ArchivedLogs:Sing a Few Bars

Sing a Few Bars
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Dusk, Micah
In Absentia	17 December 2013 So, about that whole getting arrested thing...
Location <NYC> Local Jail
It's been a busy afternoon and a long evening. Processing arrestees is a lengthy and tedious process involving many hours of sitting around. Handcuffed in a police van, sitting on a bench in a police station. Jail cells are not designed to be comfortable, even less so holding cells where people aren't meant to stay for any length of time. In this weather they're cold, harshly lit, the icy steel toilet at the back doesn't offer anything by way of privacy. But from the one where the men rounded up in the day's protest have been taken, there is singing. Bright and warm; Jackson is not blessed with any particularly strong singing voice, but he's on key. And /cheerful/, despite an /ugly/ bruise darkening one half of his jaw and cheek. "So let's destroy out of love, and build out of anger; get our heads out of our asses, see our lives are in danger. Cuz the world as we know it is not gonna last forever, and these could be the last days, so let's spend them together. And let's never surrender." He's seated on one end of one of the cots, with his boots still on but no shoelaces in them, outerwear taken, too-pale and shivering kind of badly with his arms wrapped around his knees. But singing anyway, despite the shivering. There's ugly bruising around his wrists, too, his hands kind of /puffy/ and a little darker than they should be -- compromised circulation with tight-fastened plastic ziptie-cuffs in winter does not do anything pleasant for extremities. Sometimes, the police outside yell at this cell to be quiet. For all the good it does. They don't /come/, though. Just intermittently grouse. Dusk is singing along with him, just as cheerful. He's doing somewhat better than Jackson on account of faster healing /and/ no particular need for massive amounts of /food/ every ten minutes. There's still bruising on his wrists, though the swelling in his hands has dwindled to minimal since the cuffs have come off. He wears a similar, if smaller, bruise on his face, and one of his wings shifts near constantly, eliciting a grimace every time he moves it but unable to find a comfortable place for it to rest when he doesn't, kind of achey from where it was struck. He gets to his feet frequently, pacing around the holding cell restlessly. "... I want the one about rocket launchers again," he decides, once the song is over. "I mean, oh, /man/, if /I/ had a rocket launcher --" Micah is looking a little less worse-for-wear than the others, having been far away from the group, quiet, kneeling, and not visibly /mutant/ when he was taken in. The cops eventually arrested him just for /lingering/, though he hadn't had much other choice with an unwell man to look after and a crowded, snowy lot offering poor mobility. His wrists, however, are purpled and there are distinctly finger-shaped marks circling one arm where it sticks out from the woefully inadequate sleeve of his powder blue Totoro face T-shirt. The knees of his jeans are thoroughly mud-stained, the left one torn wide open and more notably not covering anything since Micah's prosthesis was confiscated along with their other goods and outer layers of clothing. Needless to say, he's mostly been /sitting/ during their tenure. He doesn't know the songs to join in singing, but is currently giggling at the other two as they continue. He snuggles up /tight/ against Jax's side, attempting to steal body heat. "-- I would make some people pay." Jackson's lips curl up in a grin that matches his cheerful yellow Little Miss Sunshine t-shirt. He curls his arm around Micah, holding the other man close and tight, though at the moment what body heat he has to offer is not its usual radiator-excess. Between the tail end of the protest and the booking time and the time sitting in the cell it's been quite a /few/ hours now since he's eaten, most of his light no longer stored so much as clinging around him in a sort of sickly greenish-yellow haze that appears and disappears intermittently. "I got arrested at this protest with Ryan once, it was this animal rights thing, an' when /he/ was singin' the cops liked it so much they /gave/ him back his guitar jus' so's they could get a free show. So, I mean, we jus' sang all the most anti-cop smash-the-state songs we could think of." He's still shivering when he turns to press a kiss to Micah's temple. "Oh, gosh, sweetie, you /are/ becomin' a popsicle Shane'll be so disappointed in me." A faint glow surrounds Micah's arms, slowly deepening; the light brings with it a small cushion of warmth. It's not /much/, a small ambient warmth like putting your hand near an incandescent bulb, though it spreads to surround the other man entirely. "/Hah/. Yeah, I can see that. Ryan's a bastard." Though the way Dusk says it makes it sound like a