ArchivedLogs:Interruptions

Interruptions
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Jim, Micah, Norman
In Absentia	2013-03-22 Jim interrupts Jax & Micah. Norman interrupts all of them.
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. Jax's apartment currently smells like hippie. Not in the BO and patchouli way, but there is nag champa burning on the living room coffee table and -- well, okay, cookies aren't particularly hippie but there /have/ been some vegan peanut butter cookies recently baked and it smells like that, too. Which is probably better than the acrid turpentine-and-oil-paint it often smells like in here. /Jax/ mostly just smells like sandalwood and amber, recently showered -- his hair is still damp, faintly, and for once it is not brightly coloured! Just a dark feathery mess against his forehead. This is because he's not paying it much attention. His attention at the moment is /rather/ Otherwise Occupied; he's been waylaid on the couch (in jeans, at least, but sans shirt) by a Micah. Because Micahs are /intensely/ distracting. Possibly Jax has work to be doing right now. Possibly he has dinner to be cooking or paintings to be finishing or schoolwork to be schoolworking. But. Instead. There is a Micah. And what he /is/ doing is rather a lot of kissing, flushed and a little breathless enough this might have been underway for some time. The apartment is alive with colour, cheerfully bright flickers and swirls dancing around the room. /Jax/ is -- well, glowing, not surrounded by light like he sometimes is but actually lit up from /inside/, which, admittedly, gives his plethora of tattoos the somewhat strange sense of being backlit like stained-glass. Micah is fully dressed, ha! He is in a simple red-orange plaid flannel, buttons all undone, over a plain white T-shirt and patched jeans. Micah has pretty well pinned Jax to the couch, kneel-sitting on the cushions, straddling Jax's lap. Jax's feathery hair-mess? Decidedly his fault. Mussing fingers worsen that whole situation. The other hand seems to be busy inspecting all of the tattoos in turn. Jax's...more intense glowing earns a little purr of a giggle. Micah nips gently at an earlobe, brought close enough to whisper, "You're shiny again." He /might/ be suppressing a comment about the World's Sunniest Cylon. CLICK! BAM! Uh oh. "/Hey/!" This is a sudden brusque shout exploding into the livingroom - in a GREETING way, accompanied by the loud 'thmp!' of Jim's hip striking the door to bounce it open in a flourish. He is now In Jax's house, holding up a handful of papers with a victorious-manic gleam in his eyes and a touch of greenish moss clung about his jaw. He does NOT look well slept, but he does look WIRED and a little planty along the edges, overgrown scruffy, rumpled more-than-one day old clothes and stridently announcing, "I found it WOAH fuck JESUS!" Jax has melted back into the couch, the glowing definitely helped along by the being-pinned. His smile is warm and easy, brighter at the nip, and his own hands skim up beneath Micah's shirt, running along his sides. "S'your fault," he says, though it doesn't /really/ sound like an accusation. It sounds a little husky-breathless, his hands pressing Micah down against him -- -- At least until the door explodes open and then his eye is /widening/, his breath catching -- around the room the lights are all turning red, in tandem with the deep flush of his cheeks. Still kind of glowy, though. Things are changing all at once, reflexively; an eyepatch /materializes/ on his sunken-missing eye, his hair tints itself blue-and-pink, his nails colour, the /myriad/ scars across his skin vanish, his tattoos becoming whole again. The blush doesn't fade, though, deep and -- "Ohgoshohgosh /Jim/ you don't -- ohgosh I --" It's probably bad that his reflex is to tense, arms /tightening/ around Micah, his face kind of /mooshing/ against the other man's shoulder like maybe he is trying to hide there. Micah's first reflex would have been to fling himself /off/ of Jax like a teenager being caught by a Parent...in pretty much the same situation that just happened. But Jax has decided that the exact opposite is going to happen, and that tight-pulling-pressing is just button-pushing and ohgosh /not/ helping /anything/. The faint flush that had been colouring Micah's features wastes no time in amplifying to an impossible deep-crimson that covers much of his visible skin. No fair! Micah doesn't get to hide here. He sort of...tiny-waves at strangerJim with the /meekest/ smile that ever happened. "Uh...hello." "Nonono." Jim gruffs, clapping a hand over his eyes that is absolutely useless because he's parted his fingers between ring-finger