ArchivedLogs:Trying to Tackle Giants

Trying to Tackle Giants
Because /a lot/ of serious shit went down...and on top of that Jax's kids might be getting Removed by Child Welfare.
Dramatis Personae Jax, Micah, and a brief but nevertheless lovely cameo by Eric
In Absentia	17 March 2013 Takes place immediately following Hammertime.
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. For the first time since the raid, Jax's apartment is quiet. No refugees, no /kids/. Just the soft burbling of the aquarium filter and the quiet grind of the beagle's teeth against a thick bone. Obie, at least, is content in the corner with his treat to chew. Jackson is -- cleaning. Straightening, at least. Pushing mattresses aside to rest against the ladder up to the loft. Putting his furniture back in its usual place. Taking dishes to the sink. Putting laundry in a hamper. That he is doing all of this with a lot of /energy/ is hardly unusual, for the bouncy Southerner. It's a bit more frenetic of an energy than usual, though. And tonight he is not glowing. Tendrils of smokey grey curl, shadowy, around his arms. Micah has been taking a moment to put away the random workthings he had brought for Liza's benefit earlier. Examples of plaster casting materials, compression bandages, some pamphlets. He /might/ be looking a little sheepish for having contributed to the mess. Once those few items are away, however, he watches Jax's scurrying for a moment. He catches a hand on Jax's shoulder, gently, during one of his speedby-passes. "Jax, stop a second," Micah requests, voice extremely soft. Though Eric steps into the apartment briefly to look around, he quickly makes himself scarce, waiting out in the hallway. What for is not particularly clear, and after attracting some odd looks from the police officers still in Ryan's apartment, he heads down the hallway to wait in a more suitable place: the lobby. Jackson does stop. A second. Beneath Micah's hand the heat of his skin can be felt strongly even through his shirt, fierce and almost uncomfortably hot, even moreso than his usual feverish heat. He is also practically thrumming, a jittery-restless energy that pulls him away again soon to -- uselessly put a throw pillow back on the couch instead of the floor where it's been. "Sorry, I, it's just, it's a /mess/," Jackson explains, tone oddly calm in contrast to the antsy motions. “You are about to vibrate out of your skin,” Micah observes evenly. He follows after Jax and, placing a hand on each of his shoulders, gently turns the other man to face him. “You need to sit. I’ll bring you a glass of water. And when you’ve /finished/ it, you can decide what it is you need to do next. If that right-and-truly-honest is to tidy this place ‘til you could eat off every surface, fine. I’ll even help you do it. But you’ve gotta stop first.” Micah may be managing an even tone for all of this, but his eyes betray obvious /worry/. "I need to sit." Jackson echoes this with a hint of confusion, but he -- turns! And he sits. A little wired-nervous, posture ramrod-straight as he perches on the edge of the couch. "It's just a mess --" he starts again, but then frowns at Micah and gets back /up/. "No, you don't gotta, I can get -- water, you don't. Micah, you've done so /much/." “That,” Micah declares with a nod of his head, “is not sitting.” He smiles a little, tired smile at Jax. It is the best he can manage right now. Then he just points back at the couch wordlessly before scurrying into the kitchen and returning with water. The small smile is met with a frown, worried, and Jax almost starts walking away from the couch. Almost. It's the pointing that stops him short, freezing to lower himself back obediently to sitting. His hands drop to his lap, just as restless-fidgety as the rest of him. When Micah returns with the water he takes it in hands that are none to steady, and is silent as he drinks. He finishes the whole glass without speaking, and lowers it to his lap empty. "I'm sorry," is the first thing he says once he is done. Once Jax has taken the water, Micah settles himself right next to him on the couch. His left arm and leg press up against Jax’s right side, just offering a solid presence. “It’s okay. You’ve just had about the worst kinda trouble and heartache heaped on your head that a person can have. I only wanted you to step back a second to figure out what you need to do with it, without killin’ yourself crazy-cleanin’.” Micah leans a bit, turning his head to face Jax better. “Let me know what you need, and I’ll do what I can. If it’s just bein’ here or if it’s tellin’ you every minute of experience I’ve had with Child Welfare or if it’s helpin’ you clean or somethin’ else entirely, you’ve just got t’say.” Jackson settles back, when Micah sits beside him, letting his weight shift to press back up against Micah's side. "I -- but I don't want you to help," he says in kind of a startled rush, and then blushes deep as he hastens to clarify: "I mean, I want you. I -- want you