ArchivedLogs:Undercover

Undercover
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah, Eric
In Absentia	18 August 2013 Eric returns after an interesting hiatus...
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. 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. Sunday evening is quiet, for a change. It's /been/ a busy day. A trip out past the school to take the kids riding-picnicking-toproped rock climbing early in the morning, returning to the city in the afternoon to cook and serve dinner with Food not Bombs, church in the evening, dinner with the /family/ after that (Daiki included); Spencer spent a while with the twins afterward, but has since retired to his own bedroom. Jackson is now in the living room; he's been spending most of what free time he can grab lately painting. A watercolour, today; he doesn't work in them as often as in oils but today he is. It's vivid, a pair of water pixies (water demons? with their shark-sharp teeth and claws and jet black eyes it's probably a matter of interpretation) entwined in each other's arms amidst a storm of waves. He's dressed comfortably, jeans that were probably once black but have long since faded grey, a loose yellow t-shirt with three pink butterflies in its lower corner. Micah has taken up residence on the couch with a pile of (ugh) snail mail retrieved from Gorilla AT's P.O. Box. Stubbornly, he is responding to all of it electronically, though this sometimes requires the assistance of a small document scanner. He is clad in faded jeans and a (new!) TARDIS-blue T-shirt covered in a somewhat Art Nouveau stylized Dr. Hooves. His movements have become rather perfunctory, sliding open envelopes, reading, returning to his laptop for some form of typing or other, pausing to sip tea from a glass on a table beside him. There is a nice pile of empty envelopes forming next to him, waiting to go to the recycling. The triple-knock on the door sounds almost nervous, even unintentional. A light rap, a pause, then a heavier one, two, in rapid succession, sound against the door to Jackson's apartment. The man standing in front of the peephole is both a familiar face and an unfamiliar one. Hair bleached to a sandy blonde and carefully cut into an impeccable trim, a bright gold necklace hanging from his throat, Eric's eyes are no longer the warm brown that they were - now, they are a deep blue almost to black, the warmth quenched by a cool ice. His clothing is different, too, an Armani suit hanging meticulously off of his large frame. His eyes are focused on the peephole, staring into the curved surface of the glass contemplatively. The knock draws a slight frown from Jackson; around him, the gentle shifting play of colours that often accompanies his painting darkens to a shadowy blue-black as he turns to glance towards the door. "-- s'late," he murmurs, with a glance towards Spencer's closed bedroom door. His palette for watercolours actually has a /lid/; he snaps it closed, setting it down on his stool and slipping over to peek out the peekhole. This only makes his brows crease deeper. "Uh --" /Frown/. "Honey-honey, are we expectin' no -- wait is that --" He unlocks the door, one lock two locks three locks, deadbolt; he pulls it open with the security chain still in place. "-- /Eric/?" His tone is a little incredulous. "Did you get -- hit by -- some kinda -- /smarm/-stick?" A half-opened envelope returns to the pile as Micah perks at the knocking. "It is kinda late. Didn't think we was expectin' nobody. Most folks 'round here don't bother knockin', either." Since Jax has already gone through the effort of capping his paints, Micah waits for him to discover who is at the door. "Smarm stick? /Tell/ me this has got nothin' t'do with Osborn in any way." He shifts over to his knees, sliding closer to the door side of the couch, hands resting on its arm as he peers toward the doorway. Eric's smile, at least, is familiar, and the police officer gives a little wave. "Heya, Jax. Heya, Micah." he says, voice warm and friendly. "Nah, nothing like that. Just finished my debriefin' at the station and came ri' over. Haven't had time to change out'a my work clothes yet." he says. His smile fades for a brief moment, and he gestures towards the living room beyond the two men. "Sorry for callin' on ya so late, Jax, but... I could use some'a your advice, actually, if'ya got a minute or two." For a moment longer Jackson just peers out of the crack in the door, looking over Eric's new haircut, new suit, new eye colour. After a bit he exhales, closes the door to remove the security chain and then pulls it open again. "Shoes, please." He gestures the other man in. "C'mon. Can I get y'something t'drink? Eat? Got cookies an' -- some casserole left over from dinner." He flits back in towards the couch, leaning against its back as he gestures towards Eric. "Not Osborn. I -- don't /think/ not-Osborn, this don't got nothin' to do with Osborn, do it? What was you gettin' debriefed /on/? S'everything aright? You look very, uh -- not -- like your usual work-clothes." Eric's wave is returned with one in kind, though Micah's eyebrows compete for attention in the way they creep upward. "Hi, Eric. You gone all blondie-bear," he points out, as if Eric might not have /noticed/ otherwise. "An', yeah, I'd say a fair sight more on the /fancy/ side than the usual. Can't imagine you'd be bikin' about in that outfit." He turns for a moment to clear mail off of the couch, piling it onto the coffee table instead, in case seats are needed. "Nah, I'm fine. Had some