and index finger to /stare/ between dispassionately, "Y'know what? Don't bother. Carry on. I'm using the can." Tossing down the pile of papers on the coffee table and just WANDERS past into the bathroom. CLICK. The toilet seat can be heard getting kicked up with a chipper thump of porcelain. ...he then begins WHISTLING. Jackson releases Micah with a deeper blush and a sudden "Ohgoshsorry," when he realizes the other man is trying to pull /away/. "Ohgoshoh -- oh." The suggestion to /carry on/ makes /him/ pull away -- sort of, in that he /starts/ pulling away but then ducks his head and glances to Micah a little, well, apologetic for trying to pull out from under him. "Sorry," he mumbles, "Can I --" Get up, presumably. Except he mostly just looks like he's trying to blush himself to /death/, cheeks furiously crimson and that same red glow filling most of the room. "That's, um, Jim." It's not really an introduction, given that Jim's in the bathroom. It's more like an /apology/. Jax is -- straightening his clothes. Well, his jeans, anyway, for all the good it does him. He still doesn't /have/ a shirt. Once released, Micah half-falls sideways to sit on the couch /beside/ Jax instead of on /top/ of him. When he finally manages to look up at the other man, he just /dissolves/ into a fit of giggles with both hands clasped over his mouth. He manages to catch his breath enough, removing his hands, to spit out, "Ohgosh who /was/ that?" The answer of 'Jim' doesn't explain a lot actually, but...what else is there to ask? "Oh...oh...what a way to meet a new person." Giggling. Giggling is happening for /some time/. *flusssshh* Jim isn't an elegant man, after a few seconds, he exits the bathroom just bringing the towel with him, drying off his hands and then tossing the towel over Jax's head as he rounds the couch. Flump. How he's HIDING. "Jim Morgan," his hand is thrust out to Micah with a crook of grin, "I'm around sometimes. Thing I've seen a tail end of you here or there. S'your name again?" "S'Jim, he's a friend, he helps out --" Jackson is pressing his knuckles to his lips, possibly to stifle giggling of his own. He kind of /topples/ sideways against Micah, eye scrunched up tight. "Ohmygosh." His fingers uncurl, face hiding in them, and he's just managing to look up when Jim emerges and "-- tailend," sends him into another fit of blushing, hand pressed to his mouth again. "Micah," he manages to squeak out, from beneath his towel. "-- he's a friend. Too." He drags the towel off his head, wadding it up in his lap instead. "... do you want cookies? I baked, um. -- Hi, Jim." He is a little too flustered to get his Order Of Courtesies correct. Jax's giggling at Jim's word choice undoes any progress on un-blushing that Micah had been making. Jim has apparently stumbled into a Blushers Anonymous meeting. Micah decides to pretend it isn't happening, instead just shaking Jim's hand. His grip is firm, skin callused from manual work. "Micah Zedner," he replies, throwing in his last name just because Jim had offered his. "Sorry to keep you from important...uh...whatever that is." He gestures at the papers on the table. Jim's hand is rough, big-fingered but it's more casually friendly-rough than overtly aggressive, his palm slapping some skin when he claps it around Micah's, "Yo. Don't worry about it, dude, you gotta breathe, you're goin' lobster." He drops down on the couch beside Jax, "Oh, I'll be eating your cookies soon enough. I don't know how you pull that shit off without /butter/, man." He eyes the papers and flicks up an eyebrow at Jackson that puts a sort of indicative 'he cool?' nod Micah's way. All while untying his shoes. To kind of over-hand throw them in the door's general direction. Norman RING RINGS. As soon as Jackson picks up, a female voice proceeds to cheerfully hum: "Mr. Holland? Oscorp calling. Mr. Norman Osborn would like to speak with you; could you hold?" And then before he can reply, *CLICK*. Cheery hold music. Specifically, the song being played is Tears for Fears 'Everybody Wants To Rule The World'. "Hello, This is Jax --" This is the response, warm, very Southern, that comes through the phone. Which is then cut off by the voice. And the hold music. For a moment the hold music continues playing. And then silence, as Jax hangs up the phone. "Oh, yeah, he's good. He knows -- he knows." Jackson shrugs a shoulder, still brightly redfaced as he scoots a little to make room for Jim -- closer to Micah but that's just /incidental/ of course. So is the hand he rests on Micah's knee. At least until his phone starts ringing ('Pocketful of Sunshine' is the ringtone); he leans forward to pick it up from where it sits on the coffeetable, frowning