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{{ Logs | {{ Logs | ||
| cast = [[Doug]], [[Jackson]], [[Micah]] [[Parley]] | | cast = [[Doug]], [[Jackson]], [[Micah]], [[Parley]] | ||
| summary = | | summary = | ||
| gamedate = 2013-10-07 | | gamedate = 2013-10-07 | ||
Revision as of 03:31, 26 April 2014
| Out of Chaos | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2013-10-07 ' |
| Location
<NYC> Tompkins Square Park - East Village | |
Small but popular, this tree-lined park is a perfect centerpiece to the eclectic neighborhood it resides in. Home to a number of playgrounds and courts from handball to basketball, it also houses a dog park and chess tables, providing excellent space for people watching -- especially during its frequent and often eccentric festivals, from Wigstock to its yearly Allen Ginsberg tribute Howl festival.
It's a muggy kind of overcast day common in east coast autumn; kind of cold, kind of muggy, too sweaty to wear a jacket, too cold to go barefoot. Joggers circuit through the park in a bizarre mishmash of shorts, tanks and earmuffs while a pair of business women take turns uncertainly opening and closing their respective dark umbrellas when they feel a drop or two that fails to manifest in genuine rain. Parley is perched up on the back of a bench seat, gripping a pencil in his mouth while he hunches over a Moleskin braced on his knee. Taking an erasure to a few lines of spiky hirigana. He's gone down to a wife beater and loose thin gray flannel, jeans with worn out knees and converse shoes. Scrub-erase. Evening finds Jax bright and cheerful; shiny silver leggings under a sky-blue halter dress. Silver-edged blue eyepatch, orange-red-yellow flame-dyed hair. Dusty-silver faux-leather jacket draped over one arm but gooseflesh prickling his skin. Applejack and Pinkie Pie socks. Chunky silver-and-blue platform sneakers. There's a bounce in his step as he cuts back through the park from the subway, but it's underlaid by a deep-rooted exhaustion borne two parts of physical exertion and one part of Long Work Day. He almost passes by Parley entirely, on his way through the park; it is perhaps only months of bodyguard training that prompt him /to/ take a second look at Things In The Corner Of His Eye. When he does exhaustion is slightly displaced, if not removed, by a sudden genuine blossoming of warmth; there's a hesitation next but only for a split second before he bounces over. "Parley! Hi! Am I interruptin'? I have cookies! And /news/ -- well OK maybe it won't be exciting but /I'm/ excited. How're you doin'?" Doug is...not bright. In fact, the teenager looks kind of gray and worn as he makes his way through the park. Dressed in a green henley over jeans and a battered pair of work boots (all of which seem somehow faded in the shaded daylight), he's got his laptop bag slung limply across his chest, and his backpack hangs heavily from one shoulder. He sort of /shambles/ along the path in the general direction of Parley and Jax, and the Apartments beyond. He, too, radiates exhaustion that stem from a number of sources, most prominent being the Crush of School. He might not notice either of the other two, only Jax is speaking, and reflex turns his chin in that direction to verify the voice. He teeters with a mix of indecision and guilt before he shifts in that direction, swallowing hard before he offers a bright smile. "Hey! Did I hear the word cookies?" It's hard to miss the BRILLIANCE that is Jackson, in color and mind, even weighed down as it is, by exhaustion - Parley's eyes raise absently to watch him /dazzle/ by like a large hummingbird - and then eyebrows follow the upward trend. At almost the exact moment the illusionist hesitates, the empath also tenses minutely, closing his moleskin. And finds himself inquiring, very seriously, "What kind of cookies." As though all else depends on the answer to this one question.. save that he's cupping out a hand for cookie-alms? Fun fact, he still has the pencil in his teeth - but he can mutter all he wants, it will sound clear anyway. Mphflkees? His dark eyes swivel to Doug and he informs him, "He has cookies." Helpful. "And /news/." Body language has a deep well of unspoken communication; none of which even requires empathy to express itself. He's pulling in his feet and rocking his knees together - please, sit? "Ohgoshthanks I think I worked myself half t'death -- only worked my people a /quarter/ to death though but I split 'em in to two sessions so I was just kinda --" Jackson blushes as he opens up the messenger bag over his hip. "/Sorry/ wow I'm word-vomiting." Which tends to mean there there's not, currently, an /awful/ lot of dissonance between his mental processes and what he's saying, just a bright restless