here, I want you in my /life/, I'm gladder'n you could /know/ that you're here right now I just -- I just, I'm /sorry/. This isn't how I -- I just keep dragging you into all this mess and chaos and you're /helping/ all the /time/ and I -- I -- didn't never want you to always /have/ to." He swallows, looking down at his empty glass. "You've --" This is starting out apologetic, too, and sans right eye he has to actually turn his head to glance back at Micah. "-- had a lot of experience with them?" "Jax, honey, I /know/ you don't want to be in a position to /need/ help. I don't want you t'need it, either. But things're where they are, and we take them as they come." Micah rests his hand on Jax's forearm reassuringly. "I'm just glad to be able to help, if help's gonna be needed." He gives a little squeeze of that hand before proceeding. "Yeah, I run into child abuse and neglect and guardianship issues far more than I wish I did, with work. Kids with special needs...tend to be in tighter spots more often than others. And these things always turn into drawn-out bureaucratic processes. /But/ that means that final decisions are /long/ in comin'. And /one/ 'off' visit with the social worker shouldn't be the end of anythin'. Especially if you have a long history of good visits with these kids, and the kids will interview positively about their arrangement." Micah worries at his lower lip briefly. "That lawyer offer from your cop friend is a good idea." Jackson is still -- pretty wired. Beneath Micah's hand his arm is trembling. His fingers clench tight against his glass. "Oh, gosh. Oh, you /would/ see a lot of -- that's gotta be rough," he says with a slight wince. "Does it -- does it get rough?" His teeth drag against his lower lip, clicking against a lip ring. "He ain't a friend," he admits, and this comes with a slight tensing of muscles, a slightly deeper crease of frown. "He just wanted --" His teeth sink down deeper against his lip, now. "I don't know what he wanted," he finishes, though this sounds a little guilty. "-- ohgoshI/am/aterribleparent," is the thought that immediately follows this. And then a wince, and another hasty, "m'sorry." Micah reaches over to take the glass, giving it a little wiggle to encourage Jax to loosen his grip, without having to ask aloud. Once the glass is relocated to a nearby table, Micah slides his hand into Jax's. It's a much better thing to be squeezing on than something hard and prone to shatter. "I won't sugar-coat it; it can be. Convincing Child Welfare that somethin' is an aberration takes a lot of doin'. More so for fosters than adoptives, and more so for adoptives than biologicals. They're gonna get into every crevice of your life with a magnifyin' glass. Financial stability. Livin' arrangements. Personal relationships. But they're really just lookin' to see if the kids are not bein' abused or neglected. That they've got adequate safety, food, shelter, healthcare, education, and supervision." Micah presses his eyes closed firmly against Jax's assertion that he's not a good parent, briefly overwhelmed by the amount of hurt the other man must be feeling. But it is brief, and his eyes reopen as he squeezes Jax's hand. "You /are not/ a terrible parent. You /love/ those kids. And you would do /everything/ in your power to prevent any harm from comin' to them. It would be a blessin' if more kids could say the same about their parents as could be said about you." Jax's fingers slip readily into Micah's, squeezing down at the other man's hand. Maybe a little too tight, but he doesn't seem to notice. "If they get into every crevice of my life --" He swallows. His head bows. "I don't got none of those things," he says, slow and discomfited. "I mean our internet just got shut off last week an' the gas is yellin' at me and, well, you've /seen/ the living arrangements here and my friends --" He bites his lip, glancing back towards the apartment door. "-- but I don't --" He swallows. "-- don't know if any of it'd matter, really. I could have the perfect home and -- I -- I mean --" In Micah's hand, his trembles. "This ain't about the kids no more'n busting Ryan was about his weed. Or Hive --" Jackson tenses, drawing a slow breath. Micah doesn't seem to mind the tight hand-gripping, or at least isn't reacting to it visibly. "This is more about you all gettin' on the bad side of someone with a lot more power than you, and no qualms about abusin' it," he reiterates the suspicion he had voiced to Mel during the raid on Ryan's apartment. His tone is about equal parts statement and question. Jackson just nods, at first. He has fallen silent, hand still gripping Micah's tight. "All these people that been here --" he says, eventually. "They all -- there's places. Labs, I guess. They take us -- take mutants. Study 'em. Do -- experiments." The faint shadowy tendrils that had twined themselves around Jax's arm disperse, but overhead the light flickers, dimming and evening out at erratic intervals. "I mean, not with permission