at the unfamiliar number. "-- Hello, this is Jax." And then he frowns. His blush fades abruptly. And, slowly, he pulls the phone away, stares at the screen. Lowers the phone to his lap. He hits the speakerphone. It's playing "Everybody Wants to Rule the World." "-- Norman Osborn just put me on hold," he says, bemused. His finger hovers over the red 'End call' on his screen. "Nice t'meet you." Discussing the blushing is, as always, the best way to make it /worse/. "I'm breathin', it's just..." Micah tugs at his hair with a sigh. "Redhead. This is just gonna happen until it stops, really." The hair-tugging hand casually settles over Jax's when it returns from its mission. "Ohmygosh, the King of the Smarmodons is on the phone and is that /really/ what I'm hearin' right now?" Micah cants his head, eyebrows all scrunched and hazel eyes staring incredulously at the phone like a confused puppy hearing its owner's voice on a recording. "Hang up on 'em." Jim grunts, "I'll get together a bag of dicks he can choke on later, we'll send 'em overnight." "Yeah, I -- I -- wow. I mean did you /see/ his press conference?" Jackson shudders. He swipes at the end call button, cutting off Tears for Fears. He moves his hand back to Micah's knee after returning the phone to the coffeetable. "-- That's like a metaphorical bag of dicks, right?" He turns his head slightly, so that he can /eye/ Jim. "And yeah. Thaaat was seriously his hold music. -- what's all that you've brought?" He's gesturing towards the papers. He could probably /get/ the papers for himself, but that would require moving. He's pretty happy tucked in against Micah's side. Micah catches the Jax-hand before it can escape again...in a very slip-hand-over-hand, not-very-catchy kind of way. "Yes, for the love of..." He shudders rather than complete the sentence. "Creepy, man. /Rich people/ creepy." Hazel eyes roll at the description of 'hold music'. "Just the kind of person to call you and then put /you/ on hold." "These," Jim, nearly /twice/ the age of these punk kids, hoists himself forward to snag the papers and deliver them to Jax's hands, "Are how we're gonna keep that slanty-eyed /bastard/," aka, Hive, in asshole-speak, "in the country. I was reading up on how this shit works - if we can get someone legit to /sponsor/ him, we should be gold. We could keep him like a really obnoxious housepet." A few seconds will pass. And then the phone will RING ONCE AGAIN. >:D "Hello, this is Jax." It's polite, once again! And quiet. And it's -- still extremely Southern. "Sponsor him? What like, vouch for his /good character/?" This puts a little smile on Jax's face, even through the worry that has settled in there at the mention of Hive. And then his phone is ringing again. He -- eyes it. /Warily/. And leans forward to take it, but on Micah's knee his hand is tightening. He stares at the phone a long moment before answering. "-- Hello, this is Jax." "Mr. Holland." The voice on the other end is... also polite. And /cheerful/! Deep, masculine, confident. A slight hint of a northern Maine-ish accent, but mostly subdued -- a sort of generic, 'News-Station Anchor' accent. "This is Norman Osborn. Sorry about earlier; I asked my secretary to get in contact with you. I didn't realize she put you on hold. That was very /rude/ of her." Something about the way he says the word 'rude'. There's not a hint of irritability in his tone; not a smudge. But there's something off-putting about his emphasis. It takes Micah a second to figure out that Jim is talking about Hive. "Sponsor? Dontcha need a family member...or, like, for Hive to be a minor or in need of political asylum or somethin'?" Micah also gives the phone a /look/ when it rings again. He pets at Jax's hand comfortingly. "Normally, yeah," Jim leans back in his crook of the couch, making himself cozy as though Micah had Always Been Here, crossing an ankle over his knee, "But friends and even businesses /can/ sponsor if you push through the right paper work. The way I figure it --" He falls silent when the phone rings, frowning. He has a good face for frowns, it pushes his big chin forward and squints his eyes. "That him again?" "Oh -- oh gosh. Mr. Osborn." Jackson sounds surprised, initially, but his easy-warm drawl is as polite as it was before. "This is -- a surprise. S'quite alright, I just -- well. Good evenin', sir." "Oh -- oh, gosh. Mr. Osborn." Jax answers with this somewhat surprised-sounding greeting. "This is -- a surprise. S'quite alright, I just -- well. Good evenin', sir." His tone is carefully polite. His hand is turning upwards to curl his fingers tightly through Micah's. Despite his light /tone/, his jaw is abruptly clenched, brow creased. The