compliment. "Jesus, you're both turning into ice." He moves over to join them on the bed, uncurling his unbruised wing to wrap it around both the others. He curls it in around them snugly, pulling both the other men close. "Jax -- dude, are you -- how long's it been since you -- they really need to get you some food in here." There's very real concern in his tone, his voice quiet. He grits his teeth -- with some immediate regret, relaxing them again and touching fingertips lightly to his bruised jaw -- and then smiles again, sharp and fangy. "Maybe you need a little more sunlight, mmm? -- So wish me luck now," his voice slips back into singing, quietly though it builds strength as he continues. "So wish me luck now, I have to leave you; bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao ciao. With my friends now, up to the city. We're gonna shake the gates of hell." He's kind of /determinedly/ cheerful again, in contrast to the previous heavy concern, his wing holding the other men tight. Micah giggles even more at the description of Ryan singing to the cops. “I can definitely see 'im doin' that. An'...well. People got beat, too, so I think Shane's gonna be disappointed either way.” His brow furrows, hands swatting at the glowing light when it appears. “Honey, no. You're already fadin'. Y'ain't gotta do that. You keep /yourself/ goin'.” Turning in to the other man a little more, he kisses him gently on the cheek, carefully avoiding the bruises. He certainly doesn't refuse the wing, however. “Ohgosh, you come with built-in blankets. That's perfect. I love you guys...so much.” His shoulder nuzzles against the soft wing even as the rest of him snuggles closer to Jax's side. “Maybe we can convince 'em t'let you have some sugar, at least? I mean, it'll get t'the point where it's like denyin' it to a diabetic who's goin' hypoglycaemic.” "I'm jus' glad the pups stayed out of it. B can get kinda hair-triggery when his family's gettin' beat on." The light fades away from around Micah, though Jax's expression is kind of unhappy about it. He sinks in against Dusk's offered wing gratefully, though, nuzzling his cheek against it and then resting his head on Micah's shoulder. "Think I am near that point," he admits softly. "Don't think all this shaky's purely from cold, everything's --" He shakes his head, his eye closing. "My jacket was stuffed full'a Luna bars but they done took alla them." His lips curl up into a smile at Dusk's singing. He picks up, more softly. "And I will tell them -- we will tell them. Bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao, that our sunlight is not for franchise. And may the bastards drop down dead." His face nuzzles in against Micah's neck, his arm still curled snug around his husband's side. "Love you guys, too. I mean, if I gotta be stuck in jail with someone I couldn't hope for better comp'ny." "Next time you see me I may be smiling; bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao ciao ciao. I'll be in prison or on the TV. I'll say, 'the sunlight dragged me here.'" Dusk grins at Jax once the song ends, though the lingering concern in his eyes is evident. He closes them squintily, wincing at the bright lights all around them. "Which is actually kind of true, y'know, sunshine, I would have had like. Zero shits to give about politics but you make it so easy to /care/ about things." His wing rubs slowly against the other men's backs, pressing soft and fuzzy to their arms. "Man you have /no/ idea how close /I/ was to throwing down. When that bastard hit that poor girl --" He shakes his head sharply. "The cops start being thugs at people and I just see red." His head bows, and he admits softer: "... or see black, really." “I think we got distance, a crowd, an' some chaperones t'thank later. I imagine somebody was /prob'ly/ holdin' 'im back /physically/ by the end of that.” The furrows in Micah's brow deepen, a frown stealing his slightly-amused smile away. “D'you want me t'ask for somethin'? I mean...some packets of sugar or an orange juice from the break room, even. It'd be complicated for 'em t'actually go get /your/ stuff, unfortunately.” He wraps an arm around the other man as if to still the shaking with /hugs/. “Ain't /no/ kinda okay what they did t'any of you. But 'specially not scared little girls, that's... /I/ wanted t'go shove folks offa her, but it woulda just made it /worse/. If' I'd even've made it /over/ there.” His nose crinkles at this. “I filmed it. As soon as the cops started comin' over an' Cage got involved. Everythin' that I could get on my phone from where I was. At least...people will see it.” His head tips at Jax's nuzzling, expression softening with the touch. “Have t'say even /jail/ ain't /so/ bad with the two of you. Or wouldn't be if we could get Jax fed.” He looks to the cell door, contemplating the best way to accomplish this. "I wanted t'shove them offa her," Jackson admits unhappily, "but it woulda made things a lot worse. /Cage/ made things worse, I'm fair sure; I think it'd have stopped with arresting her if he hadn't gotten in the way. Then all of a sudden t'weren't a scared little girl, it was the scariest mutant in New York /attacking/ the cops back. 