ArchivedLogs:Gainful Imprisonment

Gainful Imprisonment
Dramatis Personae Coulson, Jax
In Absentia	2016-05-16 "You -- want to pay me? For real?"
Location <NYC> S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters - Interview Room
The room is small, but nicely appointed. The walls are painted a neutral buff color, the furniture light-colored maplewood and upholstered in earth tones. Here and there, little splashes of brighter green trim and edging pop in unexpected places. There is the expected table and straight-backed chairs near the door, though there is a chess board built into the tabletop and neat drawers with chess and checkers pieces along the side. A brown L-shaped couch occupies one corner, bracketing an oval glass-topped coffee table with a matching armchair. Nearby, a sideboard supports an arcane computerized coffee machine as well as a simple pitcher of water on a tray with cups. A wide window admits ample natural light during the day and affords a view of the midtown skyline. All of this notwithstanding, the door locks from the outside and is always guarded. It's a bright and clear morning in New York City, only a few puffy white clouds dotting the brilliant blue sky that arches over the forest of glittering midtown skyscrapers. The sole occupant of the room sits at the table, taking up little space and looking somehow just a touch out of place in his old-fashioned black suit, though it's crisp, clean, and impeccably tailored. He's probably in his 40s (though it's hard to say for sure), white with heavily receding brown hair, reasonably fit, somewhat baby-faced. A sleek silver laptop sits open in front of him, but he isn't really attending to it. He fidgets instead, fingers drumming on the edge of the table and head bobbing slightly to some rhythm that only he can hear. The door opens, closes quietly again. Jackson looks, at least, /neater/ than he did when he was brought in -- if not all that much healthier. His beard has been cut down to a carefully trim goatee, hair still somewhat long around his ears but its pale pinkish ends clipped off -- he's still far too pale, though, still noticeably unsteady on his feet, a faint tremor of light quivering in the air around him. He hesitates at the entrance, hands folding behind his back as his bright blue eye settles on the other man with a faintly puzzled curiosity. The man in the suit stands a little too quickly and knocks into his chair, though he steadies it before it falls over. "Hola." He straightens his suit jacket, tugging down on it with both hands. "I'm Phil Coulson. We've actually met--well, it wasn't exactly..." He blushes slightly, he head dipping in almost apologetic fashion. "Ah, never mind, it isn't important. I'm the agent tasked with--well, I guess I'm your /warden/, effectively?" Blushing deeper, he straights his jacket /again./ "Have a seat, por favor." He gestures at the table and its chairs. "Would you like some coffee? Or water? I think the machine also makes chai lattes..." Jax's eye flicks -- from Coulson's jacket to the wobbling chair, to the jacket again, to the coffee machine. Back to the jacket. Then up to Coulson's face with a faintly startled widening. "We have?" His brows draw together, a little uncertainly. "Apologies, I don't --" His head shakes, and there's a moment more of hesitation before he crosses the room, steps slow and deliberate, sinking into a chair with a little bit of relief. "I -- {I'm okay, thank you.}" "Oh, it was years ago, and I was...in costume." Coulson hasn't stopped blushing. "It was in the art room, at Dragon Con. I commissioned some character portraits, which I'm sure you do all the time, and anyway--like I said, it's not important." Once Jax is seated, he follows suit, re-situating his chair with excessive care. "So ah, how are you feeling? And are the facilities adequate? I'm not trying to pretend you're willing guests here, except--" He frowns. "--except in that you...wouldn't still be here if you really wanted out. But I mean that--" He shakes his head and, reaching over, closes the laptop, pushing aside. "Well. Since you /are/ here, I would like to accomodate your needs to the best of our abilities. Agent Lang told me you'd mentioned a desire to help out in the kitchen?" "/Dragon*Con/? You --" A deep blush floods Jax's cheeks, a quick smile suddenly flitting across his face as he looks Coulson over again. "Oh! Oh. My /art/. You got my... oh." There's a slight easing to the tension of his posture, a faint note of laughter in his voice. "Well. I got actual blankets on my bed an' my body ain't shuttin' down no more an' y'all ain't keepin' me alone in a plastic box twenty-three hours a day so that's. Somethin'." The small twitch of his smile crooks -- lopsided, but a little touch wider, at this last question. "I am fair handy in the kitchen. An' your cooks could use the help." Coulson perks up a little, running his fingers over the edge of the table. "Oh, yes, I love the portrait you drew of my Paladin, Sir Elior. I mean, my Pathfinder character." Then with a hint of pride. "I've played him for over a decade now." At Jax's explanation of his