colour has leaked out of him -- not so much in his face but in his hair shading itself back to dark, his nailpolish and makeup vanishing. He /doesn't/ really have a good face for frowns, it sits in his normally gentle expression uncomfortably. Micah leans into Jax's side, squeezing his seeking hand back. Silent reassurance seems to be the best he can offer for now. Norman laughs. "Is it? A surprise, I mean. You saw the news, I presume? It occurred to me," and now a hint of regret creeps into his voice, "that I might have made things harder on you by mentioning you in my press conference -- I /hope/ I haven't. It was a spur of the moment thing. I should have contacted you, beforehand. I'm sorry for that, Mr. Holland." There is silence, for a moment. Jax's tone is no less polite, though, when he answers: "It did make -- /has/ made -- is making things kinda rough, sir, yes. M'sure you're used to the spotlight. It kinda throws my life into a spot'a disarray." There's a beat of silence and then: "Is there something I can do for you, sir?" On Jim's side, the sentiment radiated isn't so soft nor sympathetic. It's hard as granite, and world-wary without a sign of /weariness/ to be seen. Though sitting draped back with an arm draped over the back of the couch and one off the arm rest, his hands are poised with fingers curled down as though to launch to his feet at any moment. Norman sighs regretfully. If Norman is faking his concern, he is one /hell/ of a goddamn good actor. "I was afraid of that. If there's some way I can make this easier for you, please don't hesitate to... mm. I'm getting off topic. This isn't a social call; I rarely can spare the time for them. I shouldn't waste /your/ time, either, Mr. Holland. I just wanted to personally confirm: Will you be attending the Oscorp Gala this Thursday?" Jackson is quiet again. And then: "... You're callin' to ask me to dance?" For a very long time. So long that Jax might start to suspect he may have offended Norman Osborn. But then... the reply comes. And he sounds so /pleased/ to give it: "Why yes, Mr. Holland. I am." This time, there's a quiet laugh. It's as warm as his tone is. "Oh -- oh, that's refreshing. S'hard to find a good partner these days, don't hardly nobody take the time to learn. Um --" There's another hesitation before he asks, "I don't s'pose you'd be jealous if I brought a friend?" "Not at all. We'll need their name in advance, of course -- now, if possible. Several generals will be in attendance -- placating their hyperbolic concerns over security has been an ordeal and a half. To hear it from them, a lone mutant is capable of destroying half the Army /and/ mind-wiping the President. They insist on names and background checks for all attendees, mutant and otherwise." "Now? Oh, gosh, um -- I ain't actually asked them yet, I didn't -- I'm sorry, sir, do you --" Now /Jax/ sounds regretful. Apologetic. "Can you give me just one second?" Another pause. "It did make -- /has/ made -- is making things kinda rough, sir, yes. M'sure you're used to the spotlight. It kinda throws my life into a spot'a disarray." A beat of silence and then: "Is there something I can do for you, sir?" More listening. "... You're callin' to ask me to dance?" More listening. "Oh -- oh, that's refreshing. S'hard to find a good partner these days, don't hardly nobody take the time to learn. Um -- I don't s'pose you'd be jealous if I brought a friend? -- Now? Oh, gosh, um -- I ain't actually asked them yet, I didn't -- I'm sorry, sir, do you --" Now /Jax/ sounds regretful. Apologetic. "Can you give me just one second?" He mutes the phone. Despite the lightness of his tone, when he lowers it, his hand is shaking. He looks to Jim, and then looks to Micah. "-- Micah, do you dance?" Micah's right eyebrow appears in danger of /escaping/ in an upward trajectory. This side of the conversation is /strange/. And that question is /unexpected/. "I...uh...like, wedding dance/club dance/ballroom dance if it's not /too/ challengin'? I'm not gonna pull off ballet or tap or anythin'." A lopsided grin tugs at his lips as he pats at his left leg illustratively. Jim isn't being so helpful. He is mouthing 'tell him...' and pointing with /great/ sincere importance at his right hand. Which is DEMONSTRATING exactly what Jim can tell Osborn to do. "Ohmygosh, you /ballroom/ dance can I marry you /right n--/ oh gosh no sorry wait that's weird and I don't mean to be I just it's /so/ hard to find --" Jax cuts himself off abruptly from this suddenly excited chatter, looking down at the muted phone. And swallowing. "I might pee myself," he informs the both of them, "I'm /not/ tellin' him that." But then, "-- Do you dance at fancy Hellfire