ArchivedLogs:Mistakes

Mistakes
Dramatis Personae Doug, Jackson, Spencer, The Borg
In Absentia	2014-03-28 '
Location <WES> Shop Rite - Salem Center
Small but serviceable, this grocery store has catered to Salem Center's populace since the days when it was simply called the General Store. It has come a long way since then, for better or worse, shelves liberally stocked with foodstuffs both fresh and processed. Leaning heavily towards the latter, admittedly, save for on Fridays, when a local Farmer's Market sets up shop in the back lot, bringing a wealth of local produce to the community. It has been a pleasant enough day, temperatures climbing up into the 50s even though the grey cloudiness makes it not /quite/ as pleasant as it might otherwise have been. The sun is set, though it's early enough in the evening to still be fairly warm out. Here in the aisles of the supermarket, Jackson is -- actually not readily identifiable, given his lack of /any/ of his trademark colour -- head shaved down to the pale-untattood scalp, piercings all /gone/, ink vanished from everywhere, even his scars missing to leave his skin /oddly/ unblemished for a man of his age. He's in a black canvas jacket over a Cooper Union tee, plain jeans, plain sneakers, a shopping basket draped over his arm as he meanders down the aisle of baking products. Who /is/ readily identifiable is Spencer, bright-eager-hyper as ever, bouncing along beside Jackson in bright hunter-orange jacket and jeans and a pair of Chucks that have had TARDISes recently painted onto their sides. "What about raspberry can you make raspberry brownies too?" "Mmm." Jackson is peering over the ingredients in a pack of chocolate chips. "I was thinkin' caramel -- y'like raspberry better?" "/Or/ caramel." Spencer is easy enough to please. Doug is also not easily recognizable in the aisles of the store. Unlike Jax, he still bears evidence of recent events in the nearly-healed cuts along the sides of his face and on his ear. It's also evident in the way he moves; a slow, shuffling pace that seems nearly zombie-like. Indeed, a couple of customers give him a somewhat wide berth as he passes them in the aisle. Dressed in jeans and a bulky grey SCHS sweatshirt, the blonde drags his feet (clad in grungy grey Converse high-tops) along the floor, occasionally looking into his basket, and up at the shelves. Spencer's bright voice and cheery appearance bring Doug up short, and he stares at the boy and his father for a long moment, faint recognition sparking in his eyes. It's almost like he's reminding himself to move when he steps forward in jerky movement, hefting his basket so that he can (slightly) pick up the pace. "Is that really you guys?" he asks when he's closer, inspecting each visually as if they might be clever forgeries somehow. The shuffling-slow walk also brings an /instinctive/-prickly awareness up in Jackson; it's likely he's barely even thinking about it as he shifts positions quietly to put himself between Spencer and the Approaching Shambler. "I could make caramel t'day an' raspberry later this week," he decides, dropping the chocolate chips into his basket. This answer /more/ than pleases Spencer, a wide grin lighting his face. "And citrus cookies?" "Sweetie, you expectin' me to do nothin' all weekend but bake for you?" Jackson asks with a laugh. "Maaaybe," Spencer answers, but then peers around Jackson at the sound of A Familiar Voice. "Is it us guys?" He seems puzzled at the question but this soon fades into just a bright: "Hi!" "Hm?" Jackson turns, one hand draping around Spencer's shoulders, but his face lights in a quick smile. "Oh, gosh. Doug, /hi/. Yeah, it's -- more or less us, how're you /doing/?" "Oh, my God," Doug says, his eyes suddenly bright as the identity of Jax and Spencer is confirmed. "Thank God." He takes another step forward, arms twitching as if he might attempt a hug, but instead drops his head into one hand and squeezes the bridge of his nose with his fingers. His shoulders shudder for a moment, and he holds up his basket in silent entreaty for a moment. He makes a deep, shuddery inhalation, and rubs at his eyes before he looks up again. "I didn't...I haven't heard anything about...." He frowns, and his eyes brighten again, but he inhales through his nose, and shakes his head, presumably at the question. "Been stuck recuperating at my folks...they don't tell me anything." He falls silent at that, his expression deeply ruminative for a moment. "Is everyone..." Spencer gets a worried glance, then Doug's looking up at Jackson, the question finishing