ArchivedLogs:Curses and Dances

Curses and Dances
Hive has to give Micah's brain back.  :(
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah, Hive
In Absentia	19 March 2013 So...warnings for more kissy stuff. And stuff.
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. Tuesday night! Game night! Or at least it would be game night. On a normal Tuesday. But on this Tuesday there is no game night -- and no children around! -- and Jax has not even bothered cooking. He /has/ turned on all the /many/ lights in his living room, standing lamps and ceiling lamps and sunlamps and all, and in the flood of warm light he's set up his easel, out in the living room instead of in his bedroom, today. He has his palette, and has his brush, and is -- not painting. He's just sitting on his stool in front of it, as images flicker, constantly shifting on the canvas. For a moment it explodes with flowers -- that melt and run down in a red wash that looks very like blood -- that congeals into a monstrous blood-spider full of toothy mouths -- that bursts into flames and burns away to ash. His leg bounces restlessly against a rung of his stool as the images flicker across the canvas. In the room around him things are shifting constantly, too, an absent swirl of formless colours that darken the sides of the room in murky greens and blues. Micah has slipped through the front door behind a resident and is already outside Jax’s apartment. He has his green puffy coat slung over his arm, now just in patched jeans and a T-shirt picturing a downright /jubilant/ T-rex with an adaptive reaching aid in each hand, under the caption ‘UNSTOPPABLE!’ He /bangs/ on the door loudly…not at all his typical polite sharp-rapping. Hive has slipped through the front door, too. Riding quietly along with Micah. Just chillin' out. There's a quiet white-noise background buzz in Micah's mind, soft, too muted to pick out any individual voice. Just sort of there. Overlookable, most of the time! But never gone. Like quiet mental static adding /just/ that much more fuzz to thoughts. Jackson scrambles to his feet at the knock on the door, his palette almost toppling from its lazy rest on his palm; he fumbles, catches it, albeit with a sudden smear of green paint against his finger. "Hrngh -- one sec," he calls, hurrying towards the door. He's changed out of what he's /been/ wearing all day, dressed comfortably down, now, in black terrycloth pajama pants and a cheerful yellow Little Miss Sunshine t-shirt. An eyepatch, too; it wasn't there before but it /appears/ as he hurries towards the door, black with a bright yellow smiley face in it. Palette in one and brush in the (paint-smeared) other, he unlocks the door carefully with non-paint-messed fingers and awkwardly wriggles the handle open with his elbow. "Micahhi." This comes with a bright smile, quick and warm and cheerful. "Hicomein! Um did you have dinner I can dinner you -- are you okay though?" He's looking over Micah intently. Micah is giving his hand a puzzled look when the door opens. “Oh…fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to knock your door down and scare you.” His eyes widen, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. “/Shit/, I didn’t mean to…” He claps a hand over his mouth, proceeding to speak muffledly /though/ it. “This has been happening to me /all day/.” It is then that he finally remembers to enter the room instead of hovering in the hallway. The coat needs to be put up, so he removes the hand from his mouth to hang it. “Y’don’t have to feed me every time you see me, y’know.” That lopsided grin finally makes an appearance. << Sure he does, he's fucking /Southern/. >> This thought surfaces not as though spoken /to/ Micah but as though thought by him. Just an idle thought bubbling up from the background noise into better clarity. The mention of food prompts a quiet swell of hunger. << ... s'a good cook. >> Jax's smile dims into a puzzled expression. He pushes the door closed again, locking it with a carefully awkward motion so as not to splatter paint all over the door, but he's looking over Micah with a deepening frown. "No, s'aright," he answers, "-- What's been happening to you? Honey-honey, you okay?" The return of Micah's grin prompts one of his own, but it's smaller. "Sure I do," he says, a bit more cheerfully (even if his concerned looking-over does not /stop/), "m'Southern. Y'hungry?" Micah crinkles his nose at the brainthoughts. <<Stoppit, rude-brain, that’s not why we’re here.