flit of retread over the training sessions he'd run and -- Oh! Cookies! They're macaroons dipped in chocolate, which answer bubbles cheerfully to the top of his mind before he opens them to display the crispy-coconutty cookies dipped at their lower halves in rich dark ganache. He offers the tub up to Parley as he gratefully sinks down onto the bench and off his feet. "/Oh/ oh right news --" He's already lifting his hand, fingers lifting to show the fiery sunstone nested in its white-gold band; mentally there is a fierce /swell/ of happiness, bright and warm that eclipses, for a moment, any exhaustion. But the cheerful-bright warmth is doused in a moment at the sound of Doug's voice, though externally his smile doesn't fade. His hand lowers to his lap and he offers the macaroons to Doug, as well. "I did! They're macaroons, d'you like coconut? Gosh, y'look tired, hon, you been sleepin'?" Doug leans over to examine the cookies with a bob of his head. "I love macaroons," he says, deftly snagging one from the container and straightening again. His own mental processes are slow and sluggish, like an overloaded computer processor, and it takes him a minute to decipher Jax's question. He lifts a shoulder, then, and wrinkles his nose. "Couple hours a night," he says, and bites into the cookie, << (probably)(I think) >> He makes a small hum of pleasure before he speaks again, licking crumbs from the corner of his mouth. "Hazard of overachieving, though." He lifts his eyebrows, and tips his head in Parley's direction. "So what's the big news?" Delicately selecting a macaroon with a thank-you dip of his head, Parley's eyes have slowly fluttered closed, threads of tension easing in a few nondescript locations under the warm dusting of information trailing off Jackson. That, or it's the effects of the first bite he's lazily chewing in the side of his cheek. Letting out a long exhale. Doug's presence is soaked in as well, on delicate reflex. It softens his edges to his company - all the easier to sneak-lean forward to peer down at the ring Jackson had raised. Silently, eyes remaining lowered, he wipes off a hand on a pantleg to rid any potential macaroon-stickiness and dips it down, palm up. Silent request for Jackson's own hand, to see? But he's actually speaking, when he does, to Doug, "Are you working on a project?" "Oh --" Jackson's cheeks flush deep, his eyes lowering to his lap. He plucks out a macaroon for himself, leaving the box open on his knees in case the others want more. "Oh, I -- it wasn't --" There's a twinge of /guilt/, here, a sudden tense-awkwardness flushing through his thoughts; the /happy/ is rising again but the guilt seems inextricably linked to it. And to Doug. Almost without thinking, he shifts his hand to rest it in Parley's upturned one, its sunstone less brilliant in the grey day but still coppery-red. "It matches my hair," he says a little shyly, /this/ fact evidently Very Important in his mind. "Couple hours ain't a lot." One corner of his mouth pulls upward, smile returning, if slowly. "Think we might," His head nods a little bit towards Parley, "know a thing about overachievin', though. Our building seems made for workaholics. How's yours goin'?" There's no ulterior question to this question, tipped Parley's way, just a quiet curiosity as to how he is faring in the city's waxing and waning tensions. Doug shakes his head at Parley's question, wrinkling his nose as he chews on his cookie. "Just an extra-heavy course load, this term," he says, and there's a weary roll of his mental landscape that might be a shudder of regret. "Trying to lay in enough credits to qualify for internship applications." << (Stark)(hopefully) >> His eyes track the ring as it's presented, the sluggish processor working on what it /means/, exactly, as he answers Jax. "I haven't gotten the hang of overachieving," he confesses. "I just go until I crash, and get up when the alarms go off." He manages a lopsided grin at this, sheepish though it might be. "Yeah," he says to Parley when Jax turns the questioning on him. "I haven't seen you around. How've you been?" "Go until you crash..." Parley doesn't look up from the ring; he's crammed the rest of his cookie in his mouth, somewhat forgotten, as he turns Jackson's hand from one angle to the other in the dim light, "I don't think there are many who can afford to live otherwise." He swipes a thoughtful finger over the coppery red stone, "Mnhh. Heroes for Hire hasn't yet been burned to the ground. Yet. And Luke Cage was alive last time I saw him. I'll consider that a success. We're coordinating a donation drive for St. Martin de Porres... --/is/ this what I think it is?" He shifts tone so abruptly he seems puzzled /himself/, looking up at Jackson's face.