Club parties thrown by people who I think want to kill me? I need a +1. We can rent you a tux." Micah bites down on his lower lip to avoid giggling at Jax's aborted marriage proposal, blushing faintly again. Jax's ongoing commentary earns a more appropriately concerned look, however. "Um... I prob'ly couldn't tell a Hellfire Club from a hole in the wall, but okay? I mean...are you sure that parties where killin' you serves as /entertainment/ are a good idea? I don't like the idea of people killin' you so much." "I think he's got something else in mind," Jim rumbles, eyes directed at the far wall; his dry smoker's voice remains even. "He practically set this up to be a media frenzy, and's gone outta his way to make you look like a hero. Outright attacking you /there'd/ be like shooting himself in the foot." There is more he /wants/ to say, in terms of thinking out loud... but the deeper furrow through his crow's feet is troubled to the point of silence. Norman laughs, pleasant and polite. But not too much; enough to sound amused, but not enough to come across as mocking. "Of course, Mr. Holland. Take all the time you need." It's good that Osborn agrees to this because he is already on mute, the line still and silent. For a short period. Jax is back in short order, with an answer: "Micah Zedner. -- Um, that's -- okay, right, sir?" Norman's tone comes off as so /amused/. Even paternal, perhaps! "It depends. Will this Micah character have you home before 11?" And before Jackson can reply: "We'll do a background check. But I'm certain it will clear. If not -- I'll contact you." Then, more serious, and perhaps with a mite more concern: "Before I go -- Mr. Holland. Is there anything I can do for you? For helping you with your children. I know one or two lawyers who owe me a favor..." "No, I just mean cuz some people don't -- right. No. I mean he /will/. Er -- no I mean he probably won't 'cuz the Gala --" Jackson stops his flustered speaking, drawing in a slow breath. It's calmer when he continues: "Thank you, sir, that's kind. I got a lawyer working on it. I think my family'll be okay." A beat of pause. "G'night, sir. See you on Thursday." Norman's smile can be heard in the words, somehow. "Yes. I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Holland." *click* "I don't mean I think he'll kill me /there/, I just mean in /general/ he's --" Jackson just /shudders/ instead of finishing this sentence. He picks the phone back up -- and squeezes Micah's hand again tight. "Micah Zedner," he tells the phone, "-- Um, that's -- okay, right, sir?" And then a pause, and, more flustered, "No, I just mean cuz some people don't -- right. No. I mean he /will/. Er -- no I mean he probably won't 'cuz the Gala --" He stops, takes a slow breath, continues quieter and calmer: "Thank you, sir, that's kind. I got a lawyer working on it. I think my family'll be okay." A beat of pause. "G'night, sir. See you on Thursday." He doesn't hang up the phone, but it hangs itself up by the time he lowers it to his lap, the other party already having hung up. Around the room, the light shivers. Jackson shudders again, lifting a hand to bury his face in it. "Oh, gosh," he whispers against his palm. "Y'know, a couple weeks ago I was fighting an acid-breathin' dragon. I'd take that again over Norman Osborn." Micah has overly-expressive-eyebrows over the audible half of Jax's phone conversation again. The flickery lights bring on even more concern, as they are not a /good/ sign. He reaches for Jax's shoulders, tugging the other man to lean against him and leaving his arms half-hugging around his torso. "Well, I'll try to stick by and run creeper interference as much as possible?" Micah proposes, somewhat anaemically. Jim only listens for now, rubbing a hand over his mouth. And continuing his narrow-eyed glare across the apartment as though dead set on blistering the paint with his MIND. "You don't gotta come," Jackson already seems to be nervously reconsidering this, "the whole /thing/ is creepy, you don't -- shouldn't --" He frowns down at the phone. His lips curl up slightly. "Bet you'd be kinda stunning in a tux, though." His hand rubs at his eyes again. Slowly he is returning to his more colourful self, hair shifting through a few shades before settling on bright pink, nails tinting to match it. He leans into Micah's tug, his eye closing for a long moment. It opens again. He draws a slow breath. "/Hive/," he says, firmly. "Can't employers sponsor that kinda thing? Like for a visa?" "I know I ain't gotta nothin'," Micah grins down at Jax. "You'd rather I sit and /worry/ about you the whole time you're gone instead?" Jax's shoulders get a squeeze. "Oh, that's right. I