Logs:SHIELD vs. The Power of Friendship

SHIELD vs. The Power of Friendship
Dramatis Personae Jax, Joshua, Spencer, Shane, B, Polaris, Matt, Blink, Steve, Rasa, Coulson, Fury, DJ, Dusk, Tag, Kitty
In Absentia Dawson, Ryan	2022-12-18 "I presume the other Mister Tessier sent you.". (with ripples from Jax's jail relationships.)
Location SHIELD HQ
July 14. Jax's Room. It's quiet this late into the night, and Joshua's arrival doesn't change that much at all. By the large windows he's suddenly there, in jeans and a lightweight grey zip-up hoodie over a bold purple tee shirt with a screen printed martini glass nestled in the large text, 'Alicia's Bachelorette Bash! Boston 2016'. His hands are tucked into his pockets, his kippah (grey with a black rose embroidered into it) slightly askew on his very tousled hair. "Need a lift?" is his greeting, excessively casual and at odds with the keen-sharp sense of hypervigilance in his mind. "Matt figured you might want to see some friends." Despite the hour Jax has not been sleeping, tucked at his desk with his tablet in front of him. There's a picture in progress of some dark-skinned white-haired man in excessively ornate fantasy armor emerging from a pyre, a number of reference pictures and quite a long and detailed email pulled up on one of his monitors. He's gone very still, eye wide-wide and stylus frozen in hand, for a moment upon Joshua's arrival. The tension breaks into a sunny smile when the other man talks, and he's started out of his seat a second later though catches himself and sits back down rather than launch into a hug. "Oh, gosh, but he ain't wrong. I -- think bustin' me out would be more trouble than its worth but I sure would be glad of your company, if you got a spell. I can make coffee." Now it's Joshua's turn for wide eyes, a confusion spreading across his mind that doesn't make its way into the jowly droop of his face. << not wrong? then shouldn't he want to come? >> << wait maybe he wants me to bring Matt here -- >> << ... my company?! >> A moment later, with an uncertain but warmly pleased flush in his mind. He's slow to pull away from the window, slow in the heavy nod of his head. "... coffee'd be nice." July 17. Jax's Room. "...anyway since I could test out of French I was like, what if I took Evolution and Intro to Genetics in the same term? Then I would get the big picture and the...little pic...ture?" Spencer pauses long enough to draw a single breath, think of three more things to say, and forget two of them, then he's blurting out the one he can remember. "OH next time I should bring Obie, too. He'll just think you came home for a while." He regrets this almost as soon as he's said it, and hopes it won't upset his father. "...or maybe I should just take AP Physics or Bio..." Draped backwards in Jax's desk chair, arms hooked over the back of the chair, Shane is listening to this whitewater of words with an amused baring of jagged teeth. "B can give you bots so they can be in Every Science Class At Once while you hang out here but I gotta warn you they did notice that when she tried it and made her go to ethics." He is very earnest about this information. B huffs a very soft and faintly amused breath, but for her part she does not supply any helpful advice. The conversation washes over her, thoughts taken with an odd mixture of fury and contentment. She closes her eyes, gills fluttering slow and languid where she lies head pillowed comfortably against her father's lap. July 26. Rooftop. At first it's just a bright metallic glimmer in the air over the Hudson, but then it banks and glides unerringly toward SHIELD HQ. From the ground it's only a mysterious triangle, but from the roof the object can soon be discerned as a sheet of steel folded like a giant paper airplane, one wing etched with the shape of the Big Dipper pointing toward a single starburst on the other wing. Perched at the nose of the plane in a breezy blue-green paisley sundress with oversized butterfly sunglasses, Polaris seems blithely unconcerned about either the height or the SHIELD drones circling the building, though she's mentally cataloging all the defenses she can feel, her magnetic senses sharp and clear under Matt's skillful bolstering. << If he actually decides to come with, it's hardly even gonna be a fight. >> The uncanny craft curves gracefully toward Jax, its pilot waving furiously as it coast to a standing hover. "Oh man, I was about to quote 'Mean Girls', but you’re so not a loser." Her cheeks flush. << Jesus, Lorna try having at least one chill… >> "So uh. Wanna go for a ride?" Raising himself somewhat hesitantly, Matt leans out from behind Polaris, face just a bit pale but smile plenty bright. << (...just isn't as much fun as riding Dusk...) >> "No offense to my lovely pilot, but this ride has tested my metal." His eyebrows tick up fractionally. "And, though she's entirely correct in all the ways that matter...get in loser, we're busting you out." That bright smile skews crooked without dimming. << Dear gods, woman, please don't start any fights. >> "Again." Jax is openly staring at the 'paper' airplane as it banks, a delighted amazement in his eye. "... I ain't? Can't say as this feels much like winning." As they come to a halt, the etching on the wings light up, a soft glow bringing the stars there to life. "Feel like that would be a quick trip to the government rethinkin' keeping me in HAMMER custody. Y'all