ArchivedLogs:Nurturing

Nurturing
Dramatis Personae Micah, Jax, Dusk
In Absentia	22 November 2014 TRIGGER WARNING: Violence and some discussions of general horribleness children.
Location <NYC> The Roost - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
The second level of this house takes up less floor space than the ground floor, owing largely to the open sweep of balcony that overlooks half the home below. Up here the floors are in natural hardwood, polished and smooth. At one side of the balcony, again, a door leads over to the adjacent unit in the house. One door off the balcony leads to a quiet office space, with a wide metal-and-glass desk, long sofa and armchair opposite a large pair of bookshelves. A tall glass door in the large windows on the back wall leads out to a wide outdoor balcony overlooking the river. The second door leads to Dusk's bedroom, dominated by greens and greys. He has finally actually gotten himself a /proper/ bed to pair with his dresser and bookshelf, king-sized and settled low to the ground onto a solid wood base with a number of drawers built into it. His desk holds the desktop -- somewhat literally. The desk /itself/, with see-through glass body and softly glowing lights inside, has been configured to /be/ the computer case. Closer inspection of a pair of small decorative aquariums sitting to either side of its three monitors finds them to /also/ be computer cases, their inner workings submerged in a pale blue liquid on a bed of aquarium pebbles alongside plastic plants and little plastic castles or fake coral. In this bedroom, too, a door leads out to the same balcony outside. Capping off the balcony at its other end is a guest bedroom, large wood-frame bed with a small end table, dresser, a hammock-chair hanging from the ceiling in a corner, a desk by the window. It is at least warming up a little going into the weekend, if in a hazy-overcast sort of way. The late-afternoon light is, as such, dilute and soft. Micah is not nearly so committed to becoming a cloth-beast now that it is above freezing again, though he is still a little layered. Batsignal hoodie, Reading Rainbow-dash tee, rainbowy-patched jeans, and green socks with little red foxes scurrying around on them set up the typical Weekend look, along with his little-attended auburn hair-muss. He does still give in to the slight chill by toting a teal thermos with him, remaining half full of warm pumpkin spice coffee. His path through Geekhaus is slow, head turning now and then as he scans for signs of Dusk. The search leads him in through Dusk's open bedroom door, a light knock given to the doorframe as he passes. Jax is soon to follow, a little more bundled in a thick gray hoodie with ragged strips of rainbow layered over a black sweater layered over tee, purple leggings under a long grey skirt, long thick knee-high fuzzy socks, Cheer Bear hand warmers. A bulkier thermos of his own, though it's pumpkin /soup/. He is trailing after Micah, padding in quietly with hands cupped around the thermos and shoulders hunched -- less out of any indication of mood and more out of indication of shiver that calms as he takes another small sip of soup. Dusk isn't helping the shiver much. Or helping his /heat/ bill. The door to his balcony is cracked open, letting in a chilly draft from outside. /He/ isn't much bundled. Thick dark sweater that bears a few ragged runs loosening the knit in one sleeve, a pair of black socks, dark brown corduroys. He still sports a puffy shiner, a jagged gash slowly knitting itself back together along one cheek, a somewhat swollen and split lip. He looks very underslept, very droopy, slumped outside with elbows propped against the railing of his balcony and a cigarette between his fingers. His wings hang limply against his back, his hair far more mussed than usual in its windswept mess around his face. He's /possibly/ only recently gotten out of bed -- or possibly never gotten /into/ it, given how little he tends to sleep in. Who knows. No indication given that they're unwelcome, certainly, Micah continues on to the balcony, knocking at that door as well before he proceeds. "Hey, sugar. All that from fight club last night?" He tries to hide some of the worry, some of the brow-furrowing, from his features as he regards Dusk's