ArchivedLogs:Laying Low

Laying Low
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jackson, Shelby
In Absentia	2013-01-23 Iiiiit's a small world, after all...
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. 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. The phone rings. Caller display says local number, none of that 1-800 telemarketer crap! It takes a couple rings, but the phone is answered before it hits voicemail. "Hello?" Jackson sounds a little breathless. Somewhere in the background there are traffic-noises. Somewhere in the background there are siren-noises. In the first few seconds, it sounds like a better than even chance that Jax is getting a dirty phone call. There is a lot of heavy breathing on the other end of the line. But then Shelby gulps and sputters out, "Jax?" She pauses. "Oh fuck, did the cops...oh my god, they're fucking -everywhere-." "What? Who? The cops --" Jackson hesitates, drawing a gulp of air, too. "/Obie/," he says, a little sharper as a horn honks. The sirens are slowly getting even more backgroundy. "Yeah, this is Jax, who's -- the cops? What's going on?" "Did they get you?" Except when she pauses again to listen, it doesn't sound as if that's the case. She exhales. "It's Shelby, who the fuck is Obie? No one else is answering and I'm...it's complicated. Can I, um." A weightier pause ensues. "Can I crash at the shop? Or, like...the basement or something? Things kinda got fucked up," Shelby 'explains'. "You're my last hope, I'm outta quarters." "Sorry. Dog. Not you. Trying to get himself hit by --" Jackson breaks off with a muffled noise that sounds somewhat exasperated. "Did who get -- oh. I'm not arrested. Are you -- uh, in trouble?" There's hesitation, a quiet rattle of metal, and then the outside noises get much quieter. "Shelby." Jax still sounds just a little out of breath. "Oh. I. The shop, no, I can't --" This time there's a longer hesitation. "-- Where are you? My place is in the East Village, there's space -- are y'aright?" Shelby must have the phone right next to her mouth and nose--her sniff is both audible and pitiful. "Of course I'm alright. I'm not like, dead or anything," she says immediately after. "I just gotta lay low for a little while. If I could crash there, that'd be sweet. I'm in, uh. I can get to the Village. Just gimme the address?" "Well, I'd hope not, you're /talking/ to -- though I /do/ know a guy who --" Jackson does not finish either of these thoughts. "Yeah. Sure. You can --" Crash, apparently, because he gives her an address right after. "S'just a block off Tompkins Square." "Sweet," Shelby repeats, mumbling the address under her breath after to keep it fixed in mind. "I'll be there pretty soon. You rock, thanks Jax." And then, like the mannerless teen she is, she hangs up on him. "Sure --" Jackson is saying, a little distractedly to the dead air on the other end. Time passes, as it does. Then there is a knock--or really more of a toe-kicked-at-the-door. "Hey!" Shelby calls. "It's me! It's fucking cold, lemme in!" It takes a bit for Jackson to come to his apartment door. Colourful as ever in his attire -- bright red t-shirt reading 'All my heroes have FBI files' layered over a shimmery silver-black shirt, purple corduroys on his legs and his socks mismatched in bright multicolored patterns -- he lacks his usual glittery makeup, though even indoors he still has his sunglasses. "Hey." Presumably his brief pause is to look her over before waving her inside. "M'makin' dinner. Y'mind taking off your shoes?" Shelby is disreputable as ever but there are no visible signs of blood or trauma. Just lots of clothes, making her look fat. When allowed entrance, she steps forward, unwinding her scarf as she goes. It's shed, along with mittens--both hands are bandaged underneath--and then her sneakers are toed off...along with two pairs of threadbare socks. Her feet, as might be expected, are a cold and fishy white--but she is a ginger. "Wow, a place to sleep -and- food. Righteous," she says, sniffing at the air. "Thanks for this, man. I promise it'll just be tonight. I can go crash with the doc tomorrow." The air does smell like food. Something savory and rosemary-ish, coming from a covered pan on the stove. There's a large pot, too, quietly bubbling. "S'alright, we've