want to help me weed, though, I got nothin' but time here." August 16. Dining Room Cooking is well underway in the kitchen when a misty purple portal opens from -- a McDonald's? It sure looks (and smells) like it! Blink hops through carrying a large brown bag with the iconic yellow arched M on it. "Delivery for Kevin!" she calls brightly, then blushes takes in the meal being assembled. "Oh no, did I get the date wrong?" Kevin looks up from the stuffed peppers he's in the middle of assembling, his eyes wide and his smile quick. "Oh man, for real? Thank you!" Then he ducks his head and darts a glance at Jax, his smile turning a touch sheepish. "I mean the peppers are really great, too, but I'm dying for a burger." September 7. Rooftop. The roof has been growing shimmering iridescent barriers here and there -- walling off the plants, screening the patio table. A touch too late, evidently -- within one of those barriers Jax is righting the chairs that had already been flipped, an easy smile on his face as he looks out through the translucent wall at the galavanting pups beyond. The larger of the pair is in a hopeful play-bow, trying to encourage Obie to give chase, which -- he is trying, in his fashion, the dumpy one-eyed beagle waddling straight into the shield that is protecting the tomatoes, then into it again before a twinkling-bright light on the ground catches his attention and leads him around it and toward Zenobia. Jax is settling down into the chair he's just recently set on its feet, hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "I'd say it's the weird new terrain but honestly it's exactly jus' like this when we're at home." Steve has his hands braced on the back of his chair without really leaning on it, a small smile playing on his face as he watches the dogs at play. "Sometimes I think every terrain is weird and new to him. If so, I kinda admire his ability to delight in what would scare a lot of folks." His eyes drift to Jax, lingering on the line of his neck as he imagines reaching over to knead where Jax's hand is -- among other places. He grips the back of the chair until it creaks in complaint. Lets a long breath out and shifts his feet, but firmly resolves to stay exactly where he's standing until he calms all the way down. "Guess there's no rule says you can't be scared and delighted with new terrain." September 22. Kitchen One Director Nicholas J. Fury is stomping through the corridor toward prisoner holding -- something that is not all that uncommon on any given day -- carrying a plastic bag in the palm of his hand. Within the bag is another bag, this one made of paper, and what appears to be a large lump of small, dark fruits. When he finally reaches the small kitchen near their long term guest, he comes to a full stop. "Coulson. Do we or do we not work for a branch of the government that frequents sites all around the world, requiring that we become familiar with different cultures and environments?" It's less of a question and more of a statement -- not fully rhetorical, as it demands a response -- "An international agency, if you will." His frustration pushes punctuation between words that would not otherwise be there. "So why is it that no one knows what these are?" He shoves the bag at Coulson and stares him down. "You do. Right? You can appreciate them. Eat up. They were only picked an hour ago." Coulson has been unloading the grocery cart and relaying some News About The Harvest he heard at the greenmarket, but freezes like a jacklit deer beneath Fury's scrutiny. He opens his mouth to reply with no notion at all what he means to say, so it's perhaps for the best that the fruit completely derails whatever train that was. "Fresh jaboticaba?" His eyes are still very wide, but with startled joy now instead of fretful confusion. "Wow, thank you, Sir! But -- how did you know I was looking for jaboticaba?" He has a decent suspicion how, actually, and tell it with a reflexive sidelong glance at Jax. "How'd I know you was looking for what, now?" Nick Fury's dry voice, showing just a touch of his (polished) (coastal) southern drawl, is weirdly coming from...somewhere behind Nick Fury. And, a moment later, from a second Director Nick J. Fury standing in the doorway, arms crossed, fixing Rasa!Fury with a blank stare. "I presume the other Mister Tessier sent you." Coulson's eyes have gone impossibly wider, flicking back and forth between the two Furys. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again with a quiet "ohhh" of perhaps somewhat uncertain comprehension. Then, a little sheepishly, "...can I keep the jaboticaba?" October 15. Common Room The board in front of DJ is beautiful, the stunning artwork almost -- probably not quite -- enough to distract from the fact that his playing mat is heavily dotted with pastel eggs, colorful food tokens, many cards tucked away, and -- a very, very woodpecker-skewed collection of avian life collected in front of him. Despite his themed board he isn't playing the last woodpecker he currently holds, but there's a bright pink-purple-blue ombre flash of pleasure in his mind every time he looks at the northern flicker in his hand. Some small twinge of self-consciousness keeps it off of his board; he plays an American Avocet instead. "-- if they really aren't going to freak out, we should do this more often. I'm happy to bring the games." With a small twitch of a crooked smile