state. Instead, he holds out his thermos in offer to share. "Pumpkin spice coffee." His fingers brush over a bit of the unravelling sweater. "Prob'ly can mend that for you, if y'want." "Got soup," Jax adds, brighter. Less worry over the injuries; he /saw/ them made. He hops up to sit on the balcony railing beside where Dusk leans, bracing himself with one hand and tucking the thermos between his knees. His other hand lifts, brushing fingertips through Dusk's hair to begin straightening it. "Goodness, but you look a state. Ain't you cold, /I'm/ cold lookin' at you." "Thanks, mom." Dusk's cigarette crackles on a slow pull, head bowing to quietly submit to /grooming/. He /smells/ a state, too, stale tequila, cigarettes, bloody-stale-unshowered, teeth unbrushed, oddly /briny/, strange given his usual /meticulousness/ about grooming. He takes the coffee, taking a sip while he ashes his cigarette. "Thanks, dad." His eyes close, and he lowers the coffee to the railing. He blows out a stream of smoke, turning away from the others to do so. "I do know how to fix my own clothes, you know." He sounds amused, not offended, though scratchy-tired as his voice is even the amusement here is low-key. "I know. Sweaters s'just harder'n most things. Even people who sew an' patch don't always know how t'work with a crochet hook or re-knit when things unravel bad." Jax's lack of fret over the injuries answers Micah's first question, even if Dusk doesn't. "Just worried, sugar. Y'look like 'least a mile of hard road. S'anythin' we can do? Anythin' y'wanna talk about?" He settles in next to Jax. Well, 'settles' is a strong word. He leans. And fidgets. "Wait. Which one of us is which?" Maybe this isn't actually the point here but Jax is looking suddenly acutely curious. "Cuz I mean I got the skirt but Micah definitely got the --" He stops, blushing, and shakes his head as he trails fingers through Dusk's hair again. "Um, right, no, you do look kinda. You even slept?" Dusk's wings twitch up. Just a small shrug. "Tried. I don't know. Not really. I -- lot on my mind, you know?" He crushes the end of his cigarette against the railing. He looks up at the others, then shakes his head quickly. "I don't think there's anything you can do. Isra and I just --" Another shrug. "Had a long night." --eyebrows. Are what Micah has, at least, lofted ones to continue that sentence. "Oh, please go on. I'm curious now." Not the point, but too interesting a statement to leave on the ground unexamined. The wry amusement in his features and tone fades as Dusk speaks again. "Oh, hon. It's...the egg? Have y'all... Were y'comin' up with a plan or...?" It is exceedingly difficult to come up with an appropriate question here, as it turns out. Jax's blush only deepens here, hand moving away from Dusk's hair to rub at the back of his neck. "Your curiosity's gonna hafta remain unsated about the -- totally terribly -- inappropriately gender-normative way I was gonna finish that thought but rest assured it was glowin' praise." He presses his lips together at Dusk's answer, starting to reach for the other man but then instead offering him the thermos of soup. "Are y'all -- how are y'all. Doin'. With – everythin'." Dusk takes the soup, wrapping his fingers around it and staring down at it a long while without tasting it. "Yeah. We never wanted -- we didn't even think Isra /could/ get pregnant, you know? It's not like this is. Normal. Any of this." His wings twitch restlessly against his back. There's a somewhat nauseated look on his face, but he takes a small sip of soup, the twitch of wing-claws slowly calming. 'Not good.' His signing is slow and mechanical. Micah's cheeks pick up their own few layers of red, partially in answer to Jax's but the rest due to the content of the statement and his own speculation on it. "Y'callin' me girly?" he teases, almost more to lighten the mood a little than anything. He sighs, though, directly after. Someone is going to have to broach the entirely-too-delicate topic eventually. "I know y'all /didn't/ want it. Not nothin' that y'set out for on purpose, no-how, but... Since it got laid on your doorstep. Are y'all /wantin'/ t'be parents for this baby now it's already here?" There is no judgement in his voice here, no speculation in either direction. Simply concern and