food at the station - been in debriefing all day." The police officer gives a little shrug of his shoulder and bends down to remove his shoes and carefully place them to one side of the door. They are Italian imported leather - retailing probably around a third of Eric's yearly salary. "Yeah, well, they pulled me off'a the bikes a month back or so. Three weeks? Somethin' like that. Needed someone to play at being a ball player for a few weeks undercover. Bein' a detective ain't exactly my cup of tea, but, orders are orders." Eric glances up, looking between the two men for a moment. "Actually, s'kinda why I'm here. I ain't been 'Eric' for a bit now. Couldn't tell anyone where I was, what I was doin'. Didn't have my phone, or email, or anythin'. New name, new life, or a lot of bad shit'd've gone down." A pause. "No one knew. Yeah?" "N-no, not yeah. What?" Jackson's nose wrinkles up, his brow furrowing in a look of confusion. "Detective? Ball player? Undercover? What are you on about? Now I'm just confused. What bad shit? I mean, you're /here/ now so I'm guessin' you're done with that now? Where were you, what was you doin'?" "Undercover work, wow. Well, you'd been talkin' about a change of pace at work. That's quite the change." Micah nods along with Eric's explanation. "You all finished with that, or should we be callin' you somethin' else if we run into you out'n about?" He frowns at the implication of more /badness/ happening. "Yeah, seems right the no one knowin'. Certainly didn't hear nothin' about it 'til this minute, m'self. Not that I expect t'be the most in-the-loop person, just that I didn't hear nothin' from Shane or anythin' like that." "Nah, nah, nothin' like that, Micah." Eric says, laughing. "That's for detectives. I'm just a cop. But they needed someone who could play football, and I was on the varsity team back in high school. Not a lot'a connections around here, neither, least the kind that'd be recognizin' me on the street and say hello. Worked out well. I'm done now - assignments over, bust done. Back in the hands of the detectives who actually know the case, yeah?" Eric's smile fades and he looks down at the ground, stretching his arms out first in one direction then the other. "Bad people. We managed to get some really bad people off'a the street." He looks up, blue eyes looking into the other men's. "Human trafficing. Children, mostly, for sex." "-- Oh." This quiets Jackson, for a moment, at least. His eye widens, his expression turning somber. "Oh." His teeth sink down against his lip. "That's -- that's a -- that must. Have been -- a rough. Assignment. Are you -- was it." He studies Eric's face for a long moment. "... do you. Want. A hug? I don't -- that doesn't sound -- easy. At least you got -- them. Off. The street, that's -- that's good. But that sounds -- if you had to be undercover -- pretending to --" He winces, and moves away from the couch to curl his arms around Eric, quick and tight. "Well, that's good, y'get t'slide back into normal life again. An' we ain't gotta remember t'call you Gary or somethin' like that. S'all good things." The hint of a smile that had returned to Micah's lips falls away at the description of the job Eric had been working. "Oh, that's...best that y'got 'em. Hope the case is tight an' they /stay/ off the streets. Ain't no excuses, treatin' kids that way. Hope y'got all the people involved, too." “I ain’t never gonna say no to a hug,” Eric says, though he sounds a little bit bemused. His arms wrap, tight, around Jax, giving him a little squeeze and pulling the smaller man against his broad chest, hands trailing up and down the other man’s spine. He smells lightly of cologne, a hint of flavour to match his fancy clothing. “They aren’t goin’ anywhere. Child molesters don’t do well in gen pop, and kidnappers neither.” Jackson hugs Eric tight, but pulls back before long, leaning back against the couch once more. “M’glad you put them away, then. That -- sounds right horrifying. Job’s done, then?” His palms press to the back of the couch, weight shifting against it. “You back t’regular life, then?” His eye lifts to Eric’s face. “What’s it y’come to ask advice on?” “Sounds like it's done with from your end, at least. That's a plus, not havin' t'be mixed up in /that/ day in an' day out.” Micah smiles at the hug exchange. When Jax leans against the couch, he rests a hand on his shoulder lightly. “Y'all need privacy for this discussion? I can make m'self scarce if need be.” He looks to Eric for the response (seeing as Jax doesn't know what the question will be!), one brow ticked upward slightly. "Well, I ain't talked to Shane for... three weeks, yeah? Somethin' like that, anyway," Eric says, hands sticking into his pockets hesitantly. "I ain't sure how he's gonna have taken me droppin' off'a the map like I did. I guess I just wanted your advice about approachin' him. Was on my way t'see him just now, and I saw your door first. Thought I'd come in and ask'ya what you thought. And, nah, Micah, you ain’t gotta go." Jackson lifts a hand, feverish-warm fingers resting lightly over top of Micah’s to squeeze gently. “Oh -- oh. S’been a while.” For a moment Jackson tenses, squeezing /just/ a little bit harder at Micah’s hand; his teeth dig down at his lip a little bit, his head turning to cast a brief furrowed-brow look at his partner, his expression -- not /quite/ comfortable, caught in a touch of uncertainty that he pushes away with a quick shake of his head. “He’ll -- be glad t’see you,” he admits, and his tone is light enough