in his eyes. "I died!" is the immediate answer Spencer gives to this, delivering this in a /very/ earnest tone though -- /part/ of him seems almost /excited/ to tell it. Jackson -- does not seem similarly excited by this proclamation, his hand tightening noticeably around Spencer's shoulders at the announcement. "Oh, gosh, I'm glad you're okay. All the folks that got shipped off t'/real/ hospitals, I ain't heard much'a --" He shakes his head quickly, a worried crease to his brows as he looks over Doug. "Oh /gosh/ that's right your folks is right -- right here that's. That's /good/, that's good, right? I mean, because then you got a place to /stay/ an' all an' that's -- it's been so hectic I'm glad -- that's some stability." Spencer's revelation might as well have been written on his fist and driven into Doug's gut, given the teenager's reaction. All the color drains from his face, and he sways noticeably before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He bends slightly to set his basket on the floor, wincing in pain as he shifts his weight. "You look like you got better," is his answer for the young boy, the humor not quite convincing -- neither is his grin, although it looks amiable enough. Straightening slowly, he tips his head at Jackson, and lifts a shoulder gingerly. "Yeah, we're actually across the road from your school," he confirms. "As to whether staying with my parents is /good/...." He rolls his eyes, and manages a tight, emotionless line. "My cats are gone." Which /might/ be pertinent. Maybe. "Doesn't really make it ideal." Jackson takes a step forward, reaching a hand to squeeze very /gently/ at Doug's shoulder. "No -- maybe not ideal," he agrees with a small wince. "I don't think there's anything ideal about this kind of -- anything. It's scary how much of life is just -- thrown /off/ but I'm still I think in the thankful-to-be-alive phase of aftermath. Can you stay there till you -- get back on your feet? Find a place? Somethin'? S'a whole lotta people as yet what don't even /have/ anywhere to go so -- stable's. Maybe not ideal but better'n. Nothin'." "Our cat, too," Spencer says with with his earnest look fading into just deep discomfort at this notion. "Just /gone/. And Alanna." He frowns, down at his sneakers, scooting just a little bit closer to Jax. "And Liam." Doug looks like he might have more to offer on cats, but Spencer's input about the other losses forces it away with a deeply troubled look, Under Jax's hand, his shoulder seems thinner than usual, and there's a definite defeated slump there. "I just...don't /understand/," he says, his voice breaking as it rises just the tiniest bit. "I'm still stuck at the..." he wrinkles his nose, considering for a moment. "It's hard," he summarizes, although he sounds like he knows he's preaching to the choir. "My folks say I can stay as long as I need," he answers the question, exhaling through his nose and furrowing his eyebrows. "Which is good, I guess...." He presses his lips together, and closes his eyes as he leans into Jax's space just a bit. When he leans forward to speak, his voice is a hoarse whisper. "I'm so /sorry/." The whisper draws Jackson forward another step, and his arm curls gently around Doug's back. He doesn't exactly squeeze the other man, his hug just a gentle brief pressure before he steps back. "It's -- it's hard," he agrees with a small frown. "And I don't -- really know. I mean they think it was at Ryan's apartment -- though that's /right/ across from mine so it coulda been either -- I just been feeling like I need t'apologize t'everyone for, um, /existin'/ in that -- building it just. Brings trouble --" His head shakes quickly. "Anyway I um. Don't really know how t'make sense'a this kinda thing." Spencer curls his arm around Jax, leaning in against his father's side. "Some people maybe suck," he summarizes helpfully. Doug shakes his head, closing his eyes again as Jax steps back. "No, I mean I'm /sorry/. I --" he frowns, his eyebrows folding nearly in half as he pulls them together. "I took...the cameras. Inside. Down." He waves a hand helplessly. "I was being stupid, and selfish, and stupid..." He inhales in a near-sob, and dops his head to stare at his shoes. "They could've /helped/. And now...." There's a gleam of wet that drops to splat against the grimy toe of his sneaker. "I'm so /sorry/. I'm just.../am/." Jackson just gives Doug a blank uncomprehending look at this apology. "Huh?" His brows crease in confusion. "Cameras? What? How is -- what you sorry -- I don't. Hm?" He sounds apologetic about this