got a lot of space here durin' the week anyhow. Gets kinda quiet, really. You want somethin' to drink? I was making cocoa, it's kinda been --" He rolls his shoulder in a shrug, closing and locking the door securely behind Shelby. Deadbolt. Second deadbolt. Chain. He heads back through the living room, past a very /dejected/ looking beagle curled up pitifully in a beanbag, and into the kitchen. "Though I mean you sound like mebbe you've had a /day/, too." The security process is observed--she even breathes out a sigh with the chain's last click--and then Shelby pads along in his wake. "That's right, the guys are at that freak school thing Bastian told me about, huh? It's been a -couple- of days," she confirms. A breath is drawn, oh woe is me story prepared--and then the beagle is spotted. A smarter girl would ask if she could pet the pup but she goes right over and drops to her knees before the beanbag, offering the tips of her unwrapped fingers for sniffing. "Cocoa works. Maybe with a little somethin' somethin' in it?" Jackson's lips twitch upward at their corners, head turning to glance back towards her. "Thought you didn't know my kids," he says lightly, slipping around the wall into the kitchen. "Yeah, the twins're at school. Spence is --" He waves towards one of the closed bedroom doors -- the second one is open, the room inside predictably furnished with two of everything -- "-- buried in a book. What's been up?" The beagle /trembles/ in his bed. Like maybe Shelby is going to hit him. But his tail gives a few pitiful wags and he sticks his nose forward, tongue slipping out to lick sad and tentative at her fingers as he looks up at her with one Very Big eye. (The other eye is missing, the eyelid sunken-closed. It does not hurt the pitiful look.) No one does pitiful like beagles, even one-eyed beagles. Shelby is immediately smitten and makes a host of ridiculous girl noises as she encourages the licking, then moves in for the petting. She does not notice the glance. "Okay, yeah, so I know them but the website was -Shane's- idea and I wasn't gonna do it anyway...who'sa poor puppy? Awwww, was someone mean to you? Poor little baby." Jax will have to determine which is meant for him, and which for the dog. "What's a Spence? Is he blue too?" This time she glances over, looking between the man and the closed door. "Spencer's the youngest, he's not blue, he --" But whatever Jackson is /going/ to say about his younger Adopted Stray is preempted by: "-- website?" He sounds a bit baffled. Obie continues being pitiful, his tail thumps /slow/ and /heavy/ as he scoots forward with small wriggles to drop his head onto Shelby's knee. Another sad tonguing. He nuzzles up against her leg. "That's Obie. He was a lab dog. Once upon a time. I don't think they particularly focus on /nice/." Jax is stirring things, in the kitchen. He turns on the heat beneath a skillet, whisks something in a smaller pot. "-- Don't ever listen to Shane's ideas," he adds in worried afterthought. "Yeah, I'm starting to get that idea." Which means Shelby doesn't elaborate on the website idea, choosing instead to smother poor Obie in the attention he is obviously -sorely- lacking. There are ear rumples and chin rubs and lots of cooing, interspersed with adjustments to her bandages--fortunately, they were none too clean to begin with. "People are assholes," she tells the dog, "you should just, like. Bite the shit out of all of us." Eventually she settles down with the affection (and the advice), winding down to just rubbing the pad of her finger between his oh so expressive eyebrows. "No wonder Bastian doesn't like doctors." Obie does not seem particularly inclined to bite anyone much, though he does grow more liberal with his licking for a short while until he contents himself with just flopping half in her lap and half on the beanbag. "Bastian has pretty good reason for it, yeah," Jackson says, his brows creasing slightly. He lies strips of tofu in the skillet, and then turns to collect mugs, ladling out three mugs of cocoa from the pot. Two he carries out of the kitchen, stopping first to set one down by Shelby. He glances at the bandages in passing. "What happened there?" "I guess I've been lucky with the doctors." Shelby reaches up with both hands to take the