ArchivedLogs:Heel Face Turn

Heel Face Turn
A Redemption Story
Dramatis Personae Dan, Jackson, Shane
In Absentia	2 March, 2013 In fastforward.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Lobby - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. A bank of mailboxes near the sitting area collects mail for the building, a recycling bin right at hand for the unwanted spam. It's afternoon as Jax returns home, somewhat trudgy from lack of sleep. He's bright enough in appearance, though, if not posture; purple capris, vividly patterned mismatched socks, vividly patterned mismatched armwarmers. A bright pink Cheer Bear hoodie underneath his silvery jacket, both of these open to reveal the light blue paint-splattered t-shirt underneath. He has a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, black with the Freakangels logo on it, and his hair looks kind of similarly paint-splattered, rainbow shades sprinkled through a base of jet black. He's focused down on his phone as he badges himself in, the messages there putting a heavier slump in his shoulders. Dan is actually /whistling/ as he comes up the steps towards the door. Maybe the pleasant afternoon is lifting his mood; he's certainly dressed for the warmer weather in jeans and a short-sleeved blue plaid shirt over a white tee. In one hand, he carries a shopping bag that bulges with groceries, carrot greens hanging over the side of the oddly-out-of-place polka dot canvas bag. In his other hand, he also has his phone, his attention focused on that as he hops up the stairs, nearly colliding with the smaller man. "Oh, shit," he says, doing a weird pas de bourree to scoot himself to the side. "I'm sorry. I wasn't paying attention where I was going." "Woah," Jackson sort of shuffle-steps hastily to the side, hand lifted, maybe defensive, maybe apologitic as he half-stumbles, half-scoots out of Dan's way. He lifts his hand the rest of the way to push his large mirrored glasses back into place, a crooked smile on his lips as he looks at the other man. "No worries, sir," he says, Southern accent thick, and then tips his head slightly down to look at the groceries with a faintly puzzled frown. "You don't live here," he says, first, and then ducks his head sheepishly. "Sorry, I didn't mean it like. Just I know pretty much everyone who does and the groceries --" He shrugs, apologetically. Dan is doing a visual check, in case he actually struck the smaller man, but finding none, he offers an easy grin. "It was totally my fault," he says. "I even know better than to focus entirely on my phone." He looks down to check his grocery bag, glancing up at the statement. "Nope," he agrees. "I don't live here. My girlfriend does, though." He begins patting his pockets, scrunching his nose. "Thought I would surprise her with dinner, tonight." He frowns at the younger man, lightly, before his mouth lifts into a lopsided smile. "All the buildings in New York are pretty much like that," he says. "Once you've lived there long enough, you can tell who belongs there and who doesn't." He lifts a shoulder. "I don't /know/ everyone in my building, but I can recognize who lives there and who doesn't." Then he's extending a hand in greeting. "Dan Rourke." Jackson's smile warms, at this, quicker and brighter. "Aw, that's real sweet, I bet she'll love that. 'least, /man/ I know /I'd/ be thrilled if I found food all cooked for me. What's on the menu?" He shifts his phone back to his pocket in return, extending his own hand; the smallest finger is missing and his nails are glittery pink but for all this his handshake is warm (perhaps /too/ warm, his skin feeling kind of feverish to the touch) and firm. "Jax Holland. Yeah. You kinda get a feel for the place. I know most people though. I, uh, bake a lotta cookies." Which is apparently a good neighbor-introduction vehicle. "I hope she'll like it," Dan says with a flash of teeth. "I'm not exactly a master chef. But, I make a good Irish Stew, and I can bake those roll things in the tube without burning them too badly." He winks. "But, I got a nice bottle of wine, so hopefully, that'll compensate for my poor cooking skill." He doesn't seem bothered by the nail polish on Jax's hand, although the missing pinkie and warm skin bring his mouth into a brief, tight line that disappears almost as quickly into a game grin. "Man, it must be something in this building," he says good-naturedly. "My girlfriend likes to bake a lot, too. She's always bringing me cookies and brownies and stuff." He chuckles. "I bet it's a good way to get the neighbors to remember you in a positive light, yeah?" He fishes out the security card, holding it up either in triumph or to prove to Jackson that his claim is legitimate. "Seems like a pretty