ArchivedLogs:Needs Must

Needs Must
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Tag
In Absentia	2013-10-15 (Part of Prometheus TP.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - 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 myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room 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. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. 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. The blustery autumn afternoon finds Tag curled up one of the beanbag chairs in the living room. He is wearing a loose t-shirt in a swirl of rainbow colors so tight they produce a moire effect and black gi pants covered with day-glo paw prints. His finger and toenails are painted silver like tiny convex mirrors. There is a Chinese book in his hands, but he does not appear to be reading so much as just leafing aimlessly through. Half under his breath, he is singing a song whose lyrics he has not wholly memorized, mumbling the verses he cannot recall. "See the arrow something something tryin' to tear us apart, take the fire from my something and the beat from my heart...still I won't let go-oh, still I won't let go-oh..." The lock rattles, the door opens; Jax isn't as colourful as he tends to be, when coming back from school. Heavy boots, dark cargo pants, dark t-shirt, a denim jacket over top. His hair is still its vivid bright shades of yellow-orange-red, though dark roots are showing where it's grown out longer. He is slow, kind of sluggish as he crouches to unlace his boots and leave them by the door; it's a process that takes a bit, and by the time he stands he has summoned up a warm smile. "Hi, honey-honey. Y'had lunch yet?" Tag sits up, meerkat-like in sudden alertness, then relaxes at once when he sees Jax. "Hey. Um, yeah, I made a huge pot of nabeyaki udon. Also tamari kale chips cuz the farm gave me a ton of extra kale. Still plenty of both if you want." He closes the book, sets it down on the coffee table, and pads over to over Jax a hug. "Take me with you." He blurts this out rather abruptly, mid-embrace. "Thank goodness, I'm starvin'. You're an angel, hon." Jax's arms lift to return the hug tightly, head touching down against Tag's hair. He tenses up at this sudden outburst, pulling back to look down at Tag. "What?" It's startled, and a little bemused. "Tag I -- can't just --" "Yes, you can." The purple section of Tag's has fallen across his eyes, and he shakes it head to toss it aside, making a mess of the rainbow. "Look, I know I'm not Rambo. I'm no kind of fighter at all, but I can drive, I can slap bandages on the wounded, and I can black out cameras. And stuff." Having said that all on a single breath, he gasps for air momentarily. His hair has already started sorting itself back into color wheel formation. "Micah needs to be here for the boys, but I can go in his stead." He is shaking a little, and his hands have balled up into fists on the hem of Jax's shirt, but his expression is serious and determined. "Micah's here for the boys an' who'll be here for Micah?" There's a slight waver to Jax's voice, here, it only grows when he continues: "An' if somethin' happened to /you/ on my watch, I --" He swallows, pressing his knuckles hard to his eye. Around them, shadows start to grow at the corners of the room, a dark haze in which shapes move and shift, too restless to pick out any particular one. "Tag, my team's been trainin' together for a long while, you ain't -- been to a single one, I don't even /know/ how you do when folks is shootin' at you an' dyin' around you." But there's uncertainty here, too, as he admits, more tired and distinctly more unhappy: "... We don't /have/ a designated driver for the second vehicle. 'leastways not one who ain't goin' /in/. If ain't none of us in shape t'drive out --" His jaw tightens, eye still scrunched tight shut. "I dunno, maybe Mel or Lucien could come over..." Tag tilts his head slightly and the purple fringe starts to migrate across his face again. "I mean who the frak would say no if he asked 'em?" His eyes flick left and right at the shadows in the corners, his breath coming a little short. He wrenches his attention back to Jax. "I've been in a lotta danger before--but stuff I could run from, one way or another. Well, I learned you can't always run. I've never been in this kinda combat situation, but I have felt around my own mind, Jax. I /understand/ my fear. I can work with it." He reaches up and cups Jax's clenched jaw, slender fingers splayed over his cheek and caressing the new growth of hair. "Sorry, I didn't mean to come at you like that. I know you got a mission to run, and I don't want to be a distraction. But I'm offering my help /however/ you need it." He tucks the renegade purple hair behind his ear. "If you need me /here/, then I'll stay here." Jax closes his eye, and for a very long time he is quiet. His head turns, lips pressing to Tag's palm, not so much a kiss as just a lingering contact as he draws in slow breaths. "You haven't trained with my team. You don't know their style and they don't know yours. 'less I tell you specific, you can't come in where things are going to be crazy. But a second driver who's /not/ going to get shot at would be helpful. I need to know that if you come, you're gonna listen to whatever orders I give you." He gives a short breath of laughter at this, a little shaky. "-- /Giving/ orders, not usually the position I /like/ t'be in, but." Tag nods, once up, once down. "I'll follow orders. Promise." He snakes the other arm around Jax again and gives him a quick squeeze. "Believe it or not, I've never really been too keen on /obeying/, either, but...needs must when the devil drives." Pulling back, he scrunches up one side of his face. "Uh, I'm not sayin' you're the /devil/ or anything!" Jackson exhales, though this time it's not quite laughter. "Yeah well. You might be rethinking whether or not I am after you've been out on my team." He is reluctant to pull back, arm staying around Tag, fingers scrunching into Tag's shirt before he slowly lets go. Now he /does/ press a kiss to Tag's palm, the shadows at the edge of the room deepening. "Right. OK. We leave at eight."