mug, leaving Obie to stake his claim to her lap. "I kinda...um. Got them cut up. At the clinic they said it wasn't that bad but it'd be about a week before the stitches can come out." Cue her soulful-eyed look. "There was this guy, big fight...I wasn't -doing- anything, but. Just. Wrong place and all, y'know? Thanks for this." This being the cocoa, which she brings close to her face so as to bathe in the rich steam pouring from the top. "Know that feeling," Jackson says with a grimace. "-- Guy? Fight? You h -- jeez, what am I saying, of course you were hurt." The tips of is ears pinken slighlty as he tips his gaze back down to the bandages. "But I mean ngh. What /happened/ is that who you're --" He waves his free hand around the apartment. "Layin' low from?" He heads to the closed door, tapping knuckles against it. "Hey. Spence. Cocoa." "Not as bad as the other guy who got hurt," Shelby says morosely. Her sorrows are drowned in a sip of cocoa. It does help some. "-He- died. But it's the cops...I mean, I was the dumbass who ran out of the -front- and someone was filming it on their goddamned -camera- phone." Wait, that came out backwards. Fortunately Jax is distracted, giving her time to rewind and explain properly. "You know that dude who got dead at Clothescycle? I was kinda there. I -tried- to stop him. Seriously, I did." "Clothes-- wait, last /night/? With the FBI agent? That dude who -- no /way/." Jackson turns, paling slightly, "/I/ just --" The door is opening, a small head poking out, floppy brown hair and a generous sprinkling of freckles. "Coco -- ooooh hi! Who's this? What FBI agent? What did you do?" Spencer is taking the cocoa and slipping out of the room, looking at Shelby with interest. "N--nothing," Jackson says, a little distracted, "sweetie, have you finished your homework?" "Did you cut your hand? I totally cut my knee the other day," Spencer says this like he's really proud of this. Homework, what homework. Wait, Jax didn't say Spencer was wee! Shelby double-takes, perhaps having expected a non-blue version of the twins. "Oh fuck," she says, before immediately shooting an abjectly apologetic look at The Dad. She is not quite as comfortable with children as she is with beagles, at least in a non-performing venue, so the boy is eyeballed for a time. In the end, she decides that answering his questions are preferable to answering his father's. "I'm Shelby, 'cause I heard this is where the S-names are supposed to come if they wanna hang out with the coolest S-names," she says slowly, watching herself for obscenities and shooting Jax the occasional look. "I, uh. Yeah, last night. Cut 'em both up by being dumb." "Really? I cut /mine/ trying to climb from the fire escape to the roof, 'Bastian can do it /real/ quick." Spencer is rolling up his pant leg to show Shelby. Jax groans, quiet. "Don't tell me things like that," he mutters, one hand on Spencer's shoulder to steeeeer him back into the bedroom. He goes in with the boy, closing the door and for a few moments there is quiet, soft voices behind the door before Jackson returns. "-- You were there," he says, once he's closed the door. "What happened?" And then with a sudden, "/Oh/ gosh," he darts across the room back to the kitchen to tend his pans. He winces as he scrapes the tofu off the skillet to flip it over. A little crispier than it should be. Shelby is in the process of making garbled but impressed sounds when the kid is shown back to his room. Fortunately, she is left without the time to make a proper reply and is then given a few minutes to compose herself. By the time Jax returns, she's looking as normal as the teen ever gets. Which is to say, she's cool as a cucumber on the outside, sippin' her cocoa and playing beagle-pillow for Obie. "Well, I was looking for something to wear to the--wuh?" Where'd he go? She blinks at the kitchen, then rumples her nose up and extricates herself from beneath the beagle to follow Jax. "Damn. Crispy critters." "Little crispy," Jackson agrees, nose wrinkling slightly. "It'll be aright. You were lookin' for what? That looked intense, it was all over the news." He finishes flipping the tofu (after a little more scraping) and opens the other pot -- potatoes, boiling -- to grab potholders so he can drain it out into the sink. And then mash them. Possibly more aggressively than the potatoes really need. "And the dude is kind of scary." Shelby rests her hip against the counter to watch the recovery process. No effort is made to help but that's probably for the best. "Clothes. Clothes for the open mic slot tomorrow that Mel got me. 