improved condition, he bites his lower lip. His fingers twine together, then pull apart. "I--oh, that's... Right. Something. I'm--lo siento. I realize you are still unwell, and if we can make any adjustments to facilitate your recovery, please let us know. That's...as much a consideration for our people's safety as your own, or Mister Black's." This last admission comes out a little reluctantly. "And I do apologize for the state of our cafeteria's vegan menu, you've not been the first to notice it's a little bland! If you feel well enough to be working, we can certainly arrange for you to do some shifts in the kitchen, and pay you accordingly. What...do you think would be fair compensation?" He looks rather embarassed, glancing at the laptop briefly. "I looked up how inmates in Federal prisons are paid and--well, that's. Slavery. And I would not like to emulate that." "Woah. That's a long campaign. M'glad you liked it. Makes me happy when I can bring people's characters to life well. Somethin' kinda special about it. What'd you dress up as? My family an' I always have so much fun with costumes there --" Jax cuts off with a deeper blush and a small duck of his head, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck. His tongue pokes at the corner of his lower lip, shoulders sagging slightly at the empty dimple it encounters there. "Oh -- oh, well. I mean, I'll -- be seein' my doctor soon, that's -- that's something'. I been. Tryin'. My hardest. To keep -- balanced. While I -- while everything -- gets kind of. Back. In --" He shrugs, a little more listlessly than his previous energy. His brows raise, though, quicker, at the mention of compensation. "You -- want to pay me?" This sounds slightly incredulous. "For real? Huh." "Old Sir Elior has traveled from campaign to campaign over the years, but my latest one /has/ been going for almost three years." Coulson's shoulders square and he seems to sit that much taller when he recounts this particular accomplishment. But then he's blushing quite fiercely again. "Oh! That day I was uh..." His fingers lace and unlace on the table. "...Captain America." He spreads his hands out now, palms down, a placating gesture. "Oh, I wasn't suggesting otherwise! But if it'd be helpful, we can give you more full-spectrum lamps. And you don't have to have a visitor to use this room, either--it gets plenty of sun." He blinks at Jax a few times. "Yes. It would be pretty /rude/ to joke about something like that. If you're going to work for us, however bizarre the circumstances and in however limited a capacity, we should pay you a living wage." He folds his hands again, subsiding. "I hope you don't think I'm trying to patronize you or win your approval. It's just.../fair./ Or as close as I can manage, under the circumstances" Jax's mouth opens, then closes again, his hand lifting to cover it briefly. "-- Oh." And then he's quiet, brows knitting as he listens to Coulson. "In all honesty," he finally answers, quietly, "I don't know quite what to think of y'all." His hands rest on the table, fingers lacing together. Unlacing, relacing. "But I like staying busy -- staying useful. An' the food /could/ use improving. An' I know I --" He hesitates only a brief moment, a deeper flush of colour in his cheeks. "-- ain't the only one who'd appreciate improving it." He gives a small shrug. "So it'd be nice to have something productive to do with my time. Certainly wouldn't say no to getting paid while I'm at it. Still got kids to take care of." Coulson seems to have finally mastered his embarassment. "We're an organization meant to protect people," he replies, finally. "The specific scope of our mission is so new we're still feeling out /how/ to do that, but fundamentally, S.H.I.E.L.D. is made up of people who want to do good. I guess everyone thinks that about themselves, though." He offers this with a faint tightening of shoulders that isn't quite a shrug. "Like all watchers, we need watching. That's -- really why we need him, you know. Cap." He hesitates a moment, the adds (it doesn't feel like an /amendment,/ as such), "Steve." Then, with a bit of his previous enthusiasm. "/He'd/ appreciate it, certainly -- he hasn't said anything but I know he's avoiding animal products." And there's the blush again. "Anyhow, you've had a lot of visitors and many more yet to come, and I'm probably not high on the list of people you'd like to see!" He rises, straightening his jacket yet again. "I'll get an email to you and Mr. Black by the end of the day with details on work and such. Feel free to send me a message if you have any questions, or ask any of the agents on guard duty to relay them to me." Here he stops, stands still for a moment, then offers his hand, somewhat hesitantly. "Think a lot of people need him." Jax's voice has shifted quieter, a little gentler. Around him, the air itself tinges just faintly pink. He stands, too -- a little unsteadily at first, though his posture is impeccably straight, and reaches to clasp Coulson's hand in his own (mangled) (scarred) (quite uncomfortably warm) one, shaking brief and firm. "Gracias. I'll let you know."