interest, for his friends and for their child. Jax's head ducks sheepishly, awkward and more than a little embarrassed. "Was callin' you nurturin'," he answers, almost primly. He slides a little bit closer on the railing to Dusk, very warm hand dropping to rest over top of the other man's with a small squeeze. "It's /not/ here." This answer is quick and immediate. Fierce, a little /too/ emphatic. Kind of pained. Dusk's head is shaking, shaking, shaking. His /hand/ is shaking, under Jax's. "I don't, we don't. Think. It should ever. Be here." Micah leans toward Jax, one arm wrapping around his shoulders in a half-hug for drawing that awkward-sheepishness out of him. The warmth and concern in his expression turns to...shock? Something almost hurt, certainly confused. "But...this ain't. This ain't like a typically gestatin' fetus. It /is/ here. Out here. S'a separate bein' all its own already, it's...goodness knows how far along an'..." He sputters to a stop, halting himself from continuing down that path. "Please don't think this is your only choice if you all don't feel like y'can take care of the little one. It's not. It's not." His hands pat at the air softly, as if trying to back someone down from a fight. His teeth dig into his lower lip in the pause before he continues. Deep breath. Teeth release. "Jax'n me. We been talkin' 'bout. If you all didn't want. Or couldn't. That we /could/. If what you're lookin' for is a place for this baby t'be loved an' cared for. Whatever arrangement would make y'all comfortable. We could give them that." Jax's fingers squeeze in a little bit firmer, when he feels that shakiness in Dusk's hand. He's biting down on his lip before Micah is, shoulders tensing as his husband speaks. He's watching Dusk's face carefully, light quivering briefly around him. "Why -- I mean, what is you thinkin'? You two talked on it? How -- are you feelin'. about it all. Because we --" He gestures, quiet, to Micah. Dusk's wings pull in tight against his back. His hand turns up and over -- the return squeeze of Jax's hand is unfortunately rather painfully tight. "Nothing's /typical/ about this at all." The rather prominent lump in his throat is vibrating, but there's no accompanying growl; whatever sound it makes is out of the range, right now, of the others' hearing. His expression is somewhat contorted, jaw clenching, lines creased beside his eyes as his other hand lifts to touch to his forehead. "Don't you think I /know/ that. But it's not -- how /could/ we -- what do you think is going to come /out/ of that. What kind of life do you think. How could we /possibly/ --" He falls quiet too, here, when Micah continues. He looks between the others with a slow hiss pushed out between his teeth. Atop his wings his claws are twitching rather violently. The sudden harder squeeze of his hand -- may be more than bones should really take. His expression crumples further, /more/ pained than before, his hand just coming up to touch to his lips, which have opened silently into an O. "Honey, please. We love you. We don't mean... It ain't no kinda judgement on /nothin'/. We just wanted y'all t'have choices. T'know y'have choices, so y'can /make/ choices an' not be forced into a corner or nothin', it's..." Micah pushes away from the railing, fully up on his feet and closer to the pair, muscles tensing and unease growing with the pained expressions, the more violent movements. "Please." He has a hand each now, on Jax's arm and on Dusk's. "-- No --" comes out as a sharp pained yelp, Jax's hand abruptly overheating to a fierce burn-glow in time with a very unpleasant crackle-snap that does not sound like anything good. He slides very deliberately /forward/ off the railing to keep from toppling /back/ off the balcony, paler and unsteady when he lands on his feet, leaning back against the rail and biting down on his lip as the glow and heat subside. His hand has jerked reflexively away from Dusk's, cradled protectively against his chest. "Dusk, honey-honey, we." His voice is more than a little shaky. Unconsciously, he's edging closer to his husband, leaning up against Micah just a little more. "-- can't even begin to imagine. How hard a question -- an' I ain't pretendin' to. I ain't pretendin' to know an' I ain't here to judge on you or moralize. We just. Don't want you to feel like you're trapped in this." Dusk drops Jax's hand abruptly, stepping back quick with his wings starting to spread like he's about to take flight. His eyes have widened, a look of horror in his expression as his fist moves to circle his heart. "Ohgod. Oh god, I -- I didn't -- I didn't --" He turns aside, pressing his palms to his eyes. "{Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.