'Cept I can't play now." She looks down into the cocoa she's still holding. "Not for a little while, anyway. So I was there and all of a sudden, this guy got thrown through the window. Broke it all over me. There was all this blood and he said he was FBI...and then that guy. The guy with the mouse." The girl looks back up at Jax, face set in hard, hard lines. "He said he was doing it for me." "For you?" Jackson's brow furrows deeply, his jaw setting harder, too. "Because you're a mutant," he surmises, after a moment. "He's got some weird ideas 'bout -- um. I ran into him. Today. Too," Jackson admits. "It wasn't great. Think the cops are all over lookin' for him. Did he -- that guy --" His lips press together thin. "I'm sorry y'had to see that, he ain't quite right." "Yeah," Shelby confirms. Hard face lasts only briefly before she's scrutinizing the cocoa she holds again. A classic "life sucks" pose, but she -is- tired and bandaged and then -shocked- when Jax makes his admission. "Shit, you did? Oh my god, the sirens when I called you? He was around here?" She puts the mug on the counter and trots back into the living room to peep out the windows. "Fuck...I hope they get him. A cop flashed his badge at me tonight, I figured someone filmed me running out of there." Hive doesn't knock. Knocking is for suckers without telepathy. He ANNOUNCES his presence, a few moments before arriving at Jackson's door, a sharp telepathic NUDGE that thumps against Jax's mind. HI. Politeness score -2. But he's upped it +1 by coming bearing GIFTS, in the form of a tray of -- something. Who knows. It's steaming a little and smells cinnamony. Of course, that still means he's -1 Politeness on balance but who's counting? "Was the cop givin' you trouble? I mean, /you/ didn't do nothin'. And yeah, those sirens was -- It was just in the park -- I was walkin' Obie. I tried to stop him, too," Jackson says with a rather guilty duck of his head, "but he flew --" This sentence stops with a WINCE. "Ghh!" Without explanation, he leaves his potatomashing to scurry over to the door. And open it with another "ghhh," followed by, "I /have/ a doorbell." Maybe Jax is counting. "No, but I didn't stick around to find out if he was gonna. I see badge, I take off." Shelby sounds firm on this point. "I could've done more but that fucking mouse..." She is still shuddering when she turns to see who's come in the door. Seeing Hive there--and her in bare feet with bandaged hands and clothes she's worn for two days--causes a whole host of horrified thoughts to fly through her mind. It is a 17 year old girl's worst nightmare. "...hi." "Flicker baked. I brought some." Hive thrusts his tray unceremoniously at Jax. There are stickybuns beneath, thick with cinnamon and icing. "Is breakfast okay at dinnertime? What're you cooking? I'm eating it." Hive looks pretty scruffy-casual himself; if he's been in his clothes for two days they would probably look much the same. Rumpled brown t-shirt sporting a hedgehog who has tipped over a can of blue paint onto himself. Faded jeans, scuffed and fraying at the hems. He's shoeless before he even gets in the door. He jerks his chin upwards to Shelby; if he's surprised to see her here it doesn't immediately show. "Yo. Shelby. Hey, who took a piece out of you?" He waves towards the bandages. Jackson pulls up the top of the tray's covering, sniffing curiously at what's beneath. "Oh, awesome!" The telepathic RUDENESS is apparently forgiven in the face of sugar. "Man I half killed myself out there today I might just eat the whole /tray/." Except that he's waving it at Shelby in offering, before setting it down on the counter between living room and kitchen. "-- Mouse? Was there a mouse? He made Obie grow huge and attack me. I think Obie's still traumatized." Instead of answering out loud, Shelby just concentrates and treats Hive to a reel of the previous day's festivities--you know, the usual stuff like FBI agents through windows, screaming British men armed with