ArchivedLogs:Parental Worries
| Parental Worries | |
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| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
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2013-02-23 Peter's uncle stops by for a quick chat. |
| Location
<NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts - East Village | |
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. There's a steady, polite, but loud rapping at the door. When Jackson goes to get it, he'll find an older man--50s, maybe?--who looks a little like Rodney Dangerfield, except without the bug eyes, and also he doesn't look like he's about to fly off into some angry monologue. He's dressed in a dark brown tweed jacket, matching pants, shiny polished shoes--a sweater vest underneath, with a tie tucked beneath the vest, and a white collared shirt. He's holding a trilby in his left hand; his right hand in is in his pocket. And when Jackson opens the door, he just... well, for a moment, he just kind of gawks. Then: "Uh, pardon, son. Is your father home?" That isn't some sort of snide insult. He is one hundred percent sincere. Jackson looks considerably less respectable, this morning. Purple fishnets layered over metallic silvery tights, black jeans that end just below the knees, tight and hung liberally with straps from a number of D-rings, a pink t-shirt that reads "Let's switch gender roles!", hair gelled up, today, into a pink-and-purple tri-hawk. His eyepatch glitters. It is very pink. There's a warm smell of cooking, from the apartment, something savory over the baking smell of espresso-chocolate-chip muffins. For a moment Jackson also kind of gawks, brows furrowing slightly. "My pa lives in Georgia," is his immediate confused answer, his own molasses-thick drawl solidly identifying him as a native of that state. And then, apologetic, "I'm sorry, sir," he says eventually, "I think you may have the wrong apartment?" Benjamin Parker grins; it extends all the way up into his eyes. "Southern boy? Yeah, probably -- sorry about that." He glances behind him, back into the hallway. "You wouldn't know which one of these apartments has a Mr. Jackson in it, would you?" He's doing his best not to stare at that eye-patch. But he's wondering if it's just a fashion accessory, or if someone that young *actually* lost an eye. "Yessir. From Georgia," Jackson answers with a quick and easy smile, glitter-dusted lips curling up warmly. The next words have him looking a little puzzled, though, as he straightens, pulls the door open just a tiny crack more. "I'm Jackson, sir," he says, with no small trace of confusion. "I'm sorry, sir, are you, um --" His cheeks colour slightly pink, and it's almost apologetic the way he asks, "-- Who are you?" "Ben's fine, son. Sir don't suit--" Double-take. "YOU'RE Jackson?" Now Ben's looking at Jackson much more closely. "Peter told me--he told me you had _kids_." Then, he lifts one hand up apologetically. "Wait, alright, maybe there's been some sort of confusion. My name's Benjamin Parker. I'm Peter's uncle." Then, hesitantly: "Do you have a few minutes? I wanted to talk to you. About Peter." Jackson's blush deepens, and he opens the door wider, gesturing Ben inside. Inside it is probably clear enough he /does/ likely have kids; there's a number of K'nex structures lying by the window in various states of completion that are all aiming at being spaceships, a copy of Roald Dahl's /Danny, the Champion of the World/ on the coffee table; the shoes lined up neatly by the entryway include a couple pairs that are definitely too small to be Jax's. "I do have kids," he affirms, almost shyly, "They're, um, --" But he doesn't finish that, just waves Ben inside. "Yes, of course, come in, um. Can I get you somethin', sir -- er, Ben? Somethin' to drink, maybe? Or I -- I baked muffins." Ben seems taken aback. The sight of the K'nex, the book, the shoes... Yep. This is the guy. And he has kids. "They smell /great/," Ben says, "but I already ate." He steps in, toward the couch. "May I sit?" Assuming he's allowed, he does. "I'm sorry about the surprise; it's just -- you're so _young_," Ben says. "But by the looks of it, you're doing pretty well for your kids. And Peter says you're a good man," Ben adds, and by the way he says it, it sounds as if this opinion was of great importance to him. "I don't mean to pry, but -- your eye," Ben says. "I figured it was just a fashion accessory, but then I noticed your hand --" His head nods down to Jackson's finger. " -- you've been through a little roughness?" "Of course, sir," Jackson says, gesturing towards the couch. "I, um, I don't know how well I -- I mean, well, I try." His smile is a little lopsided here, and even moreso at the last question; his cheeks flush again. He holds up a finger apologetically, slipping back to the kitchen where evidently something else is cooking; he stirs a large skillet on the stove, then turns the flames off and covers the pan. By the time he is finished this his blush has subsided, as has his surprise, enough at least to answer. "I've had my share of troubles," he agrees, his tone light and his smile firmly back in place, "but who hasn't, really? Um, you said you wanted to talk about