>> “Hey, I’m s’posed to be checkin’ up on /you/, not the other way around.” The grin widens, teasing, before fading into a sigh at Jax’s question. “Just this,” he waves a hand at his face, “like, fuckin’ Tourette’s.” He points at his mouth. See? “I had /so/ much fun at work today.” That quickly, the grin has returned, if in a wry variety this time. “Me checkin’ up on you. Not you feedin’ me. I’m fine.” All of the hungry-thoughts in his head beg to differ, however, punctuating that statement with /stomachgrowl/. << good cook, >> his brain protests again, in time with that stomachgrowl. << -- shit, why are we here? >> For a moment, these thoughts bubble through the /possibilities/. Most of them center around Delicious Jaxfood. But a few of them center around Delicious... Jax. "I could wash your mouth out with soap if you like," Jackson offers, lightly amused as he leans on to peck Micah on the cheek. He slips back off into the apartment, resting his palette down on his stool. The canvas has settled into a bleak sort of swirl of ashy grey, the rest of the murky lights faded from the room. "Uh-/huh/." He looks skeptical of Micah's protests, /especially/ at that stomach-growl. "You could check up on me /while/ you eat dinner. You fill me in first, though. What happened at work that was so fun 'sides you cussin' like a sailor at everyone?" He seems more amused than offended by the cursing. Micah is fortunately distracted with /blushing/ more, or Jax wouldn’t have slipped away so easily with that little kiss. He shakes his head as if to rattle something out of it forcibly. “Guess I’m not stoppin’ you on that, now you’ve said it more’n once. I’ve learned.” He holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “Oh, like that wasn’t enough? Half the folks I work with are little kids. An’ half o’them are like little /parrots/. Try sayin’ fun new words around the kid with fuckin’ /echolalia/ and see how happy that makes Soccer Mom.” Micah is…kind of wincing and chuckling about this at the same time. That little voice is not so easily dislodged. It is perhaps now quietly turning over all the tasty benefits to Evening At Jax's. The kiss doesn't help. But Hive is paying better attention, now, actually listening to Micah's thoughts and not just absently daydreaming his own. << Pfft, fucking kids gonna hear the words sometime. They'll run into worse in life than cursing. >> "What's echolalia?" Jax is slipping off to the kitchen, so he misses the blushing as he scrubs his hands clean of paint. "Y'been having a rough time? Or do you /really/ just curse like a sailor usually an' the polite Southern boy thing's just real careful practice?" His tone is light, but he's stretching up onto his toes to peek over the divide between living room and kitchen, maaaybe a hint of worry creeping back into his expression. "I mean I don't think I done ever heard you even come /near/ to cussing before." Micah wanders into the kitchen and leans against a counter. Just watching Jax move for a bit, /intently/. Inappropriate Thoughts get a minute to circulate before being tamped down with force by /reminders/. Shane and Sebastian. Spencer. Jax fretting and projecting lab-images after the raid. The direct technical question pulls his attention back. “Repeating vocalisations involuntarily. S’like, someone says somethin’ and the kid starts repeatin’ it just over’n’over. Happens a lot with autism.” He drags his fingers through his hair before answering the next question. Mussmuss. “I really don’t know… Usually it’s the stupid little things that come out if I’m not thinkin’. Only do the real-cussin’ around people that I know could make a Marine blush. Usually have to do it, like, on purpose, though.” Hive only encourages these Inappropriate Thoughts -- at least until the reminders. Then a flicker of worry creeps in. Shane and Sebastian. Spencer. These faces surface and