"Not in this city, at least," Jackson agrees with a soft laugh. "S'kinda the way of things. Work until y'can't, get up an' then work some more." He tucks his macaroon into his teeth, too, freeing up a hand so that he can dig his phone out of where it's buzzing in the side pocket of his bag. The brilliant flutter of happiness returns even before he's answered it, just looking at Micah's name on his messages; his blush deepens fiercely /with/ this swell of happiness, warm and pleased. "Oh --" He swipes out a quick message, setting the phone in his lap. "I started goin' to church there," he admits, "until its, um -- /wow/ was it unnecessary smashin' a truck into the place, don't you think? An' Luke Cage seems pretty hard to kill. Thankfully. He seems --" << Misguided >> << Reckless >> << To have spectacularly bad judgment >> "-- well-meanin'. And yeah." His voice softens, here, fingers curling just a little bit down against Parley's, the ring slightly more prominent. "It is. We don't got nothin' like a date or anything set yet but I asked Micah --" He flicks a brief glance to Doug, smile still warm but a distinct tinge of discomfort in his thoughts. "-- t'marry me. He said yes. His ring's -- starrier."
Doug blinks as Parley answers the question, and his brow furrows. "Wait," he says, tilting his head to /peer/ at the smaller man. "You work for Luke Cage? The guy who's in the news all the time?" His eyebrows lift, and he shakes his head. << (Gotta keep up with stuff) >> "Wow. And I thought I had a big work load. But that's pretty cool, anyway. Like working for a celebrity." He grins, and pops the last of his cookie into his mouth, chewing it firmly. There might acutally /be/ a record scratch in his mind when Jax reveals the meaning behind the ring, and it takes a second of furrowed brow before he wipes crumbs from the corners of his mouth and smiles. "You guys are getting married?" he confirms, dusting his fingers against his jeans. "That's really cool." It's genuine in its offering, and the teenager holds out his hand. " Congratulations." "Very... well-meaning." Parley measures out agreement, distractedly. "It's only a part time," his own hand curls back without seeming to notice, returning the pressure from Jackson's hand with a look towards Doug, "--I still part time for Ms. Basil and... well, my interpretation work has dried up... I don't really know what to," he turns back to Jackson, with a tentative, uneven-twitching smile, "--I'm glad." He hrffs out a thin bit of air through his teeth, tightening his fingers harder, joining his other hand to enfold the illusionists, fingers gently brushing his inner wrist just - pet. Pet. Pet? "There isn't enough good news, is there." Jax is swiping out another text message through this reply, but he sets the phone in his lap when Doug extends his hand. For a moment he doesn't really register it; inwardly he's been /bracing/, emotionally, preparing himself for some outburst -- when faced with congratulations instead he briefly blanks. It takes a half-second before he smiles, brighter and wider and pleasantly surprised, reaching up to shake the offered hand. "Thank you," he answers warmly, blush still very much in evidence. "An' thank you," this time to Parley, with his fingers curling a little bit tighter around Parley's. "It's definitely been -- with everythin' going on I been glad for any happy I can grab hold of. Especially after --" He doesn't finish this, but his mind does, in fragments of worry and snippets of newsclips of Harlem. Fire. Luke Cage. Waiting fretting and tired by the /couch/ that had to serve as Micah's recovery bed, changing out bandages on Dusk and Micah's bullet wounds. "-- Well. S'been hectic lately." He glances down to Parley's fingers, set against the colourful backdrop of his inner wrist (on the left arm, it bears ink of a raised fist in a circle, clutching a carrot.) "S'it been okay for you? I mean, coupla part time jobs, s'it aright or are you lookin' for more?" Doug grins a bit more easily when Jax shakes his hand, and when his grip is released, the teenager snags another macaroon before stepping back. "It's been really crazy," he agrees, looking over his shoulder at the park and pushing down a sudden wave of isolation that threatens to topple his good humor. When he looks back, he's still smiling, his eyes crinkled at the corners. "It's good that you're grabbing some happy in the middle of all the chaos." He bites into his cookie, then, shifting his gaze to Parley as Jax questions him. There's a twinge of curiosity; it's apparently a thing he would like to know, as well.
The passage of Parley's thumb pad over the back of Jackson's knuckles is brief, fingers cool; it comes around the same time Jackson's thoughts turn inward, but for all the myriad factors it could be for anything - his expression remains calm, smiling mild with a shrug, "Mmh, I never say no to work where I can find it. But I was able to save up when the market was better - hopefully," he taps his thumb against the moleskin in his lap, "I'll be able to use the downtime to get licensed. I have," his fingers tap again, "forgotten more than I realized."