spears and a mouse the size of a black bear. Better than than dwell on how ohmigod terrible she looks and smells at the moment. She remains stubbornly silent until the end, then appropriates a stickybun for herself. A large bite is taken and shoved into her cheek so she can say, "Fucking asshole needs to die." Hive trails in further, drifting into the kitchen like he lives there and helping himself to a swipe of the potatoes Jax was mashing, trailing his finger through them in lieu of silverware. "Shiiiit," he says, when Shelby's mindreel is finished. His eyes have widened. "You ran into that guy?" He darts a look to Jax. "/And/ you?" Now his brows are furrowing, deep, his eyes skipping between the two with worry. "Yeah, I'll agree there. The fuck was he on about? The news was saying mutants, no mutants, you'd think if he's some kind of /freedom fighter/ he'd pick better targets than you two, though." "He certainly thinks he's one," Jackson says, a little uncomfortably. "He was going on about how we have to do difficult things for the sake of justice. The New World. I don't --" He shakes his head stiffly. He's getting out plates, now, and turning off all the burners, under the tofu, under the potatoes, under the third covered pan which turns out to be some sort of gravy heavy with chickpeas and rosemary and garlic. "Shelby's crashing here tonight." "I was just in the way." He -really- wanted to kill the FBI dude. Alas, if only she'd had something stronger than sweater kittens to attack him with. Shelby wraps her arms around herself and droops. "I dunno if I'm really hungry, Jax. Is it okay if I just get some sleep?" "Sweater kittens." Hive has a smile, at that, despite the situation. "Shit, I'm eating her share. That smells delicious. -- Jax can put, like, a whole fucking /forcefield/ around his apartment so there's probably not going to be any crazy murderers around tonight," he tells Shelby cheerfully. "Wait," he frowns at the bandages, "does this mean no show Thursday? Cuz I was bringing Ryan. My roommates. We were going to make posters and everything. Maybe throw underwear. Faint." "No, I can't. Not if I want to sleep. Or get to work tonight. But there won't be murderers around anyway. C'mon, you can sleep --" Jackson drags his teeth against a lip ring with a frown. "There's a futon mattress up there --" He is gesturing High Up, to the small lofted area overlooking the living room, "but it'll probably be loud for a while. The twins ain't home, though, you can take either'a their beds." He is scurrying out of the kitchen, frowning as he socked-feet-slides over to the bathroom. Or, not the bathroom, but a small closet beside it, to dig out Sheets. "Hive was going to throw the underwear. I was going to faint." Shelby lifts her hands, curling them at Hive like slightly soiled flippers. "No playing for at least a week, the doc said. Stitches." And boy is she ever bummed about -this- though her thoughts on the doctor--oh hello, Rasheed Toure--are pleasant enough; he did good work and only stabbed her minimally with needles. Fortunately the pair are doing a one-two act to keep her from descending into the pits of despair. "Maybe you could just give me the underwear then," she suggests with a ghost of a smile. "Clean, though. I hate doing laundry. Or maybe just tee shirts. Guy tee shirts are hot." Then, having proven she can joke with the best of them even amidst CRISIS, she pads after Jax to accept the sheets and go claim a twin bed. "Yeah, but most of Jax's guy tee shirts are girl tee shirts. You should steal from Ryan. He has the /guy/-y-est guy tee shirts." Hive jerks his head upwards. Nod. "Night." And then he's taking a plate to claim himself DINNER. Jackson /fusses/, less parental and more /Southern/ concern for his hospitality; he stays long enough to make sure the room is /reasonably/ presentable, long enough to make sure the bed is adequately blanketed, long enough to ask again if Shelby is /sure/ there is nothing she need by way of Food Or Drink. But then she is left to her sleeps. Jackson has an /actual/ kid to feed. Maybe two, with Hive crashing. Shelby will take one of each guys' shirts and since she is a girl, that means Jax too so there. Fortunately further thoughts all involve making herself into a blanket taco and zzzz.