good building, though. Have you lived here long?" "Oh, if she's anything like most people in this city, it don't gotta be gourmet, just so long as when she gets home exhausted at the end of the day she don't gotta do no cooking." Jackson shifts his bag up higher on his shoulder, and as a young man passes through the lobby in typical New York hurriedness he steps away from the door, shifting even further inside when the door actually /opens/ to let in a cold draft from outside. "Bout a -- year and a half," he judges, after a thoughtful pause. "Be up on two come fall. And yeah, it sure don't hurt to keep on good terms with folks. Makes things nicer, you know? First winter I was here there was this terrible power outage during the storm, 'cept it kinda just turned into a lot of party with everyone helping each other out. And, uh, maybe also drinking," he admits sheepishly. "Cuz, I mean, snowed in. Best to be friendly with the neighbors /then/." "Well, it's definitely not gourmet," Dan chuckles, sliding in the door behind Jackson, allowing a comfortable space to open between them first. "But it'll be hot and ready when she gets home, so I'm hoping to score a couple of boyfriend points." He shifts his own bag, looking down to ensure the contents haven't walked away. "Oh, I remember that storm," he says, wrinkling his nose. "Yeah, that was a bad one. People in my building aren't so friendly, though. I think most of us bundled up alone in our apartments for the night." He grins. "I'd rather have the party. At least that's not /quiet/." "Maybe you should start bakin' cookies," Jackson suggests with a quick grin, "get yourself a group to party with come next winter. This one ain't been /so/ bad, at least. Just the one big storm and our power only barely flickered a couple times." His hand drops to rest on the bag at his hip, nails absently drumming against the surface. "Or mebbe you need better neighbors, I don't know. Where's it you live at?" Dan laughs. "Man, I could do that," he says. "D'you think people will mind if they're cookies from a tube?" He grins, and leans against the vending machine, blocking the glass with his body. "'Cause I can bake the hell out of those." The question gets another scrunch of nose, and Dan lifts a shoulder. "I'm in the Sunrise, over in Clinton," he says. "It's not as nice a place as this, but the rent's easy enough." His eyebrows creep up his forehead. "And I'm right next to the park, so I can jog regularly. That's a nice bonus." "Oh, yeah, being down by a park is great. Tompkins Square is just like a block from here," Jackson says brightly, "it's nice to be able to go out and have some /trees/ sometimes, ain't it? Being near /the/ park would be even better. With the water and all. I ain't from the city so I kinda miss having some /nature/ around." He moves over, leaning against the back of one of the couches. "I think cookies is cookies. People ain't gonna say no to free cookies." "People like cookies," Dan agrees amiably, and bobs his head at the sentiments on nature. "Oh, yeah. Getting out and running is one of my great pleasures," Dan says, nodding. "And the Park is a great place to do it. Although, I've been to Tompkins. It's nice." He tilts his head, fishing out his phone and glancing at the screen as it buzzes. "I can tell you're from the South," he says with a grin. "You talk like a couple of my old buddies from the Army. Whereabouts are you from, originally?" "I love running, 'least when the weather's nice. I'm more of a swimmer myself. That I can do year-round anyway at the gym -- I mean, I /could/ run year round but," Jax admits with a wrinkle of his nose, "I'm kinda a wimp about the cold. From Georgia, originally. I mean, far enough north an' in the mountains we /do/ get snow, sometimes, but not hardly much. Way milder. You'd think I'd be used to it by now but --" He shrugs a shoulder. "You from around here?" The front door clicks open with a press of a badge, pushed open shortly after by a small blue-skinned teenager, neatly dressed in black pants and a white button-down, a black peacoat over top. Shane is grinning rather toothily at his phone as he heads in, and the grin only widens with a slight sniff at the air, catching Jax's scent before looking up to see Jax. "Hey!" he chirrups, cheerful, though the cheer fades in a heartbeat as he looks at Dan. He /hurries/ across the lobby, hastening nearer. "What the fuck," is his rather startled greeting, black eyes widening sharply as he looks from Dan to Jax, worried, "he's not giving you any shit, is he?" Dan lifts a shoulder. "I'm not much of a swimmer," he admits. "I'd rather feel the pavement pounding beneath my feet. My...daughter...is learning to swim at the Y, though. She's always talking about