ArchivedLogs:When To Rest
| When To Rest | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2014-03-30 >.> |
| Location
<XS> Kitchen | |
The kitchen staff at Xavier's tends well to the needs of its residents. Always cognizant of its students and faculty's dietary needs alike, the menu has a wide variety of choices, and the longtime cook works wonders in the kitchen. The pantry, too, is kept well stocked for those who want to come prepare themselves their own snacks. The shelf, fridge, and freezer space is ample, though if anyone wants to keep their own food there, they'd better make sure it's labeled clearly, and even that is no guarantee it'll last. Breakfast time has recently finished at Xavier's, a little later on Sunday than it runs on weekends. The kitchen is largely unoccupied now that mealtime is done, except for the quiet grate of metal over mesh -- Jackson is standing next to a /very/ large mixing bowl holding a /very/ large sifter, whose crank he is currently turning to sift down a mess of cocoa-coloured powder into the mixture. He's dressed very /blandly/, for him -- jeans, Xavier's tee, black eyepatch, and between this and his lack of ink and lack of makeup and lack of piercings he has not looked very much like himself recently. The light dusting of cocoa and flour over his clothes is totally a giveaway, though. At first, Peter doesn't even /recognize/ him. It takes him a moment; initially, he thinks the kitchen has been invaded by a somewhat uncolorful, bald-headed pirate. But then, with a little squinting... "Mr. Hol--Jax?" Peter corrects, moving into the room -- tlk! Tlk! -- armed with a set of metal forearm crutches. He's walking a bit better, now, slow-but-steady, though his legs are still notably weak -- too weak to just walk on his own power, just yet. Peter himself is clad in a bright red hoodie, the hood down -- and black slacks. His chitinous face is a little flushed, probably with the effort of walking; he is also sniffing at the scent of cocoa. Sniff, sniff. For a moment, though, he just stares at Jax, a little wide-eyed, a little hopeful. Jackson glances up as the door opens, a reflexive smile spreading warmly across his face. "Oh. Oh, hey, Peter. You're up an' around, that's good to see." He finishes with turning his crank, tapping the sifter against the rim of the bowl to dislodge the last of its contents. He picks up a large spatula, mixing the bowl's contents together rather vigorously, the cocoa-mixture combining with a deeper layer of melted chocolate and sugar and applesauce to slowly become a stiff batter. "Hi, hello, how're you /feelin'/, honey-honey? I'm -- these are gonna be brownies." Peter wordlessly darts forward, toward Jax -- metal crutches making a soft 'tnk, tnk', before -- he flings his arms around the young man's waist, hugging him tightly from the side. "You're up and around," Peter responds, squeezing just a smidge too tight, before immediately relaxing his grip. He wobbles a little bit, before shifting his weight off of Jax and back to the crutches, stumbling away a little bit. "I'm -- I'm doing fine, I just wanted to see... I heard you were -- you lost your tattoos," Peter says, a little regretfully. "But you're... alive..." Jax's arm opens wide, a startled laugh escaping him. He curls one arm back around Peter in a hug, fierce and tight and uncomfortably warm before he steps back (probably leaving Peter just a little cocoa-dusty in the process.) "Yeah --" His nose crinkles up at the mention of his tattoos; for the briefest of moments his warm smile fades into something unhappy-uncomfortable. The smile returns a moment later, though, warm-bright as before. "-- yeah they kinda healed away with the rest'a the damage. Probably was already pretty burned off anyhow. But -- I mean gosh t'was a miracle m'here at all." He nods at the mention of being alive, drawing in a slow breath. "I am. My /whole/ family is. Thanks to you," he adds this softly. "I can't even tell you how thankful we are." Peter's expression shifts into something more bashful; his cheeks burn indigo as his eyes focus on his feet. Some of the cocoa powder dusts his hoodie; a smidge of it gets under his nose. "--I -- so many people helped. Professor Suresh, and Karrie, and Rasa, and Micah, and Faelan, and -- Jim -- I, I, oh man, I kind of... stabbed Jim. With a Jaws of Life. I thought it was the only way to get you out," Peter explains, his hand lifting up, shifting weight down hard on one crutch to scratch at his nose, rubbing at the cocoa powder as it tickles his nostrils. "--is he going to be alright? I was kind of panicking and it was the only thing I could think of doing, but Faelan just, teleported you out, and..." The scratching gets a little more intense; Peter promptly *sneezes*. He at least has the decency to turn as he does so, so as not to risk infecting the entire brownie mix. Jax's eye widens at the mention of stabbing Jim, and there's a small unsteady ripple in the air around him. "I don't know," he admits, very softly. "He's here. He's out -- in the woods. Healing. I don't -- don't know how he's going to be." For a moment there is guilt that chokes his words thick and