or nothing. Just lock 'em in cages. Test everything they can think of. Kill 'em when they're through, lots'a times, if all the bein' poked at and sliced up don't kill 'em first. I think they're government. Might be military-involved, they're definitely trying to -- make /weapons/ outta 'em, 'mong other things." His shoulder shrugs, twitchy-jerky. "I guess," he says, in careful quiet understatement, "they didn't get none too happy we busted those folks all out." Micah presses against his brow with the thumb and forefinger of his free hand, that hand shielding closed eyes for a moment. Not time to sit and process. Time to think and help. The hand drops back to his lap and he gives a nod. "That...at the risk of all /possible/ understatement, is /horrifying/." He bites down on his lower lip in the pause before speaking again. "And all this they did, with you all in hidin’. And quiet." There is another pause while he thinks of the right way to pose a question, and decides on a prelude. "I am comin' from so far outside o'this I can't begin to think that I have the right to suggest anythin'. But I have to ask...what happens if y'stop the /quiet/? Start gettin' /loud/ about it instead? Seems like they're the ones have more to lose from bein' known." "Ain't pretty, that's for sure." Around the edges of the room there are flickers, now. Misty-pale images, somewhat ghostly, constantly shifting and reforming. Vague shapes, for the most part, but here and there a clearer picture can be made out. A heavy steel door. A body half-melted and etched and pitted over what remains. A calm-faced woman in crisp labcoat wielding a scalpel. "We --" Jackson hesitates. "Want to," he says, "S'scary to think just how's the right way. These people, they -- there's a /lot/ of these places. We don't got no idea how many. And they have a habit of -- of --" His brow furrows. "If they gotta clean up after themselves, just /murdering/ all of us they're still holding when they gotta shut a place down. If we come out about this and don't nobody yet /know/ which of these places is out there s'a real good chance they'll just kill /all/ the people they still got to make the cleanup quieter." More softly, he adds: "An' s'no small part of me worries, too. That if this does all go public just -- people ain't gonna care. Or gonna encourage it. I've seen some'a the laws they done propose, ain't nobody lining up to treat us like proper humans no time soon. But --" He draws a slow breath. "But maybe s'just all stupid fretting cuz we -- cuz I'm /scared/. Maybe bein' loud about it's the best thing we could do." Micah can't help but draw back from these images, pressing himself up against Jax more firmly...protectively or in need of protection or some confused tangle of both. The ghostly visions have left him looking pallid. "It just seems like givin' 'em nothin' but time... Lets 'em keep /doin'/ it. Lets 'em take /more/ people. Lets 'em do /this/ to you and Ryan and Hive and /everyone/. Playin' cat an' mouse always favours the cat. 'Specially when the cat knows where the mouse lives an' where he keeps his kids." Jax's fears about public reaction cause Micah's face to redden, however. But not with any shyness or embarrassment. He has to unclench his jaw to speak. "There's gotta be people. I mean, all of your people, yes. But, just /people/ who would be /outraged/ and /sickened/ by this. Bigoted's one thing. Scared's one thing. Inhuman's /entirely/ another." Jackson's hand finally releases Micah's, when Micah draws back, but only so that his arm can snake around Micah's waist and hold the other man a little closer. "Sorry," he says, softly, "I don't -- mean to." The images at the sides of the room are not vanishing, but they do pale, fuzzing a bit more into vagueness. "S'people who'll be outraged," he agrees. "S'people who'll think s'a good idea too, though. And some'a those people're in Congress." His head turns, eye closing as he presses his forehead against Micah's shoulder. "M'just making excuses again," he says, perhaps as much to himself as to Micah. "I -- I'm sorry. This -- this is all kinda so much bigger than -- I didn't mean to drag you into --" He's lifting his head again kind of abruptly, swallowing. "This is the /serious/ kinda trouble. I shouldn't never have -- this ain't nothing I want anywhere /near/ you, Micah, they could --" He doesn't actually complete this thought, though he does squeeze Micah a little closer. Somewhere at the fringes of the room in murky ghost-images, a scalpel slices downwards. Some of the misty-grey tinges itself slightly red. Micah curls against Jax as tight as he dares, still worried about Jax's injuries. /Having to worry/ about those injuries tightens the muscles in his jaw again. He tilts his head back and scrunches his eyelids closed tightly when he feels heat welling up in his eyes.../not/ acceptable. This is not /at all/ about him. He shakes his head a few times, takes a deep breath, and reopens his eyes to look down at Jax. "There's no 