her 'mimming' lessons." He chuckles. "Me? I'm born and bred New Yor --" that dies in his throat as a familiar face comes through the door. His expression turns hard, for a moment, before it softens into something akin to regret. Shane's question is a fair cop, and he pulls his mouth to one side. "I'm not here to give anyone shit, kid," he says carefully, swallowing visibly and glancing at the door. "I'm not interested in coming in here and making a bunch of trouble for people who, I've come to find out, don't really deserve it." "My kids are big swimmers," Jackson says, with a quiet laugh, "though in the water they outstrip /me/ by far an' I've been in the pool five days a week since, like, the third grade." Cue Shane's entrance, which is initially greeted by a wide smile, an arm opening for a hug; the smile dies though the arm remains at Shane's clear worry. "What?" he says, a little perplexed. "No, we was just talking, why would --" His brow creases as he looks from Shane to Dan. The moment it all clicks is practically visible, his eyebrows raising as he /shrinks/ back a step. "-- Oh." The hug is completed anyway, arm curling around Shane's shoulders, though this is almost more /protective/ than affectionate. "N-no, I hadn't, um, told him --" He's frowning a little uncertainly between his son and the other man. Shane leans into the hug readily, and even at his much smaller stature, his protectiveness is just as clear in the way he draws himself up, the narrowed eyes he gives Dan, the way he shifts to angle himself just /slightly/ in between the pair. "Yeah. You're only interested in starting trouble when you run into kids half your size alone at night," he says blandly, still leaning close to Jax and not taking his eyes off of Dan. Dan winces as Jax recognizes him, and he's quick enough to put together that the man and boy are related, somehow. That presses his lips into non-existence, and he ducks his head. "Kid, I was an asshole that night -- hell, I'm still an asshole some nights. And I'm sorry for that. But that's not any excuse for acting the way I did." He wrinkles his nose. "And I'm sorry that I made your brother cry," he grinds out, although it's earnest in its offering. "I thought he was you, at first, and wigged out on him." He holds up a hand. "I didn't touch him, but I made him feel like shit, and that's a shitty thing to do to a kid. Lord knows I'd beat the crap out someone who did that to my kid." He inhales, and pulls himself upright, scrubbing a hand over his face. "So, I hope you'll accept my sincere apology," he says, holding out his hand and leveling his gaze on the teen. "Should I beat the crap out of you?" Jackson asks, his voice softer, calm and still rather gentle. "You assaulted one of my children," despite barely looking older than the boy himself, "and harassed another." His protectiveness isn't much diminished with Dan's apology, listening instead to Shane and then gently nudging the teenager towards the stairs. "I'm glad you've found someone makes you happy," he says, "but it takes more'n some sweet talking to make up for --" He is frowning, now. Squeezing Shane's shoulders /just/ a little tighter. His shoulders relax enough to acknowledge: "S'a start, though." "Like fuck I'm accepting your apology," Shane says, staring at the offered hand in disbelief. Not, though, apparently because of kneeing him in the groin or calling him a freak but because: "You made my brother /cry/." This, apparently, is the unforgiveable of the offenses. He leans into Jax's side as Jax turns away, though he's still looking back at Dan. "You should beat the crap out of him, Pa," he's advising Jax now, although it's amused and cheerful enough that it does not seem a sincere expression. "I bet you could take him. Plus, big Army guy getting bested by a tiny freak /and/ a fag, I kinda like the poetry there." Dan's teeth grind visibly. "I can't take back any of that," he says, and it's unclear whether he's addressing Jax or Shane with this. "All I can do is apologize for my behavior, and do my best not to do it again." He shakes his head, and narrows his eyes at Jax. "I didn't find someone who just makes me /happy/," he says. "I met someone who makes me /think/. Makes me realize that being an angry asshole isn't the way to go through my life. That I've been mistaken about a lot of things." Shane's exertion gets a flat look that rolls back over to Jackson. "If you feel like you need to beat the crap out of me to make the lesson stick," he says, dropping the bag to the floor and holding his arms out to his sides. "Go ahead. I won't raise a hand to defend myself." His mouth presses tight, and he braces himself, waiting and watching the two men. Jackson turns, at the entrance to the