heavy, his eye focusing down on his (still-more-intense) mixing of brownie batter. "I don't think he's ever been this bad, I don't know if he'll --" He pulls in a shaky breath, swallowing hard as he light around him stabilizes. "But there's people helping him." He says this more firmly, more calmly. More hopefully. But his /hard/ grip on his bowl and his furious-rapid mixing do not ease up. "...I thought -- my first thought was that you couldn't breathe," Peter admits, his eyes lifting at that faint ripple in the air -- a tiny tingle at the back of his head. "I hope he's... if there's anything I can do -- I just. I should tell him I'm sorry, even though -- I don't know if he'll understand it if he's gone all... tree-y." Peter frowns, his attention shifting back to his feet as Jax furiously mixes. "...I guess the other reason I wanted to talk to you -- you know, when it went off -- I hardly got hurt at all. Just a few burns along my neck and side. Because I was wearing," Peter gestures to his hoodie, lifting one crutched hand up. "I want to build you -- something like that? Something small enough that you can wear whatever you want /over/ it, but big enough to protect your chest. Something like..." Peter flushes, looking up to Jax. "...an armored tube-top, I guess." "I hope he is, too." Jax's voice has dropped softer, his eye intently fixed on the brownie mixture he holds. It takes a moment before he stops mixing, turning aside from Peter so that he can start pouring the batter out into several pre-greased baking trays, using the spatula to spread it as evenly as possible. "A -- a what?" He turns back around, setting the bowl down and giving Peter a puzzled look. "Peter, if you'd been in my apartment that armour wouldn't have helped you," he says first in some mild confusion, and second: "I /own/ body armour." "--yeah, I know," Peter admits, glancing to the left, toward the floor, as Jax turns. "But, the other time... with the arrow -- well, okay, the body-armor wouldn't have helped much then, either, because -- arrows. But it would help with bullets, maybe. I just--" Peter manages to wrest his eyes away from the floor, focusing on Jackson's chest; his brows moosh together. "--just, Karrie's... I don't think she's going to be using her power anymore. And I mean, I'm kind of glad, but -- I'm just." Peter sighs, ragged and hard, weight dropping down to his crutches. "...scared. That more of us will die." Jackson studies Peter for a while, teeth scraping against his lip to try and wiggle at a lip piercing that doesn't anymore exist. He wears a small frown as he turns back around, picking up a smaller bowl filled with glistening golden caramel-sauce, using the spatula to swirl it slowly into the tops of the brownie trays. "That's good, though. For her. She shouldn't have been --" He shakes his head, breathing slowly. "More of us will die, Peter. But -- that's just. Kind of how the world goes, you know? Usually when you die you stay dead."
Jackson relaxes, stopping with his caramel-swirling to set the spatula down on the edge of one tray. He turns around slowly, wrapping both arms back around Peter. For a time he is quiet, holding the teenager tight, hand rubbing absently between Peter's shoulders. "Peter --" His head tips down, cheek pressing for a moment to the top of Peter's head. "It's not dumb. It's -- this is hard. I mean, this is /all/ hard. And -- an' /Lord/ trust me I know how it can feel when -- y'feel like you got a chance to do /somethin'/ an' you failed at it an' let someone down but -- but the thing is." His teeth sink deeper against his lip, his grip tightening just a little bit. "-- The thing is, you /can't/ save everyone. An' I think sometimes that's scarier an' harder than any explosion or bein' shot at or any of it. Jus' -- tryin' to figure out how to keep /goin'/ when it's all -- real overwhelming. But times like that, that's why you got so many'a us here to get you through it. An' the therapists an' your folks at home an' -- an' in the end you can do a lot more good knowin' when to take a break and rest and then /trying/ to keep goin' than jus' givin' up cuz you couldn't do it perfect every time." Peter just shoves his head harder against Jax's chest as he turns to grab him. SHOVE. Harder. As if he was trying to burrow his way into Jax's sternum. Shove shove shove. "Nngh," is Peter's only response to Jax's words, followed by -- more tightening. Still not enough to actually do any harm; Peter's managed to figure out how to do this hugging thing right. "--okay," Peter says, sniffling a little bit into Jax's shirt. "I... you're right, I know. I should... stop. Take a break for a while. I'm getting your clean shirt messed up," he finally laments, head lifting from Jax's chest. "Oh, don't you worry, this shirt was a lost cause already it was fair dusted with flour an' cocoa." Jax rubs at Peter's back a moment longer, and presses a kiss to the teenager's forehead when his head lifts. "Might be good for a while to jus' concentrate on -- quieter things. School. Friends here. Let the world take care of /itself/ for a bit." His smile curls warm across his face. "There'll be brownies soon." | |