'gettin' into' here, Jax. This is like...citizen of the damned planet stuff. There's no /not/ bein' in this." Micah scrounges up a smile from somewhere, albeit a somewhat wry one, realising just how fluffy-bunny his word choice is getting. "Besides, I'm sittin' on this whole /pile/ of genetic privilege here. Makes it a little harder for me to understand, maybe. But may as well make use of it if we can." Jackson is watching Micah -- kind of carefully, through this eye-scrunching, through the deep breath. These signs of distress oddly seem to calm him, the trembling in his hand stopping, the images in the room fading out to simple shifting grey shadow. "May s'well," he agrees. "Once I -- get my head on straight enough to even figure out what step to take next." He's glancing, briefly, towards the boys' rooms, at this. He squeezes his arm around Micah's waist, close and tight, head shifting to press a soft kiss to the other man's cheek. "I feel a little guilty," he admits. "S'this huge part of me that's just horrified -- kinda just so terrified at the idea of what might happen if they know you're helping us at all. And then this -- other huge part of me that's just -- so -- real glad you're here." "I wouldn't /dare/ do anythin' without you all decidin' on it first," Micah reassures earnestly. "This /is/ my fight. But it's not my fight in the same way that it's /your/ fight. Stakes ain't the same for me, and I don't fail to see that for a second." He accepts Jax's contact, pressing back against him. Taking solace from his presence and /being/ a presence at the same time. "You need someone here. I'm just thankin' /everything/ I'm here 'cause everybody else is so tangled in their own messes right now. I can't even /think/ of you here, this place empty." Micah sighs heavily after all of these words seem to have spilled out of their own accord, a more practical corner of his mind engaging. "Step one's gonna be callin' that lawyer. Step two's gonna be makin' sure /everybody else/ is okay, and also follows step one. Gotta handle the little things 'fore y'go trying to tackle the giants." There's a faint flicker of lights following Micah's words, and Jax draws in a shaky breath. "Oh, Frith, Micah, how are you so --" he starts, practically a whisper, but then he turns his head away abruptly, scrubbing knuckles briefly beneath his eye, his hand wiping at an apparently dry cheek and then scrubbing off against his skirt. "Lawyer," he agrees, after another deeper breath. "Yeah. Cuz on my own I wouldn't have /no/ clue where to even start. Lawyer, then see if they done set bail for Ryan, then -- Hive -- that's gonna be a whole /new/ kinda headache." His mouth curls upward, a little lopsided in his smile. "But we can do it, right? I mean. I fight /dragons/." That little gesture of…is that /illusorily/ hidden tearfulness?...is almost too much to bear. Without /something/ to try to make it okay. Micah pulls Jax to him--carefully--and kisses him on that cheek. Then Jax’s smile wins its own smile in return, enough to crinkle the corners of Micah’s eyes. “You’re like the best paladin that ever happened. I have trouble imaginin’ anything you /couldn’t/ do.” The kiss finds a cheek salty-damp against Micah's lips, illusion doing nothing to hide the /feel/, at least. Jax's breath catches, briefly; his smile falters, briefly. He rests his forehead against Micah's, closing his eyes through another slight hitch of breath. His smile does return, though it takes a moment. "S'a lot I can't do," he says, forcing some amusement into a not-quite-steady voice. "I mean, I'm pretty terrible at Ticket to Ride." Quieter, shakier, but likely more genuine for it: "I couldn't move up to a new city with nothin' but my /ridiculously/ geeky van and make a proper go of my own business from scratch. I couldn't play hero to pretty much every person I meet while I was doin' it." Fortunately, Micah’s suspicions had already prepared him to find tears. He brushes a hand along the back of Jax’s neck while he pretend-grumbles at his turnabout. “I see what you did there. And I think you’re playin’ hero at enough people to make Superman flinch, day in and day out. So. Should we ruin that perfectly nice lawyer lady’s evening, now?” he offers with a smirk, trying to help Jax be /lighter/ if that is what he needs. Jackson shivers, closing his eye for a moment as Micah's hand brushes against his neck. "You totally didn't," he says, the smile that creeps across his lips rather /determinedly/ cheerful, "/see/ what I done there at all. I ain't slipping that badly." He shifts on the couch to retrieve his cellphone, though his other arm stays curled around Micah. He nestles in closer against Micah's side. "Ruin, psh. For all we know she's a superhero too. Just /waitin'/ for someone to call her into action." Which he's apparently preparing to do. At least, he's dialing. And if he is still curled rather /snug/ against Micah, well. Being a hero is always a little easier with a partner along for the ride.