stairs, only letting his arm drop from Shane's shoulder once they are across the lobby from Dan. "I'm glad, then, sir," he says, quiet and calmly polite, "that you're thinking clearer 'bout things now. And that you're gonna try and act better from now on. Makes me feel a little better, 'least, about the safety of my kids. Cuz trust me, out in that world?" His fingers gesture towards the front door. "I mean, you're a parent, you know. You worry half to death any time your kid steps foot outside. Just kind of a hundredfold when stepping foot outside means everyone they run into's out to get them." He certainly doesn't look like he's about to start throwing any punches, just looking Dan over steadily. "Aw, c'mon, you're gonna give up an opportunity like /that/," Shane says, incredulously. "If you're not gonna take it can /I/?" He still doesn't seem particularly serious, given that rather than moving towards Dan he's leaning back against the stairwell door, turning the handle to let it slowly swing open with his rather insignificant body weight pushed against it. "You find my brother," he says, "you apologize to him. Might take off at least half an asshole point there." "Trust me," Dan says, pulling his chin towards his chest in a sharp jerk. "I know. My kid...she's going to have the same kind of road as yours," he says, lifting a hand in Shane's direction. "And I've started to actually realize that, and that those kids I'm being an asshole to are /someone's/ kids." He lifts a hand to scrub it through his hair. "And it makes me kind of nauseous to think of someone acting that way towards my little girl." He nods at the boy in the stairwell, and his jaw sets. "I /will/ find your brother and apologize to him. Because that's what I'd want someone to do for /my/ kid, if they scared her that bad." He grimaces. "At the very least." "Your kid's a mutant?" Jackson sounds startled at this. A little puzzled, a little uncertain. "But then why --" He bites down on his lip, looking over at Dan and then down at the floor. "Just, um, make sure I'm home with him when you do, sir," he says carefully. "I hope things go okay for your little girl." "Yeah, like no assholes call her a freak and beat on her when she's trying to enjoy life," Shane mutters, slumping back against the door. His eyes narrow on Dan. "Should make you nauseous. And that's what every fucking day is like. Those kids you're being an asshole to, though, they're /people/. That should be enough, even if they're nobody's kids." He exhales slowly, turning away with an abrupt motion. But then turning back to add: "It's hard. I mean, it's hard as fuck. But having a family to come back to, people who /give/ a shit how hard it is and help out through it, it makes it okay. Should remember that. Cuz it'll be hard as fuck for her." Dan winces at the abbreviated question, and color creeps into his ears. His mouth, however, remains firmly clamped shut on the Why of Dan, his eyes taking up the communication of how complicated the explanation is. Instead, he nods jerkily, and catches Jax's gaze. "I'll make sure you're there,' he promises. The color deepens when Shane speaks, and there's a deep twist of guilt that ends in a clench of eyebrows. "I know it'll be hard, kid," he grunts, closing his eyes. "'Swhy I'm working on changing myself. 'Cause it's going to be awful for her." He turns, then, to punch the elevator call button, turning his head sideways to look over his shoulder at the pair. "I think about that more than you'd probably think I do." "Good," is all Jackson says, watching for a moment longer. But then he turns away, curling his arm around Shane's shoulders again to head into the stairwell. "Your day go aright?" he asks, much warmer for this line of questioning. "Dai's coming by for the weekend, he should be down 'round tonight." Their voices disappear into the stairwell as the door shuts behind them. Shane just grunts in response. He turns away to follow Jackson, his smile returning bright and quick at the return of warmth in Jax's voice. "Oh, man, I was down at the park with Bastian and Spence, Spence is trying to teach Jerusalem to skateboard. Don't know how well /that/ one's going to work out but I bet he's gonna show you!" He matches the older man for warmth, if his is a little strained around the edges, in what can be heard before the pair continue up. When they've gone, Dan's shoulders sag, and he rubs his face like he's trying to erase his features. He stares at the elevator car dully when it opens, the step forward long in coming. There's another facescrub before he hits the button marked with a 2. Then he's slumping against the wall as the elevator doors close with a soft chime, leaving the lobby once again in relative peace and quiet.