ArchivedLogs:Re-exposure

Re-exposure
Dramatis Personae Jax, Steve
In Absentia	2017-02-04 "Oh, I'm /fair/ sure I'm the one contaminatin' you, on balance."
Location <NYC> S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters - Jax & Ryan's Cell
This looks rather like a hotel room, capacious but extremely bland in color and decoration. The walls are eggshell white and immaculate, interrupted here and there with framed abstract art (mostly just uninspired blocks of color). The furniture is all in pairs, made of an easy-to-clean pale wood veneer. Two twin beds sit side-by-side, each with its own blocky nightstand and its own long-necked reading lamp. One corner is occupied by two desks with flat-screened computer workstations and shaded desk lamps. A long closet with mirrored doors is set into the wall, and recessed lights overhead provide ample illumination despite the lack of windows. The attached bathroom is covered in pale blue tiles and has two wash basins as well as a bathtub. It's not actually all that late by the standards of midtown on a Saturday night. The streets are still full of revelers who have migrated from the theatres and comedy shows to the myriad bars and cafes, or just drawn like moths to the light and motion of Times Square. But S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters is still and dark, with only a subdued skeleton on on the premise. Even so, there's a polite but insistent knock at Jax and Ryan's door. On the outside, Steve is leaning against the doorframe as though too tired to hold himself up. The lock panel beside the door blinks green, showing the door is unlocked, but he does not open it. His clothes are practical and rumbled, navy blue peacoat over blue-and-green tartan flannel shirt, much-mended blue jeans, and scuffed combat boots. His shield is slung only over one shoulder. He reeks of whisky and, more faintly, of tear gas. He knocks again, more firmly than before. For a long stretch there's quiet from behind the door. After a time, though, Jax's heavy drawl lifts, mildly bemused: "S'open, I'd presume. Ain't like /we/ can lock it." Behind the door, the room is dark, lamps and lighting all switched off and its lack of windows leaving it plunged into a rather complete darkness. What light comes in from the hallway illuminates the cell impeccably tidy. Ryan's bed is, for once, crisply made; his guitar case stands propped against his nightstand. On Jax's desk a large paper is unfurled, half-finished painting stretched across it though murky and unclear in the shadows of the room. Jax himself is lying atop his (also made-up) bed, dressed in black and red wide (wide-wide) leg jeans and a sleeveless red fishnet top, hands tucked beneath his mop of shaggy hair (currently black, its tips flame-hued in ombre shades of red and gold.) Steve opens the door and slips inside, moving with altogether more coordination and confidence than his posture suggests he ought to have. "Didn't want to come in without your say-so." His voice is slightly hoarse, as from overuse. For a moment he just stands in the doorway, backlit, hesitant. Then he closes the door behind him, plunging them into darkness again. Yet he finds his way unerringly to Jax's bed in the pitch darkness and sits down beside it on the floor. "Did I wake you? I can go, if you'd prefer. I just --" He is very still. " -- I was just in this part of town and...I missed you." His tone is dull and wooden until the last three words, which waver a bit as he speaks them. "Oh. Right. My -- consent." In the darkness, there's a faint shakiness to Jax's breathing. More audible in the considerable pause between his words before he continues -- mildly (mildly!) concerned: "You smell like --" A beat. "Tear gas." Steve's head thuds down onto his arms, which rest across his knees. "Yeah. There was some of that earlier." He pauses, licking his lips. "Anti-Registration protest. Marched all afternoon. Folks didn't want to go home." Another pause, longer. "No injuries or arrests that I saw." Slowly rolling onto his knees, he turns around to face Jax, whom he surely cannot see with unaugmented eyes. "I read your letter. A lot of people did." "But /tear/ gas where did they deploy it? Are you okay? Are people okay? That stuff gets into the subways -- into the /tunnels/ -- it can ruin people's breathing for weeks." The worry in Jax's voice is clearly audible. The faint strain to his breathing is only augmented by the Fret. "Do you need a shower?" There's a quiet creak of bedsprings as he starts to push himself up -- just as quickly sinks back down. "Not my best work. I been tired." He /sounds/ more tired, here. Heavier. "Did the trick well enough though, I guess, judging by the death threats fillin' my inbox." "Brooklyn Bridge." The hitch in Steve's voice might be an aborted laugh or an aborted cough. "We shut it down for a while. Pepper spray was too slow, I guess. Gas is scarier. Folks dispersed after a few rounds of those." He lifts a hand and settles it on Jax's shoulder -- he does have to feel around for it -- as the other man sinks back down. "It did the trick, judging by the turnout I've been seeing. On both sides." A long pause. "I should probably shower, at some point. Didn't seem urgent, but other people are more sensitive to this stuff than I am..." He draws his hand back, slowly. "Shut down the Brooklyn Bridge?" For the briefest moment, a spark of excitement lightens Jax's voice. His shoulder -- a little trembling, a lot less warm than usual -- presses gently up into Steve's touch. "That's fantastic. I hope there's footage. An' you should shower. You don't want to carry that around with -- I mean, 'specially back home there's..." He trails off, swallowing. Then draws a sharp hitch of breath -- reflexively his hand moves to catch at Steve's, letting it go again momentarily with an awkwardly mumbled apology. "Oh, there's footage." The crooked smile is audible in Steve's voice. "Should be all over the news, if the media has any sense at all, but lately they've been even more picky than usual, reporting on protests. Not just the mutant ones, either. But with all the phones and drones were out there, there's plenty of footage. I'll pick through and retweet a good video later." His hand wraps around Jax's -- gently, but he holds on. "I haven't been home. Folks kept buying me drinks. I was probably re-exposing them." His shoulder hunch. His hand tightens around Jax's. "I should. Yes. Lo siento." But he's not actually moving away, either. "I guess with enough drinks in /them/ maybe they didn't notice the burnin' so much." Jax's grip on Steve's hand is tighter, strong and fierce. "Right. Right. Guess I should. Let you go then. I got spare towels over in the closet." Though his hand is squeezing every bit as hard. "People have hope, and determination." Steve's voice drops lower, quavers. "Burns stronger than any chemical weapon or alcohol." He swallows hard. "That's -- very helpful, yeah. Merci." But his grip only tightens to match Jax's. His hand tugs the other man up toward him. "Do people still got those things, out there? Everything's been so..." Jax trails off, uncertain. He's slow , unsteady, when Steve pulls him up. Kind of shaky to rise, kind of heavy when he does lean in against the other man, forehead pressing to Steve's. Not fumbling or searching, despite the darkness. "I always miss you." This last is barely audible. Steve nods, slowly and yet somehow jerkily, against Jax's forehead. "The anger and terror and despair is more obvious but yeah. There's hope and determination out there." His other hand cups Jax's cheek, slides around to the back of his head, though the hold is loose, careful. "I'm contaminating you," he murmurs. Tips the other man's head back ever so slightly, ever so gently. A tremor runs up Jax's spine in quick shiver, his breath hitching briefly. His hand falls to Steve's side, fingers curling in tight against the other man's jacket. Pulling kind of insistently closer. Soft again: "Oh, I'm /fair/ sure I'm the one contaminatin' you, on balance. But if that's a risk you're willin' to take --" Steve exhales slowly and shakily, offering no resistance to Jax's pull. His fingers curl in against the back of Jax's head, twining in his hair. "I am," he concedes, "a Gryffindor." Presses their lips together. Stifles a soft, breathy noise deep in his throat, his whole body tensing and then relaxing against Jax.