he adds, "And the company." "Been a hot minute since we done the game thing with folks. S'nice." It's not actually the fact that he is getting thoroughly trounced that has been leading Jax to regard DJ's growing woodpecker aviary with some dismay. His mind has skated farther away -- a wooded copse long ago, a wide-eyed wide-smiled boy who wears a face that could be a much younger DJ's, eagerly handing over a pair of binoculars. He shakes his head, blinks, crinkles his nose with a soft smile as he darts a wistful glance across the table. "... an' I sure do appreciate the company." Steve is faring marginally better than Jax, though he still stands little chance of catching up to DJ. By some mysterious quirk of memory, it isn't the avocet card but the slant in DJ's smile that recalls the day he learned the name of that bird. Bright summer heat. Quiet stretch of shoreline in Queens. Flicker beside him, alive and free as if by some miracle. He swallows. Lays a mountain chickadee card on his board with unwonted fussy precision. "The actual guards seem to be getting kind of blase about all this, and Luci can handle Fury if he freaks out about it." Adjusts the card needlessly before looking back up, having got his expression under control enough to smile again. "But you might start getting sick of all the company you're going to get." The shoreline in Queens surfaces bright in DJ's mind, too -- from an entirely different perspective, Steve's arm warm and close around his shoulders. A fierce blush rises to his cheeks, his eyes lowering to his board. There's a ripple through all their minds, sick and deep with grief that twists there for a moment and then, suddenly, goes very quiet. October 29. Rooftop. Chevy does not look like the kind of man who would walk around chewing on a literal stick, but that does seem to be what he's doing on what would normally be his cigarette break. His resting glower intensifies when he spots the intruder on the rooftop, and he trundles over to where Dusk and Jax are lounging, though he does stop at what he thinks is a safe distance. "What you do here, it is not permit!" He pulls the half-chewed licorice root from the corner of his mouth and waves it in Dusk's general direction. "The other agents let you do how you want, but this is not a -- a clubhouse! Dusk has been quite occupied in fussing at Jax's SHIELD-issued laptop -- who knows if the changes he is making are Approved! -- and, indeed, even as the guard approaches he doesn't immediately look up from where he's sprawled out languidly along the edge of the garden bed. He does unfurl his wings once Chevy stops, though, claws scraping against the floor as he levers himself up and hooks his messenger bag up on one long wingtip. He unlatches the bag, pulls out a large blue case of cigarettes -- beside the all caps GAULOISES they're emblazoned with "Fumer tue" in bold black and white. He pats the box against Chevy's chest with a brightly -- verrrry sharply fanged -- grin. "Restricted access, membership cards, cheesy fucking name, seems like a club to me." And then he's settling back down, one wing draping casually across Jax's back as he returns to his task. November 5. Common Room Half of everyone left at SHIELD HQ--granted, the overnight staff is not large--is here, some having been roped into repurposing office furniture, others just tagging along out of curiosity, with only the detainees as formally invited guests. However they've come to attend this Very Special Artfight, it's hard not to get invested in the doodle-war taking place on the makeshift canvas stretched across three white boards. Tag, resplendent in a silver lame outfit decorated with whimsical outlines of plates, rivets, and gears, provides a running commentary, "...looks like Fitzsimmons is drawing on their technical knowledge here, but take it from Tagbot: you'll need more than a little science to stand against the stylish wiles of Sunny Jack!" Fitz is definitely drawing on his technical knowledge here, though it's an open question how his (adorable!) (anime-esque!) giant robot will fare in this fight given it seems to just be...existing. Robotically. What Simmons is drawing, on the other hand (and on the other side of Jax) is anyone's guess. It has a definite head. Or maybe that's a...balcony? Control console? The things sticking up from its main bulk may be wings or sails or just really big wobbly spikes. Maybe it would have legs (or wheels, or a base) if she weren't running out of space at the bottom of the canvas. "That looks really cool," she's telling Fitz, tone somewhere between delight and exasperation, "but you're supposed to be attacking what he's drawing." A black-trimmed gold Stetson is perched at a rakish angle on Jax's head, though that's the only nod today to his normally flashy Artfight costume. What he lacks in sartorial flare he's more than made up for in the dramatic, both canvases adorned with an ever evolving panoply of characters engaged in wildly fantastical hijinks. "Ain't we done enough of war?" This proclamation is maybe belied by the bright gold pistol Jax is holding in one hand, his marker tucked into its barrel -- though now he's using it to add a tuxedo to Fitz's robot, a wealth of ethereal flowers strewn all around, a giant chuppah stretching between the robot and the horde of sharp-toothed fire-wreathed faeries that he had been working on to rapidly transform the scene into