though Micah at least will be able to catch the lingering reluctance in this admission; though the relationship between the two is not one Jax is /forbidding/ it’s still not one he’s quite managed to be wholly /comfortable/ with. But: “He’s had a pretty rought time’a it himself lately, an’ I don’t doubt it’ll cheer him right proper t’have y’back around,” is certainly true; he says /that/ without hesitation, at least. His hand doesn’t leave Micah’s. His smile eases, warmer but a touch crooked. “-- He’s Shane. He ain’t nothin’ but warm, really. Not sure there’s no tricks t’approachin’ him past sayin’ hi an’ ‘splainin’ what happened. He hears the story, he’ll understand.” Micah's hand curls a little tighter in its perch on Jax's shoulder, attempting to reassure at the multiple signs of tension and discomfort. He gives a little nod when Eric provides dispensation to remain in the room. “Ohgosh, Shane's...reasonable, in the long run. I'm sure he'll understand once y'give him the whole story 'bout what happened an' how y'weren't allowed t'tell nobody. S'kinda a unique situation.” “Yeah, but it ain’t ‘xactly a situation I think you’all are likely to sympathize with that much,” Eric says, eyes tracking over Jax with a lilting, twisted smile. “I know how’ya feel about police officers, and I’m know he ain’t all that fond’a us neither.” He glances away for a moment, looking down at his shoulder and carefully picking off a hair. Eric does turn back to the two other men after a few moments, thumbs tapping against each other in an thoughtful movement. “I know he’s been gettin’ real serious with Peter, anyway. Still, ‘d be good to see him again.” His smile spreads wider. “I’ve missed him.” Jackson’s lips compress. Thin. Around his arms a curl of dark shadows twine, thin tendrils climbing their way up towards his shoulders where Micah’s hand curls. “-- Helping stop human trafficking? I think,” he says, very quiet, “that that’s a thing Shane’s /incredibly/ likely t’sympathize with right about now.” The mention of Peter just earns a soft breath of laughter. The shadows around him fade. “Eric, he was real serious with Daiki before he even met you. I don’t know what that’s got t’do with nothin’. Ain’t like Shane’s like to run /out/ of love no time soon.” Micah's teeth meet with his lower lip as those shadow-tendrils appear around Jax. He comes up into tall kneeling, reaching over the back of the couch to settle his other hand on Jax's opposite shoulder, all but hugging the other man to him. “I think it's a sympathetic enough situation whenever the police are doin' their actual /jobs/. The way they're s'posed to. Protectin' folks an' rescuin' kids an' such is good work. S'a whole different can of worms from harassin' folks or kidnappin'. Just for example.” He lets a smirk coax one corner of his mouth into curling upward. “Just 'cause some cops are horrible people, don't mean you /all/ are. Prob'ly the general public wouldn't keep fundin' you guys otherwise.” Eric’s smile is a wry one and he nods at Jackson. “Probably ri’,” he says, nodding once. Then he grins and shakes his head. “Nah, nah, Jax. Ain’t runnin’ out of love I meant. He got enough for more’n the three of us, by far. I meant, glad he got someone else t’help him when I was gone, s’what I meant. Someone besides ya, I mean. Ain’t always easy to go to your folks. Wasn’t for me, anyway.” Micah gets a wink and Eric’s smile is turned on him, too. “True. And it ain’t the general public who have problems with us. Not by a long shot. Your average guy on the street loves us, quite right. I’d know.” Another wink. Jax leans back into Micah’s hug, both his hands lifting now to curl over Micah’s arms. For a moment his eye closes, his fingers tightening against Micah’s forearms. “Yeah.” It’s vague, not really clear what part of this he is responding to. Just, “Yeah.” He opens his eye again, looking back at Eric. “Y’should go -- talk t’him. He’s home now, I think. ‘less he’s on the roof grabbin’ a smoke. Jus’ tell him the story. He’ll understand.” Eric's jokes receive a bit of an eye-roll in reply, though Micah's expression is still amused. “Don't guess you /or/ Shane's in danger of runnin' out of love any time soon.” He returns Jax's little squeeze, fingers pressing against his shoulders firmly. “Think he'd just appreciate bein' told up front, as soon as y'could an' as honestly. Ain't really better ways t'go aside from simple honesty, far as I'm concerned.” “Alright. I’ll go talk ta’ him.” Eric says, patting down his pockets for a moment. He groans, quietly. “Right. Football players don’t smoke.” He shakes his head and looks at the two men. “Thanks, Micah, Jax. ‘Preciate it.” The police officer turns to leave, stepping back over and opening the door. Right on the door frame, though, he pauses to turn and grin at the two men. “You let me know if’n you decide that you’all got some extra love ta’ go around, too, ya hear?” Jackson winces, his head ducking slightly. He turns his head to peck Micah lightly on the cheek, then pulls away to follow Eric towards the door. “Good night, Eric,” he says. Rather /firmly/. One hand on the door, to close it -- and lock it -- behind the other man. Micah smiles at the not-smoking comment. “S'a good policy all around, really.” He shakes his head at Eric, but can't help answering back. “Don't think we've ever had a /shortage/, really.” His hands finally release Jax's shoulders after one last squeeze so that he can move to the door. “G'night, Eric!” he seconds with a little wave, settling back into his seat on the couch.