think I've heard of that. Hive's got that buildin' dealie he's workin' on, yeah?" "Yeah, they got a lot of variations of work sponsoring deals," Jim doesn't entirely sound /glad/ even now. Much as he's kidding, there is no arguing that the whole situation... stinks. "Y'think the doctor would go for it? He's about the only one that's got the money, papers and pedigree to look convincing on paper." "Buildin', yeah," Jax affirms to Micah. ?You seen his plans? S'pretty fantastic. Gonna make the Lower East Side a whole lot /prettier/." Jackson is relaxing -- at least, his posture is relaxing, mostly. His fingers curl tightly around his phone as though it needs to be contained. Around them, the lights still shiver at erratic intervals. "Think he'd go for it," Jax agrees, "he been nothing but helpful through all this mess. Think it'd best be sooner than later, though. Once the clinic goes public, I don't think even them sponsoring'd -- I don't think letting people in to work at the mutie clinic is high on the government's list of /respectable/ visa-earning jobs." Micah shakes his head in reply. "Nah, haven't seen him. He talked about it a little bit, though. Less about /pretty/ and more about /security/, though." More light flickering is not a reassuring thing. He's just about pulled Jax into his lap at this point, trying to /presence/ his fretting away. "Might be the boss'd help. Could be hard to find someone to do the job for them, otherwise. On account of what the job /is/. I mean...otherwise the best option's findin' him a wholesome, marriageable young lady in short order, yeah?" He smirks playfully with that suggestion, trying to lighten the mood a bit. "There's always Melinda," Jim offers. All too innocently to his fingernails. "Hey, gay marriage is legal here," Jackson says in reply to Jim, "I'm surprise you ain't already got down on a knee to him. We all know s'coming." Jax is happy to be pulled along, nestling in against Micah -- and then sitting up abruptly with a blush. "-- I still ain't never got a shirt," he says apologetically, scrambling to his feet. "/Uh/. D'you guys want dinner?" Micah chuckles at Jim's readiness to foist another person into Hive-marriage. Then hms at Jax. "Y'know, I may never get used to that. It's still technically illegal to cohabitate with someone you're not married to or have non-hetero sex where I'm from. Don't believe the T-shirts and bumper stickers on the 'Virginia Is for Lovers' thing." He's smirking again, either from the previous comment or in preparation for the next. Perhaps both. "Hey, /I/ wasn't gonna complain..." He does move his arms to let Jax up more easily, however. "And there's the Feed People Compulsion. I was wonderin' when it'd make itself known this evenin'." ohgod CUDDLING on the other side of the couch. Jim snooooorts and stands up, "Another time, I got a few more pitstops to make. I'm gonna take about half your cookies," he /informs/ Jax. "And then I'm making like a tree. You kids keep it up." Whatever 'it' is. Maybe he's making an /innuendo/ while heading for the kitchen. He has a cookie-menacing threat to make good on. "-- Seriously? I mean didn't Lawrence vs. Texas kinda like. Uh. I mean well have they heard about that, I thought /Georgia/ was bad." The promised cookies are on the kitchen counter, a large tupperware box chock-full of peanut butter cookies. Jax -- frowns, at Jim's refusal, but with Jim /leaving/ suddenly Shirt does not seem quite so urgent. Something in Jim's words makes him blush again, though, furiously. /Probably/ the innuendo." He does look kind of /bemused/ as he takes a seat back on the couch, though, like it is hard to believe he is doing it. And not feeding people. "-- I should teach my friends to knock first," he tells Micah. "Eh.../most/ of the ridiculous laws are just hangin' out on the books. But /technically/..." Micah takes advantage of Jax returning to the couch, gesturing him over closer again. His cuddles keep running away! "Seriously, New York. Got all the gay, but lost all the manners." He /tsks/, shaking his head with exaggerated disapproval. Jim helps himself generously to Jax's GuiltCookies, gripping one in his teeth, a pile in the crook of an elbow and an extra in his empty hand, which he waves with on the way out. Maybe all this talk about Gay and Lack-of-Manners is making him miss Hive. Maybe he has to go COMFORT eat... that or hang out with the boys upstairs and make someone show him how to use YouTube again. Off he goes! "You better share those, Flicker loves peanut butter." This is what Jackson calls over his shoulder to Jim as Jim heads out. "-- Some people got all the gay /and/ all the manners," he adds, quieter, settling more comfortably