don't go away. Like memories, except not memories Micah ever /had/. Fresh memories of the twins tired and too-thin huddled together on the grungy old bed at their new foster home. Memories of Sebastian teary-eyed and hugging Jax tight, of Shane sullen and slumping down in his chair. << mmmmngh. >> "Oh -- /oh/!" Jackson's nose crinkles up, half amused even if a spot of colour creeps into his cheeks. "Oh, gosh, yeah, I can see how that would, um, make you want to keep a lid on the --" He flutters wet fingers towards Micah's mouth, then dries his hands on a dishtowel. He gets out a cutting board and knife, rummaging through the fridge to scavenge Foods. A block of tofu. Garlic. Onions. A -- yam? Some broccoli rabe. These things all need Chopping. "-- I shouldn't laugh at that should I?" he says, after some consideration of Micah's newly developed TOURETTE'S + echolalia. The amusement fades into another nosewrinkle, though. "S'weird, though. You sure ain't nothing wrong?" Micah chuckles right along with Jax until he starts having not-his-memories. He has a brief thought twinge of where-the-hell-did-that-come-from, but is more distracted by the /what/ than the /why/ or the /where/. “You saw the kids? Are they okay?” He seems to have teleported to Jax’s side, a hand resting on the other man’s right shoulder. He has on his Concerned Face. The question prompts more answer, not in words but in memories again. The feel of Shane's too-thin shoulder beneath a hand. Skin made for water dry and chapping. The guilt-fear-panic swirl of feelings that Jax would be Better Off Without Them. It possibly sums up to Not Okay. "That," Jackson says, with a crooked smile, "ain't no answer to my question, honey-honey." He's chopping, quick and efficient. Onion FIRST. So now he's kind of crying in the eye-stinging way, blinking rapidly to send tears trickling down his cheeks. /Onion/tears he doesn't bother to hide. "-- lookit," he says to Micah, "you got me so worried 'bout you I'm cryin'." Jax’s answer at this time is Micah-hugs. Careful Micah-hugs, because /knife/ and also still-healing injuries. Micah is clearly not used to being any kind of telepathic, and is reacting to things that are taking place entirely inside his own head! “/Fuck/, Jax, that is terrible. Do they at least have a decent foster home? If they aren’t bein’ taken care of right, we need to /report/ whoever is responsible like, right-fuckin’-now.” For the moment, Hive is quiet. Just a faint whirl of anxious worry (and perhaps a note of anger at the whole situation) that doesn't take shape into much and is probably rather easy to lose track of amidst Micah's /actual/ emotions right now. Jackson freezes, in this embrace, his hand stopping mid-onion-slice. "Uh --" He brings the knife down the rest of the way. Chhhk. More onion slices. "-- Wh -- what? Micah, what are you --" His head turns to glance at Micah. "What's terrible, I didn't -- Micah, what's going on, how did you --" His brow is slowly creasing. Micah is also sporting a somewhat confused expression now. “The kids…bein’ Not Okay. It’s…Not Okay.” Tautological statement is tautological. “I…” He frowns, releasing Jax from the failed attempt at comfort-hug. “I’m not sure. Either I’m manifestin’ latent psychic ability or this has somethin’ to do with Hive. I was…kind of talkin’ to him yesterday? Only he was Immigration’d and I was here. I’m not sure how that works. Maybe he’s just got crazy range on the brainspeak. But s’been weird since then.” << not okay, >> rises up, with a distinct flavor of anger to the words this time. And then there is his /name/, and the voice -- voices? -- in Micah's head come into sharper focus. << Maybe, >> is a little dry, << you're a superhero after all. S'contagious, you know. >> "The kids are -- but how did you /know/, I ain't --" Jax is studying Micah's face carefully; he's set his knife down and now he's just leaning against the counter. Worry is in his expression, and sort of reflexively he reaches a hand (probably kind of /oniony/) for Micah's. "You could be --" he starts, but then his eye narrows. "-- You was talkin' to Hive." His face scrunches up, abruptly. "An' cursing, and -- /Hive/, get /out/ of