knew it, and the knowledge hung thick in the silence for a moment or two; Mister Stewart heaved a little sigh, shaking his head. "...You don't believe me, I can tell," Michael amended softly, eyes sliding downward again. "...But I just haven't been...sleeping well. I will be fine, I can bear the pain...it...it will lessen, after the rain." The silence thickened again. He had admitted it. 'Bear the pain,' he had said. He was in pain. He stiffened a little, putting his handkerchief back away.
Mister Stewart watched him for a moment in silence...then turned away, moving back up towards the window and staring out at the rushing water. There was no use arguing any further...it was dangerous. The flash of uncharacteristic anger Michael had just shown...it rattled him. Those words had been as much a warning for him as it had for the young man. 'You're not immune.' Michael could succumb, too. He could succumb, if the worst happened once again.
The shuffling of feet behind him indicated that his aide had pulled himself up, and was now standing at attention behind him, as usual. He didn't have to look back to know how he was positioned...straight-backed, chin high, unnaturally prim-looking as always. Even in their home, even when it was only the two of them, still he was like this. They would remain in silence for a time, he expected, before Michael found some task to do or some light topic to suggest.
No, not today.
"...If Anna is dead...and the Fog is to blame...will the town once again have to suffer the same?" The tone was unsure. Mister Stewart's thought for a moment of not responding, of changing the subject...but he thought better of it. He knew that Michael was actually quite upset about Anna...they had spoken on a rather regular basis, whenever they stopped into the Diner. For someone he knew to be killed in such a gruesome fashion...it had to be taking a toll. It had to be.
"I do not know...we can only pray that it can be stopped this time, and try to steer the town in the correct direction."
He could hear Michael shifting behind him - he could hear a soft wince as the young man moved his arm to rest his hand upon the handle of the wheelchair. He really was getting worse.
"If more die as the rain falls down...do you suppose they will listen to us now?"
The older man's words didn't answer Michael's question so much as his resigned tone of voice did.
"...Perhaps...we should go get breakfast now."
Weather: Raining
Warnings: None
Characters: Harry Stewart/Michael Tillotson
It was a rare morning where Mister Stewart was awake before Michael was.
He sat in silence in his wheelchair, staring out the large windows overlooking Velvet Falls. The rain poured down outside, lightning occasionally flashing and illuminating the lines of his mask. It was early - VERY early - and in truth, he hadn't slept at all. He was worried - something was most certainly wrong with his young aide. Meditatively, he drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair, watching the faint purple haze drift across the surface of the water. He could see it, of course, but then he was hyper-aware of its very existence. To most, it would go unnoticed. He pondered it for a moment, not looking up as he heard footsteps behind him.
"Mister Stewart?"
Michael's voice sounded a bit raspy. He turned about in his chair to regard the boy, folding his arms against his chest; he could plainly see that the younger man's dark circles had deepened, his hands faintly shaking with fatigue at his sides. Michael realized too late what he was looking at and clasped them behind his back with a faint wince, but the damage was already done. There was a glimmer of vulnerability in his stormy eyes.
"Michael," he began, speaking aloud while they had the time alone, voice hoarse through his mask, "We need to talk." The younger man shifted uncomfortably, looking rather like a little boy in disgrace. His eyes shifted downward to a smudge on the floor. He thought about how he should probably clean that up. Mister Stewart continued.
"...It's getting worse, isn't it? I think, perhaps, you should see a doctor-"
"I'm fine."
Michael cut him off, eyes darting up, then down again. "That is to say...I am fine, do not worry about me. I am only tired, you see." Having dispensed with this, he pulled out a handkerchief, moving to awkwardly drop to his knees and wipe up the smudge. His movements were stiff, mechanical - he purposefully kept his face blank to hide his discomfort. Mister Stewart shook his head.
"No, Michael. You need to have it looked at. You could hardly move yesterday and and it wasn't even raining yet."
"I'm fine," the boy repeated, narrowing his eyes at the smudge that wouldn't seem to wipe up. The cloth squeaked against the floor with the force he was starting to apply.
"Your behavior yesterday wasn't like you-"
"I SAID I AM FINE!"
The force of his words echoed off the walls, startling Mister Stewart and startling himself. He stopped moving, still on his hands and knees and trembling softly. The older man in the wheelchair wheeled a little closer, his voice softening when finally he spoke again. "Be careful, Michael. You are not immune. You must watch your temper." He wasn't accusing, he was only concerned, his tone quiet. Gently, he reached out, gingerly resting his hand on the back of the younger man's head. "...I know. I am only worried because you have been acting a bit strangely as of late."
Michael didn't look up. His trembling increased under Mister Stewart's hand. Before he spoke, he licked his lips - they had suddenly gone rather dry.
"...I am sorry...I didn't mean to shout...." he mumbled, shifting to sit back on his heels and look up at this older man. He was pale, fear plain across his face for a change. "...But I can handle this...nothing to worry about." His tone was far less than convincing, and the little smile he tried to offer even less so. They both knew it, and the knowledge hung thick in the silence for a moment or two; Mister Stewart heaved a little sigh, shaking his head. "...You don't believe me, I can tell," Michael amended softly, eyes sliding downward again. "...But I just haven't been...sleeping well. I will be fine, I can bear the pain...it...it will lessen, after the rain." The silence thickened again. He had admitted it. 'Bear the pain,' he had said. He was in pain. He stiffened a little, putting his handkerchief back away.
Mister Stewart watched him for a moment in silence...then turned away, moving back up towards the window and staring out at the rushing water. There was no use arguing any further...it was dangerous. The flash of uncharacteristic anger Michael had just shown...it rattled him. Those words had been as much a warning for him as it had for the young man. 'You're not immune.' Michael could succumb, too. He could succumb, if the worst happened once again.
The shuffling of feet behind him indicated that his aide had pulled himself up, and was now standing at attention behind him, as usual. He didn't have to look back to know how he was positioned...straight-backed, chin high, unnaturally prim-looking as always. Even in their home, even when it was only the two of them, still he was like this. They would remain in silence for a time, he expected, before Michael found some task to do or some light topic to suggest.
No, not today.
"...If Anna is dead...and the Fog is to blame...will the town once again have to suffer the same?" The tone was unsure. Mister Stewart's thought for a moment of not responding, of changing the subject...but he thought better of it. He knew that Michael was actually quite upset about Anna...they had spoken on a rather regular basis, whenever they stopped into the Diner. For someone he knew to be killed in such a gruesome fashion...it had to be taking a toll. It had to be.
"I do not know...we can only pray that it can be stopped this time, and try to steer the town in the correct direction."
He could hear Michael shifting behind him - he could hear a soft wince as the young man moved his arm to rest his hand upon the handle of the wheelchair. He really was getting worse.
"If more die as the rain falls down...do you suppose they will listen to us now?"
The older man's words didn't answer Michael's question so much as his resigned tone of voice did.
"...Perhaps...we should go get breakfast now."