in against Micah now that they don't have company. His arm curls around the other man's waist, head tilting up to peck Micah on the cheek. "Goodbye, Mr. Jim!" Micah waves at the cookie smuggler as he exits, before turning his attention back to Jax. "Well, not /everyone/ can do that well for themselves, I s'pose,.." Jax gets nuzzles for this. Just because. "You manage." Jackson smiles at the nuzzles, head tilting slightly to bare more neck. For the nuzzling. His hand is creeping beneath the hem of Micah's shirt, fingers tracing absently down towards his hip. "-- So I guess we gotta go tux-renting. I mean, or cheat." His clothing -- or lack of -- is shifting in a ripple of colour. Jeans gone, bare skin and tattoos covered, by a sharply-tailored grey tuxedo. Soon Micah's clothing follows suit, though his tux is black. "See, now... The danger in wearing illusion clothing is if something /distracts/. Or if it doesn't feel quite right if someone tries to touch..." Micah might be trying to test both of these at once by sending /tickly/ fingers on an expedition around Jax's ribs. "D'you know what the colour rules are on this? Janine about had my head at one of Sam's art dealies they forced me to go to because apparently the wrong tie makes you look like The Staff?" Fancy richpeople rules, they are not for Micah's brain. "Somethin' distracts, we're in for a world of embarrassing," Jackson admits with a blush, /squirming/ under Micah's ticklyfingers with a giggle and a very halfhearted bap at Micah's hand. "I don't know if -- nobody mentioned nothing to me 'bout colour /rules/." His brow creases, clearly gearing up for some intense fretting. His tux vanishes, and next he wears an elegane -- gown, long and strappy and deep crimson. "I'm hoping they don't got no colour rules or I'm boned. When was the last time you worn a tux?" Micah's tickling is only /encouraged/ by the hand-bapping. "I think it's one colour for Fancy and the exact opposite for Just So Fancy I'm Gonna Die." He crinkles his nose. "I could ask Janine, but then she'll /know/, and force at least /me/ into the longest shopping trip /ever/." Jax's last question takes more thought before getting an answer than it should. "Um...it was when I got the tie wrong? A few...some sorta...more than a year or two? I don't do /fancy/ much." "Why not? I bet you're real striking. Jackson laughs, squeezing his arm gently to pull Micah close. "Don't die. Who'd by my plus-one? I'd have to," he informs Micah solemnly, "dance with Norman Osborn. Only you can save me." The illusion clothing falls away. Jax is still shirtless. Hmm...shirtlessness may be encouragement for Micah to sneak back into Jax-pinning position. "Oh, we can't have that. You'd be too preciously terrified and he'd be too horrifyingly smarmy. Dancing with Smarmodons might become a reality show. These things /cannot/ be encouraged." His tone is /so/ affectedly serious. He heaves a long-suffering sigh. "I suppose I will have to continue living." Jackson's breath catches, a soft-warm glow spreading quickly through his skin as he's pinned. His hands slide up Micah's side, his head tipping o press his knicks to Micah's. His head ducks as he breaks into abrupt giggles. "-- Smarmodon." This is all Jax says, amused. Around them, the floor starts to fill up with a wealth of dinosaurs shrunk down to a few inches tall each. All of the different types share Norman Osborn's face. Micah flail-paws at Jax's chest, face still hidden away. "Oh...ugh! I don't think I'm ever gonna sleep /again/." "S'okay, honey-honey." Jax tips his head down, nipping and then kissing at the top of Micah's ear. His fingers press against the other man's back, hands creeping under Micah's shirt again. "S'things 'sides sleep might get your mind off them." "I..." Micah actually has to look up at Jax now, Nightmare Fuel or no. "I think you might actually be just a /little bit/ evil." He sounds legitimately surprised at this. "Y'know, it's not like I take much /convincin'/. They're totally unnecessary little horrorbeasts." "I think they're cute." One of them -- it might once have been a corythosaurus -- turns and smiles Norman Osborn's so-very-charming smile at them. From an otherwise dinosaurish body. Even Jackson kind of shudders at that, shivering beneath Micah. "-- OK wow no sorry you're right, horrorbeasts. Ohgosh. I think I just gave /myself/ nightmares." The dinosaurs are fading away. Their faces are the first things to vanish. Mmm, shivers...and the horrorbeasts are gone! "That is /much/ better," Micah reports his approval. "I think, maybe...a little of that distraction might be in order." Kisses serve as proper rewards for horrorbeast removal, right? Because kisses.