there." Micah winces slightly at the addition of Hive-anger to the upset-worried-protective-confused puddle that is his brainscape at present. "Yeah, he's talkin' again," he reports for Jax's benefit. "S'like he's everywhere all the time. But sometimes more there than others. And sometimes it seems like everybody else hears him too, but sometimes s'just me. Fuckin' creeper." This last bit is half-joking. << Can't help it, >> murmurs to Micah, << you're just so fucking tasty. >> But there's a quieting of his voice, at Jax's chiding. A brief /sense/ more than statement of apology. << -- He didn't mind. >> This is said a little /defensively/, to Jax as well. "Oh, gosh. Are you okay, this is -- he shouldn't -- he ain't --" Jackson lifts a hand, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "Y'ever wonder how he got his name?" he asks Micah, eye still scrunched closed. "-- Did you /ask/ him, Hive?" This is a little sharp, but it's softer the thoughts in his mind: << Oh gosh are you /okay/? Where are you? PleasebeokayIloveyou. We're getting a lawyer we're going to fight this ohgosh -- >> But it all runs into: << You can't keep doing this. Hive. /Hive/. Hivehivehive -- >> There's a flood, here, more emotion than words, trust and protectiveness and love and, okay, exasperation, too, more than a little awkward embarrassment at all his snarking but it's all /his friend/. All Hive. << This isn't you. >> Singular-you. “I didn’t ask. People’ve got funny names sometimes,” Micah says with a shrug. “He might’ve said something about people tryin’ to Borg him once, but that was confusin’ an’ I didn’t really know him yet.” He starts to worry at his lower lip with his teeth as Jax looks progressively more anxious. “Apparently this is a safety hazard of some sort?” There's quiet. A long quiet. And then it's very /reluctant/, the grudging: << ... may I have your brain? >> And belatedly: << Please. >> But, quietly, telepathic senses are reaching out, mental fingers /grasping/ at those feelings from Jax. Curling into them. Drinking them up. Jax -- groans. And then takes a deep breath. And then another. To calm himself. He turns, returning to his chopping, slow and mechanical to have something else to focus on. << Hive, >> comes again with a surge of feeling, a flicker of memory. Futile attempts to teach Jax to play Smash Bros. Gardening on the roof. Working late into the night to plan their last raid despite Hive's fervent protestations of Not Being A Hero. "He Borgs people. Like you. Right now. It's -- um, when did you say you talked to him, Micah? I mean, he -- s'kinda intense, he can see /everything/ in your head. And, um -- use you --" This makes him look a little uncomfortable, his chopping a little faster. "Ain't nothing weird happen today 'cept some cursing, yeah? I mean he wouldn't -- he'd never --" He bites his lip uncertainly. “Oh…damn, that’s inconvenient. I’ve got a lot of Protected Health Information in there that shouldn’t be--” And then Hive is…requesting Micah’s brain? Like a really /polite/ zombie? This is /so/ bizarre. <<Hive. If you need to use me to talk to Jax for now, that’s fine, but there’s Other People’s Stuff in here you’re /not allowed/ to look at.>> Micah scrunches one eye half-closed for a moment, the opposite eyebrow arching in an almost skeptical look. “Yesterday evenin’. I don’t /think/ anythin’ /else/ weird has happened. Y’know. Aside from the not-my-thoughts.” There is more quiet. Hive is listening, though. Listening to Micah. Listening to the memories Jax finds for him. Reluctant still is his eventual: << Hold him. >> This is to Jax, quiet. And then something pulls, tears, like mental barbs being torn out of Micah's mind. It yanks out sharply, leaving behind one hell of a headache and a heaping dose of disorientation. Inside Micah's brain, there is quiet. Well, from /Hive/, at least. He cannot account for Micah's own thoughts. Jackson frowns at the mental command. It's tentative, the hand he reaches to Micah's arm. "Okay," he says quietly, "okay. Sorry. It's been -- he's been -- sorry." His brows crease into a deep frown. "I'm still feeding you," he says. Firmly! Inside there's /worry/; for Micah, for /Hive/. For /everything/. << Hive, >> comes again with memories of the man; Jax does not /know/ he is know longer there. "How're you feeling, honey-honey?" "Son of a /biscuit/!" Micah replies unhelpfully, looking a bit like someone struck him. "Ugh...uh...he could /warn/ a person first. That was like rippin' off one doozey of a bandage." He rocks a little unsteadily on his feet. "Can I have that with, like, /all the analgesics/ on the side?" A little grin manages to pull at the corner of his mouth. Jax's expression instantly pulls into a deeper frown. He curls his arm around Micah's waist, holding the other man close. "Son of a biscuit," he echoes, amusement in his tone. Still holding Micah, steady, he pecks the other man lightly on the cheek. "Now I /know/ I got my Micah back." Micah may be leaning against Jax harder than is entirely necessary to anchor himself. “Told you it’s always the stupid stuff that comes out when I’m not thinkin’.” He’s back to full-on smiling, shaking off the lingering disorientation of Hive-evacuation. "Ain't stupid, s'cute," Jackson says with a faint blush but a warm return of his smile, too. "I mean, it's -- s'real /you/." His fingers run slowly against Micah's back, absently tracing up his spine. "Which means s'kinda nice to hear. Silly or not." Bah, blush-complimenting! That’s a dual guarantee of setting off Micah’s blushing, too. A little shiver of superficial muscles can be felt under Jax’s fingers. Much nicer than psychic headaches. “Yep, I’m definitely me,” he replies /so very/ intelligently. The shiver draws a slower touch. Jax's hand presses, palm flat against Micah's back as it draws upwards. His fingers slip towards Micah's neck, running against the vetebrae at the top of his skim. "You're turnin' red at absolutely nothing," Jax points out, softly, his smile growing, "s'kinda a giveaway too." His fingers are kneading, now, slipping just beneath the collar of Micah's shirt to press at the muscles there. Micah’s under the impression that he’s turning red at absolutely /everything/, but the outcome is much the same: a deeper flush, now claiming his ears. “Well, wouldn’t want to go givin’ anythin’ away,” he murmurs, mostly into the other man’s shoulder, as his forehead has nodded forward to rest there. A hand slides to settle gently at the small of Jax’s back. "-- Not give /anything/ away?" Jax's fingers press kneading further, for a moment, then stop. His hand slides, fingertips tracing against Micah's chin to turn the other man's head up towards him. "Guess I shouldn't give you no reason to blush, then." Although as he leans in to touch his lips lightly to Micah's, he's turning red, too. "Well, th--" Micah's easily led, but that means no finishing sentences. But certainly more /crimson/. And more pulling the arm around Jax's waist in tighter. And definitely kisses. It's a light kiss, at first, chaste and proper. But it's followed by another, and another, and another, increasingly less so. Jax presses fingers to the small of Micah's back, holding the other man close. His pulse is racing, and in the well-lit room around them things get brighter for a moment. Jackson breaks off, his cheeks /deep/ crimson, to duck his head with a slight catch of breath and look down, back to his cutting board and its forgotten vegetables. "I should -- oh gosh -- I should -- sorry -- you still ain't eaten I should finish -- dinner." Micah had reached that point where he was leaning a fair portion of his weight against Jax. The move away is…unexpected. He takes a moment to rebalance his centre of gravity and…ohright…remember where he is, even. He’s left regarding the back of Jax’s head, ducked over the cutting board as it is. Okay, no pushing… “If that’s what you really want to do… Can I help? I make a pretty decent sous-chef. I’m really good at followin’ orders.” Take from that what you will… Jackson's blush hasn't faded. "What I really want to do --" he echoes, half under his breath, and this /spreads/ the colour in his face deeper. Really spreads, till the air /around/ him is faintly red-tinged. He miiight be leaning a good bit of /his/ weight, right now, against the counter, hand braced against it like he needs it for support at the