Peter --?" "Just Ben," Ben responds, but when Jackson returns, he's grinning: "Unless you're just _deadset_ on calling me sir. But Ben's fine," he waves his hand, and then: "Yeah, I do. Peter's gotten it into his head that you're some sort of superhero. He told me _you're_ the one who suggested Xavier's to him. You, and some other guy -- he said his name was 'Hive'?" And here, Ben's wrinkling his nose, as if he's still trying to figure out what to make of that name. "Anyway, for starters, I wanted to thank you for that. I mean, from the bottom of my heart: Thank you. He's only been there for a few days and he's already telling me that he has a _friend_," and Ben sounds legitimately shocked, as if he had considered this idea downright impossible. "And I've been reading about them -- Xavier's -- and I still can't believe we can actually _afford_ this, but it means so much to me and May." Jackson moves to settle down in the armchair, legs curling up beneath him. His cheeks flush again, immediately, in time with his awkward protest, "I ain't no superhero, I just --" He shrugs, and glances up towards the ceiling. "Hive's my friend. He lives one floor up." He pokes a finger ceilingwards. His smile eases at the talk of Xavier's, though. "It's a great place. I went there. My kids do. I sure wouldn't be able to afford it but they're real generous with their scholarships. Peter's -- he's a special kid. It sounded like it'd be a real good fit for him." "I bet your kids think you're one," Ben responds, and then: "You're baking muffins -- you got a good, clean, warm apartment -- the toys, the books, even the way those shoes are arranged by the door -- this is the sort of home kids _want_, even if they don't always say it. This place is just up to the eyeballs in love and support. Can't say I'm _crazy_ with your dress-code," Ben looks over Jackson's attire as he says this, but quickly adds on: "But that's probably just because I'm old fashion and out of touch. Point being, superhero's just a fancy word for someone who tries to do right. And you look like a fella trying to do right, so." As if realizing that this will embarass the hell out of Jackson, he quickly moves on: "There's just one other thing -- I wanted to thank you, but I also wanted to ask -- I love Peter to death. May and I both do. But there's a lot of things going on with him that we don't, _can't_ understand." He sucks in a slow breath. "Peter keeps things from us, we know. And I've been trying not to pry -- been trying to give him the space he needs to just -- just _tell_ us, because whatever it is, I swear to _God_ it wouldn't change a damn thing about how much we love him. Not for an instant. But I'm getting worried, because whatever this is, he hasn't told us _yet_, and." He claps his mouth shut, then looks Jackson square in the eye. Steels himself. And just asks, straight-up: "Is Peter gay?" Jackson does blush, deep, as Ben speaks, his gaze dropping downwards as his glittery nails pick, restless, fidgety, at his fishnet tights. "I -- m'trying," is all he says, a little bashful, but this trails off into quiet as Ben continues. His eye widens, startled, and he can't help a brief laugh, his knuckles pressing quickly to his lips to stifle it. "Oh -- oh gosh. I, um, I don't think, no, he's not --" He stammers, but then takes a deep breath and composes himself. "Peter's just been dealing with a lot of changes in his life," he says, cautiously, but it ain't nothing like that. It can just be kinda rough to be a -- gifted teenager." Ben looks briefly confused. He was *SURE* he had it! It had to be that, right? I mean--hm. His eyebrows pinch together thoughtfully. "Maybe you're right," he accepts. "I'll just--give him time. With him going to this new school--well, things seem like they're going much better for him. For the first time in a long while, he's _happy_, and that's all that really matters." Ben gets up, lifting his hat as he does so. "I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me. I'm just popping in on my way to work, so I've got to get going." Jackson bites down on his lip, nodding slightly as Ben gets to his feet. He extends a hand, his smile warm. "I'm glad he's happy," he says, sincerely. "An' you clearly care about him a whole lot. I think so long as he knows you're gonna love him no matter what, he'll feel better talking to you sooner or later. It can just be hard at first, you know?" "Yeah." He takes the hand, smooth and effortless; Ben's hand is worn and calloused--his grip firm and warm. "I know. I'll just keep the fire warm and the welcome mat out until he's ready to come home and tell me what's going on." Then: "Good luck with your kids. They're lucky to have you." He heads toward the door then, putting on that hat at long last as he heads out. "Thank you, si -- Ben," Jax hastily corrects himself. Despite glittery nails, missing finger, sparkling makeup, his handshake is firm, too, strong and brief. He following the older man to the door, offering a warm, "Take care," be fore shutting the door behind Ben and locking it once more. And promptly pulling out his phone to text Peter:
Peter would respond, a few minutes later:
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