}" His wings pull back in as his shoulders sag. "What choices are they going to have?" His voice is softer, a little ragged, a little scared. "They'll be fucked from the go. Are you really -- is that really. Something that you're. Ready to -- /again/?" At Jax's yelp, Micah's arms move in opposing fashion: one to push Dusk away from his husband, the other to pull Jax to him. He folds his husband in against him, his body positioned between the other two men. Not fleeing, not fighting, but /damned/ protective in his stance. "Sugar, are you okay? We need t'get your hand taken care of?" he whispers in his husband's ear, though keeping his voice low is hard just now. The fact that Jax still seems capable of participating in the conversation and standing on his own feet is somewhat reassuring. Somewhat. He turns to regard Dusk, though he doesn't release Jax or shift from using himself as a physical barrier. "Dusk...I can't /begin/ to imagine where you are right now. How impossibly hard this is. But we've seen...goodness, with the twins? They couldn't've /gotten/ a worse start. But they're still /goin'/. Still livin'. It's...we been talkin' an' thinkin' on this ever since y'told us 'bout the egg. An' if it's what you an Isra want? We can do this. We /want/ to do this. We can at least offer that child a much more lovin' an' supportive childhood than the twins ever had." Jax shakes his head at Micah's question -- though it's a little ambivalent if the 'no' is to 'are you okay' or to if his hand needs taking care of. Not helpful. He's still cradling the hand against his chest. Still leaning up against Micah. Still gone a little bit unhealthily pale. "We ain't. Sayin' this without. A whole /whole/ whole. Lotta thought. It's just -- it's just an option. S'jus' an option. S'jus' y'all got options. If you -- want. We know ain't none'a this never gonna be easy. But jus' -- know. We love you an'. We want t'be supportive. Of alla you." Dusk's wings stay pressed tight to his shoulders and /he/ presses back against the far end of the balcony rail, backed away from Jax as he turns to face the other men again. He wraps his arms against his chest, hugging tight. "Is your hand -- did I -- you should go. Find Joshua -- get that. Please. You should --" His eyes are bright, a little glisteny. "I don't know what's best. I -- we were going to kill it. I -- /want/ them to have a chance. I just. This world -- /we/ definitely can't. Give them. That chance. But if you --" His fingers curl, hard, against the thick knit of his sweater. "I'll. Talk to Isra." Jax's pallor and stumbling speech aren't reassuring Micah in the least. "Honey, I'm... Apologies, I know this is so...it's all hard an' it's all complicated an'..." He frowns /impressively/, holding Jax up tighter, closer, more supportive of his weight. "I hate t'leave you here alone just now...but. Yeah. Gotta see if Joshua's around. The hand don't look good. We'll get it fixed. An' then I can come back. If y'need t'talk or. Just have someone close or... But...this needs fixin' now." Perhaps it is rude to drop a huge bomb like this and run off, but...possible broken hand here. Priorities. "We'll do this. We love you," he reiterates in parting, ushering Jax out in the direction of Healer. "I don't -- is Joshua even home I don't -- know if he's. Sorry, I'm fine, it just hurts a little." Jax shakes his head, standing up straighter. "Talk t'her. That'd be good. Then maybe we can -- can all talk, I don't know. Whatever y'all decide is -- is. Best. An' like I said it ain't -- we jus' love you, okay? That's all." He leans up against his husband, biting down on his lip as they head back to the house. Dusk quiets. His eyes follow them back inside. He turns back to the balcony, his own hands shaky as his elbows prop against the railing, fingers raking through his hair as he resumes the same slumped posture he'd had upon arrival.