some kind of fae-robot polycule wedding. "At heart, Sunny Jack's a lover, not a fighter." November 17. Common room The common room has been drastically rearranged yet again, this time into a party venue fitting of a sweet sixteen princess -- sparkly ribbons and pastel balloons, string lights hanging from the tops of the white boards, a table heaped with treats and punch-like drink, another holding up the elaborately frosted and candle-studded cake. The music shifts into Ryan Black's 'Growing Season' as the last detainee arrives, as if on cue. A few bars play, then there is Bea, rising up from the floor, the birthday girl in all her sparkly lavender ballgown glory. A few appreciative gasps and a little applause from the assembled guests -- Kitty, at the birthday girl's side, bows. She pulls her now-solid hand out of Bea's, voicing a triumphant little "Ta-da!" that's immediately drowned out by the teenager's scream-cry of joy. Bea rushes to her father's side, any concerns of << this dress doesn't fit anymore >> or << oh god the ceiling the CEILING >> fully forgotten. Pleased with a dramatic entrance well done, Kitty gives Jax a tired thumbs up. Stunned, Lorenzo doesn't seem like he quite processes what he's seeing until Bea throws her arms around him. And then he's laughing and crying at once, lifting his daughter in a bear hug. "How did you -- oh God, I missed you so much, baby girl!" He sets the girl gently back down, looks past her at Kitty, and then aside to Jax, wondering how he could ever express the gratitude singing in his heart. His eyes return to Bea. "Right, no more 'baby girl', I remember. You're still my bumblee, though." He can't really bring himself to let her go entirely -- doesn't have any serious intention of trying, just yet, and keeps an arm curled tightly around her shoulders. "Come on, I gotta introduce you all, there's some amazing people here..." December 18. Jax's Room. This time, it's not so late -- though this time of year it's dark all the same, the city far (far) down below an array of headlights and streetlights and strings of tiny twinkling early Christmas lights all mingling together. Joshua looks wintertime-cozy, a thick off-white cable-knit sweater and chocolate-brown corduroys, a thermos in his hand that he doesn't offer to share. He does reach out, without much preamble save for a very cursory glance over Jax to make sure he's not interrupting too much before he claps his hand down on Jax's shoulder. "Hope you didn't have plans tonight," is all the warning Jax gets. Joshua's eyes skate momentarily to the corner, pausing on the camera there with a very small upward tilt of his chin, and then they vanish. In the surveillance room down the hall, Ally looks up from her Switch, but doesn't seem particularly fussed about the sudden addition of Joshua and subsequent subtraction of him and Jax from Camera 7. She just enters a few commands, diverts the live feed to a file she had prepared, and casually deletes the last 30 seconds of actual footage before it gets backed up to the server. In the window for Camera 7, a Jax borrowed from the past wanders off screen to take a very long bath, and Ally goes back to her game of Bayonetta 3. Jax has not quite been pacing the walls of prison, here, but he has been doomscrolling Twitter, which amounts to much the same thing. He looks up -- first with delight but then some confusion at Joshua's proclamation, and doesn't actually have time to reply before he's whisked away. The protest forming on his lips does not make it out -- when, a scant instant later, he's set down in the very familiar surroundings of the Tessiers' elegant dining room, all he manages is a baffled and entirely futile "You can't just --" The protest dies on his lips, his words suddenly swallowed as he looks up. He smoothes a little self-consciously at his tatty old overalls, a deep flush rising to his cheeks. He takes a step away from where Joshua suddenly no longer isn't towards -- "Steve." Steve has been pacing. He keeps switching the bouquet of flame-colored roses from the crook of one arm to the other, fussing at his meticulously casual outfit, looping lines to welcome and reassure and flatter his date. He stops abruptly at the arrival of Joshua and his passenger. All the words he'd been rehearsing fall away when his eyes fix on the latter. The breath he had drawn to speak escapes with just a quiet answering "Jax." The roses, too, fall to the floor as he closes the rest of the distance between them and slips his arm around Jax instead. His mind fills with desire so intense it physically hurts and vivid images of what he wants to do about that desire. His fingers curl against Jax's back, then quickly relax -- not quickly enough. There will be bruises later. His other hand goes to the back of Jax's neck, cradling his head gently against the urgency of the kiss that follows. There's a moment when it feels like he might pull back. Take a breath. Actually talk. Then the moment passes, and with it his caution. He leans harder into the kiss -- too hard, slamming Jax up against the dining table. Does not register the clatter of fine china and crystal as he effortlessly lifts Jax onto its edge. Does not register the shabbiness of the overalls as he sends its buttons skipping across the floor. His world has narrowed to the man in his arms. His lips only part from pale, feverish-warm skin just long enough to whisper "Jax."