'least that's how they'll say it. I know he means real well but I /wish/ sometimes he'd stop an' think more'n two seconds ahead. I think /she/ even got a worse beating on account'a those thugs was mad he got in their way with their first attempt t'arrest her." He tips his head back, pressing a kiss lightly to Micah's neck. "Orange juice'd be a blessing. Head's gettin' foggyish. Much longer'a this an' I'll --" He hesitates, pressing closer to Micah's side. "Prob'ly be fallin' asleep on you," he mumbles in finishing. "You send that footage t'anywhere 'fore they got your phone?" He smiles crookedly. "This ain't so bad. Last NATO protests in Chicago they left a bunch'a us hogtied with those plastic cuffs half the night. /And/ I didn't have no cuddles." "Kinda figured going into this that if it /did/ turn ugly, he'd find a way to bumble into it and make it worse." Dusk sounds amused, though, his grin brighter. "But there's worse crimes than wanting to help a little girl not get beaten on by those pigs. Jesus, I can't stand them. Like they put on that uniform and suddenly it's license to --" His fingers clench inwards into fists. His knees pull up closer to his chest, his forehead dropping to rest on them. "I used to be better at following along but ever since they murdered Ian I can't --" He hisses out a sharp breath. "I can't imagine that footage looks great, though. Beating a teenager and some people kneeling with their hands on their head. I almost -- uh, apologies, nothing against you or anything -- almost wish they'd hit you too. Beat you, take your leg, the press could have a field day." He turns his head to nuzzle against the /other/ side of Micah's neck. "You should probably handle trying to get someone's attention about food or sugar or juice. I don't think I can even talk to cops without telling them they're fucking pigs who need to die, and that won't help much. Plus --" He gestures with a hand towards his wing. "Doubt they'd listen to me anyway." "Did y'know," Micah starts off, affecting wide-eyed innocence in the telling, "that they have these apps for your phone that'll run in the background an' automatically upload whatever video you're takin' to an external server, for just such an occasion? S'true." His head shakes at the mention of Cage. "Yeah, they're gonna sensationalise the heck out of his involvement, y'better bet. Cops can claim fear for their lives after all the breakin' walls an' punchin' tanks an' all the craziness he gets 'imself into. But the rest? No, that ain't gonna go over well. Takin' pictures of all these bruises as soon as we get out, too. Equal lack of offence, Dusk, but I wish yours weren't /healin'/ so quick." There's a low, small sound in his throat at all the nuzzling, almost a whimper. "No, I figured I'd handle it. Between the mutant thing an' the... Yeah. Figure I can do the best job of lookin' pathetic an' bein' all 'Gee, Mister'." A wry grin pulls at his lips. "I /might/ have some practice at gettin' things outta people by pullin' the sad kid card. Lotsa hospitals when I was little." Micah very /reluctantly/ extricates himself from the nuzzles and the wing-hugs and moves to the cell door. The kind of...hopping method he uses to accomplish this not hurting the pathetic look any. He calls out quiet-like at first, slowly increasing in volume until some attention is paid. "Excuse me? Excuse me, please? I think we're about t'have a medical emergency." "Got no doubt they're gonna say some terrible nonsense when all he did was only jus' stand 'tween the cops an' that girl. But with his reputation --" Jackson's nose wrinkles. "You see the Times' piece the other day, it was the most /un/charitable drek." He smiles a little wider at Micah's innocence, sitting slightly up to scrutinize the other man's face. "Micah you're a darlin'." He's equally reluctant to let Micah up, pulling back slowly and then nestling, tired, in against Dusk's wing. Pale green-yellow light glimmers weakly around him again, and he sinks sideways, dropping down against Dusk's side. "Was actually more worried for you havin' to deal with the cops than havin' to deal with the beating," he admits. "You can take a few blows but I know cops ain't -- ain't no kinda easy." His eye closes, his trembling still quite noticeable even with the warmth of Dusk's wing around him. "Thanks, love," he adds, as Micah calls for help. "I saw it." Dusk snorts, shaking his head. "It was pretty shameless." He lets Micah go reluctantly, too. When Jax snuggles in he wraps an arm around the artist, sliding his feet down to the floor and pulling Jax down to lie on his lap. His wing drapes blanket-like over Jax, fingers running gently through Jax's bright hair. "Man, you're right." He sounds