"Oh, oh /gosh/ sometimes I forget -- it must be so much /harder/ --" Jax blushes, faintly, but then suggests brightly: "Do you want a -- OK it sounds weird callin' it pen-pal when he lives right here. Daiki loves havin' folks to talk to though not-in-person an' he'd be thrilled to have someone what can actually write in /his/ language. An' practice for you maybe?" He shrugs again. Taps out another quick message, once he has his hand back. "Been a lot of chaos," he agrees somewhat absently with Doug's reply; there's a hint of puzzlement in his mind that doesn't make it through to his smile as he looks over Doug. "I hope you can find some, too." And then a deeper blush. "-- Happiness, not chaos. Oh gosh." "You can also practice with me, if you want," Doug offers, polishing off his cookie and dusting his fingers against his hip with a tiny surge of hopefulness. "I mean, if Daiki's busy or whatever. I can shift stuff around and make time, if it'll help." He smiles, and lifts his shoulders at Jax with a wan little smile. "I hope so, too," he says. "For everyone, not just me. But I wouldn't complain if I stumbled on some first." His chest jerks, and his eyes crinkle at the weak jest, a stab of bitter humor that doesn't reflect anywhere but on the scape of his mind. << (gotta find time first)(and a guy) >> He scratches at his stomach as it growls, suddenly, and there's a wince of mild embarrassment. "I should probably go and get something to eat," the teenager says slowly, looking in the direction of the building, which suddenly seems a hundred miles away. And full of demanding cats. Outwardly, he offers a sheepish grin. "Now that I've actually remembered food is a thing." "...Penpal?" Parley floats the word - listen closely and you can hear the Engrish of it, penparu, scruffing up his fingers up the back of his neck thoughtfully. The wet damp puts a cling to his fur, and he shrugs his flannel off the back of his shoulders to drape across his back, hooked off either elbow. Pragmatic scan of the area is conducted, though camouflage does have its uses. "--mmn, do you think so?" It's the sort of prevaricating answer that doesn't promise he WON'T be leaving an awkward letter crammed under the teen's door initiating stilted Japanese pleasantries. He's glancing askance, at Doug, for a quiet moment. Running his thumbpad over his fingertips like he's considering doing... something. The cool air ruffles a breeze past cheeks faintly flushed, tugging at the bristly black hair hung about his ears. "--Maybe." He answers, eyes darting up Doug's face, then down, towards his feet. "Yup! Um, the kids gave up their apartment since they're back in school but he's still here most every weekend, if y'want to try an' catch him. Or I could just give you his email?" Jax shrugs a shoulder, glancing at his phone with a smile but a deeper blush. "Oh, gosh, dinner, yes. Dinner should definitely happen an' food is a thing an' you should do it. Y'gonna be at Game Night tomorrow, sometimes there's happy there?" << Would y'like to come to dinner? >> pushes forward more deliberately, together with warm thoughts both of Micah and of delicious garlicky kale. Mushrooms. Tempeh. Yum. << Micah's cookin' already. >> He lids his macaroons, tucking them back into his bag as he gets to his feet. He reaches up to squeeze Doug gently on the shoulder, leaning in afterwards for a very light peck on the cheek. "Take care'a yourself, honey-honey. Try not to drown /too/ much in school?" Doug grins at Parley, his eyebrows twitching just once in time with the flash of concern across his mind. << (broke it too badly) >> "Well, if you want," he says with a small shrug. "I'm probably not much more catchable than Daiki, but my door's always open." Which is true, and an earnest offer. When Jax agrees with his assessment of the necessity of food, he chuffs a laugh. "Yeah, I'm just going to order from that Greek place," he says, shifting the strap of his bag. He's unprepared for the shoulder-squeeze, or the kiss, and he pinkens to near-crimson as he nods. "Oh, I'll be there," he says. "I am /refusing/ to look at homework tomorrow, just so I can make it. I might even bring snacks." This is amusing to him, and he begins to move towards the building, offering a lopsided grin. "You guys be careful," he says. "I saw a couple of those rowdy assholes over by the basketball courts. I'd hate for them to get hurt." He offers a final, cheery grin, and lifts a hand in a wave as he exits the park, pausing at the curb to gauge traffic before he jaywalks like any good New Yorker.
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