moment. The smile he quirks is crooked, as he leans over to open a drawer and get a second knife from it. "Yeah?" That last statement really isn't helping his blush, nor his following admission, "Kitchen's the only place I'm good at being on the /giving/ end'a 'em." Not that he's giving any now; just looking at the second knife he has procured and taking rather deliberately deep-slow breaths. There is no hope. The two of them are going to be competing in shades of red for at least the rest of this conversation, it seems. Jax’s comment earns a quirk of a brow and matching smirk. If banter’s where he’s comfortable now… “I’m more…situationally flexible. But. It is your kitchen.” Micah has also taken to leaning against the counter, at his right hip. "M'a dancer," Jackson says with a quick smile and a glance briefly flicked up sideways towards Micah, "I'm plenty flexible in /some/ ways." He straightens, slightly, shifting his weight partway away from the counter -- kind of slowly, like he's testing whether or not removing this support is a good /idea/. He doesn't move far, though, just shifting slightly to the side to -- well, maybe to open a cabinet but at the moment that cabinet is behind Micah's /legs/ so he just ends up in front of the man again, one hand reaching down by Micah's hip. "Sorry," he murmurs as his gaze drops down, "I had to get -- s'a second cutting board --" There is probably basically going to be no end of blushing, yeah. It certainly doesn't diminish with Jax's subsequent, "-- definitely prefer dancing the follow, though." “Dancer, hm?” Micah spends a moment just /studying/ Jax. When he approaches to access the cabinet, Micah doesn’t step out of the way. Rather, he places one hand on Jax’s shoulder and the other on the opposite hip…then uses this leverage to pull him close and spin him so that the two have traded positions: Jax with his back to the counter and Micah facing him. It is rather dance-like. Micah presses in close against the other man, bringing his lips…just next to his ear, whisper-close. “If you’d rather not be cookin’ right now. I just need you to tell me.” Even whispered, his tone is abundantly clear that this is not about cooking. Rather dance-like, Jackson shifts positions fluidly, body instinctively moving to Micah's cues. A shiver runs through him, as Micah presses up against him, and the breath he draws in is kind of slow-shivery as well. It catches, at the whisper, and he swallows once. "But there's been so much -- with everything that's -- I shouldn't be -- ohgosh it's /Lent/ and -- and but you're /hungry/ and I should --" These things start to rush out in quick-tumbling succession, one of Jax's palms braced hard back against the counter behind him. But then these excuses just -- stop, and he releases the counter to, slow but deliberate rather than hesitant, rest his hand up at Micah's shoulder. "-- I'd rather be dancin' right now," he answers, a little husky-soft. Micah pulls Jax to him again, firmly…positioned for close dancing but…going nowhere yet. Apparently more whispery talking is indicated. “That was an awful lot of hesitation,” he observes in teasing disapproval, with even a /tsk/, lightly in Jax’s ear. “Just to be clear, the only magic word here is ‘Yes’. All others will be perceived as ‘Stop’ until indicated otherwise.” Jackson's blush can't really get much deeper. It's trying, though, the red tinge around him creeping out towards Micah as well. "Sorry," he says with a crinkle of his nose and a lopsided smile, "M'Catholic. Think my reflex is t'feel like I'm enjoying myself I ain't working hard enough. But I don't -- I /am/ enjoying -- I mean I like you. Want you. Like I get kinda fluttery just /looking/ at you and I --" He ducks his head, sheepishly, but when he looks back up the blush is actually fading, red pulling back and a quiet confidence replacing the awkward-stumble of his words. "-- Yes." Micah just watches Jax stumble through what he needs to say, teeth pressed lightly to his lower lip until that single word. It earns a single word in reply, “Come.” And Micah leads Jax by the hand to the bedroom, as if it weren’t the other man’s home and he needed to be shown where it is.