impressed as he watches Micah head for the doors. "You /can/ do the best job of looking pathetic." At first there's no answer to Micah's calling. Then some irritated voices from down the hall, talking to each other and not to Micah. Eventually an annoyed-looking officer stalks down the hall, stopping with arms crossed outside the cell. "What is it n --" His voice is sharp and impatient, but he stops with a deeper frown as he looks Micah over, eyes skipping blatantly down to the missing leg and then back up. He looks past Micah, to the others, lips compressing as he notes the glowing light around Jax. He takes a step back further from the bars of the cell. "Are you sick, what do you need?" Micah has on his best big-eyed look by the time the officer approaches, flinching just a little from where he's using the bars of the door to hold himself up. The effect is rather 'frightened kid in over his head' without overdoing it /too/ much. "Apologies, sir, but m'friend has a blood sugar condition an' he's already startin' t'pass out." He darts a worried glance back at Jax, mentally apologising for the purposeful mischaracterisation of their relationship. "Can get real bad if he don't eat for a long time. Like, seizures an' things." He bites at his lower lip, as if hesitating to ask. "Could y'please maybe bring somethin' with sugar? Maybe a juice?" Another glance is sent toward Jax. "He don't look good an' then we might need a doctor an' a whole lotta paperwork an'...ohgosh, just some sugar could help /now/." His hands tremble a little where he leans against the bars. Jackson nestles gratefully against Dusk's lap, relaxing beneath the blanketing wing. His shivering doesn't stop, a ceaseless small tremble; the light around him shivers restlessly in time with it. He certainly doesn't /look/ great, trembly, pale, hunched up in a ball on the cot. He curls in tighter as Micah speaks, but doesn't add anything himself. Dusk's wing rubs slowly at Jax's back. His brow furrows in concern; he brushes fingertips along Jax's forehead, sweeping shaggy hair off of it. "You're sweating," he murmurs, pressing the backs of his knuckles to Jax's skin. "It's freezing in here." "Blood sugar condition?" The officer frowns deeply. "He a diabetic? Why wasn't anyone told? Is there medication he needs?" His tone is back to sharp again. He barely looks at Jax, his attention focused on Micah. His arms are crossed across his chest, and he huffs out a quick breath. "/Just/ the juice?" Micah shakes his head at the question of diabetes, shivering again. “No, sir...s'just...hypoglycaemia?” He says the word a little uncertainly, though he's /actually/ tamping down a mental correction on how giving a diabetic /insulin/ for low blood sugar is about the worst idea ever. “It's better if he eats. The juice'll help. Food would be...even better, but if y'could please just bring juice, even, it'd help.” He tightens his grip on the bars until his knuckles start to whiten. The officer huffs out a breath that also sounds annoyed, and turns to leave back down the hallway the way he came. "Thanks, sweetie." Jackson doesn't open his eye. He just sounds tired, though he does slowly push his way more upright. "I do polite-voice jus' fine but I think you pull off the sad-eyes way better'n I can. I mean, my big-eyes works on /you/ but not so much -- the cops. Though funnily enough --" He goes quiet, here, starting to push himself to his feet but going kind of wobbly and slumping back against the wall, "-- s'been the case /way/ long 'fore I was openly a freak. The piercin's never bought me much grace with authority." He turns his head to wipe his forehead against his arm. "Sweatin' a little, I guess." Dusk pulls his wing back, helping Jax sit up when he moves, though he frowns at the shift of position. "I dunno, dude, you're looking /pretty/ pathetic to me, too." He rests a hand on Jax's shoulder, steadying the other man and actually guiding him somewhat firmly back /down/ when Jax tries to stand. "Sit. Stay. Sheesh." He gets to /his/ feet, though, heading to Micah to offer the other man an arm for escorting back to the cot. "I'm not even any kind of medical anything and even I could tell you insulin for hypoglycemia sounds dumb. Think he'll bring something?" "Think nothin' of it, hon." Micah takes Dusk's arm to transition back to the cot without /quite/ so much awkward hopping. "No, I get that. I can still pull off the whole Oliver Twist routine. S'harder when y'look like some /punk/ kid 'stead of some /poor/ kid." His chuckle fades into a look of mild shock when Jax tries to stand. "Ohgosh, where are y'tryin' t'/go/, honey? Y'sit. I'm...pretty sure he'll bring somethin'." He shrugs a little. "Cops are all the /heroes/ of their own stories in their heads, yeah? Now he'll get t'feel like a Big Damn Hero for pickin' up a bottle of juice. /Besides/ which the threat of havin' t'fill out an incident report is like, the /worst/. He'll bring it. If he happens t'know a kid that looks like me, prob'ly'll show up with some kinda candybar or somethin', too. Best thing y'can do is remind somebody of a kid they know. Makes 'em wanna help you even if they don't realise why." "Might kinda feel like someone's a big hero if they get some sugar into me right about now," Jax admits with a crooked smile. He scoots slightly sideways to make room again for Micah on the mattress, the other man's previous spot occupied when Jax laid down. "I was jus' -- tryin' --" He blushes, and drops his head back against the wall. "-- I know that I'd go anywhere for your smile, anywhere --" His own smile curls wider as he sings, eye cracking open to peek up at Micah. He reaches a still puffy-stiff hand for Micah when the other man returns, arm already set to curl around Micah and hold him close. The cop does return, this time with a small offering of vending machine fare -- a bottle of cranberry juice cocktail, a small packet of chips ahoy cookies. He looks distinctly /wary/ as he eyes the mutants in the cage, and unlocks the door at length so that he can pass the food in. "Think he was just trying to go get /you/. For all the good that'd do, Jax, you can barely even stand." Dusk delivers Micah back into Jax's cuddles, turning when the officer returns to head back towards the door to retrieve the food. The man doesn't look any /less/ wary as Dusk approaches; he practically shoves the bottle and bag into Dusk's hand and makes a hasty retreat, door clanging shut behind him. "Score." Dusk hurries back over, uncapping the bottle to hand it to Jax. "... I mean, kind of score, I don't think you can eat these." He scrutinizes the label on the cookies with a frown. "But it was a nice thought. Big Damn Hero. You want cookies, Micah?" "Oh. Ohgosh, hon, no. You're the wobblyface here right now, please just...sit, lay. Whatever's better." Micah snuggles in against Jax's side, wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulders. He watches the cop return, offering a grateful, thin kind of smile...just in case the curried favour may be needed at some future point. The cookies earn a frown once the man has left. "Jax, honey? Y'think we could feed y'some cookies now an' ask forgiveness of the gods of animal rights later? 'Cause you're seemin'...not so hot right now. I think y'need the cookies an' it's not like we got other options here." Jackson nestles back in against Micah, snuggling up close and tucking his head against Micah's shoulder. He reaches quickly for the juice when it is offered. His hand is a little shaky as he lifts it, hungrily gulping down a few large swallows before he forces himself to drink it in smaller sips. He eyes the cookies, though, with an unhappy frown. "I don't --" He bites down at his lip, and returns to sucking down sips of juice. "I think I'll -- I'll be --" His head thunks back against the wall again. "Fine. I'll be fine. For a little bit. The juice will help." "But will it help enough?" Dusk is frowning, too, as he takes his place back on the cot. His wing wraps in around them once more. "'Cause you really do kind of look like shit." He settles in at Micah's other side, wing curled snugly around the other two men. His other wing lifts to his forehead, acting as a visor against the harsh lighting overhead. "But if you're not going to eat these, what /can/ we do?" Micah's frown deepens at the refusal. “Okay. You drink all the juice an' we'll see what y'look like when it's all gone. But...we should consider the cookies if the juice ain't enough, deal? We don't know how much longer we'll be in here, an' I can only convince but so much outta the cops by goin' all doe-eyed on 'em.” He wriggles himself back on the cot until he's nestled between the two others, one arm petting at Dusk's encircling wing and the other holding tight to Jax. "Consider it," Jackson agrees reluctantly. Though he attempts to drink slow, he finishes the juice in short order, setting the bottle aside and lying down again to rest his head in Micah's lap. "S'/pretty/ doe-eyes, though." His smile is lopsided, his words a pleased sort of mumble. "Can -- sing. The singing was nice." Dusk's lips press together tightly. "Singing's good," he agrees softly. But he's quiet for a time, fingers dropping to trace feather-light against the bruise on Jackson's jaw. Then up, to brush against the artist's green hair. He takes a deep breath before picking up in the middle of a new song. "-- I'll run my hands through your hair and say it's them who's really scared. 'Cuz they know our love is stronger than their bars could ever be. Sometimes you give em hell, and sometimes there's hell to pay, but they know damn well that we are not going away. We may be lying through our teeth, but we'll still sing 'we are not afraid.' And friends, I swear that I'll keep singing, if they take you away." His head tips to the side to rest against Micah's temple, and he holds the others tight, wing pressing snug against them.