uncertainty. Doug takes a deep breath when Jackson doesn't understand, and he tries again, speaking to the floor in a ragged sort of voice. "I took the security cameras down...I was being stupid about --" he shakes his head. "I was being /stupid/. If they'd been up -- " He shakes his head slowly. "There might have been some kind of /warning/. Instead of..." he does sob, now, reaching up to rub at his eyes. "I'm so /stupid/. I should have known." < Borg > Someone has a sudden-sharp flare of anger, /too/-bright, /too/-colourful, searing in a starburst explosion of reds and oranges and painful-bright white. It doesn't come with words, just the familiar colourfulbright mental GLOW amped up to a /furious/ eleven. "You did what? I was /right/ across the hall from -- they would have /pinged me/ if --" Jackson's eye has widened, a brief ripple of light shivering brighter in the air around him. He drops his hand from Spencer's shoulder very abruptly. "The cameras you and Dusk put?" Spencer sounds confused. "I thought those were for security." "They /were/. If they'd -- /why/ did you --" The light is shivering brighter around Jackson again, and he takes a step back. Takes a slooow deep breath. His hand lifts, knuckles rubbing at his eye. He draws in another breath, then another; around him the unsteadiness of light calms. He opens his mouth to say something else, but then just closes it again, opening his eye to watch Doug with a look now more /bewildered/ than anything else. Maybe a little hurt in his confusion. "But -- why." < Borg > Someone thinks hug-thoughts at the angry thoughts. < Borg > Someone bristles reflexively with protective ferocity. < Borg > Someone cringes quietly, but wakes more to pay attention. < Borg > Someone flutters quiet-warm calm-thoughts that direction. < Borg > Someone flares painful-brighter for a moment, sharp-hot-furious, but then starts to subside at hug-thoughts and protective-thoughts and warm-thoughts. The too-bright-colourful grar slowly settles down with a cooling tick-tick-tick. Like counting backwards from a hundred. Or maybe a thousand. Maybe this is a backwards-from-one-thousand kind of night. Doug's crying only gets more pronounced (although thankfully, it's not /loud/) at Jackson's response, and when he looks up, his expression is twisted with guilt. "I'm so stupid," he murmurs, and he turns as if he's about to slowly flee. He even manages a step away from his basket. "I did it because...I am /selfish/. And /lonely/. And jealous of things I have no right to be jealous of." He scrubs tears from his cheeks, ignoring the way they're immediately replaced. "And now I've gotten people killed for it." He inhales in a deep (this time, loud) sob, and he begins shuffling away. "I'm so fucking /stupid/." He buries his face in his hand, shuffling towards the front of the store as fast as he can go. Which is admittedly very slow. Jackson is still quiet at first, his fingers tightening against his shopping basket. He takes another deep slow breath in-out. "Lone -- jea --" His confused sputtering trickles off, his eye scrunching tightly shut and his head bowing. "-- Doug --" This is softer, gentle even as he opens his eye again to fix it on the floor. "You couldn't -- possibly have --" Something twines thick-heavy and choked in his voice. "Whoever /set/ the bomb got people killed. Not you." < Borg > Someone wonders if they should get home earlier tonight. < Borg > Someone answers the anger with a fierce hot mental /grin/. << Fight Club tonight. Just. Y'know. If you need someone to PUNCH. >> < Borg > Someone has a quiet rumble of approval for this idea. << He does love fresh bruises. >> < Borg > Someone frets. << Is everyone okay? >> < Borg > Someone has cooled down into a swirling mess of greys and blues and deep-dark purples, a few stray wisps of white-hot light still flickering intermittently through like lightning flashes. It takes a moment before /words/ are actually put to this tangled mess of unhappy-discomfort. << Fine. I'm not punching anyone. >> < Borg > Someone seems vaguely disappointed by this. << -- But do you /want/ to? >> < Borg > Someone still frets. << No one is punching you, either? >> < Borg > Someone has a reflexive feeling of << (yes) >> in answer to this question, but takes a moment before it settles instead into: << Not physically, no. >> < Borg > Someone bristles protectively /more/, his /own/ anger rising in a growling-clenching spike of gnashing-teeth and lengthening claws. << Who? >> < Borg > Someone is still listening, eager to know what's going on. << What's going on? >> "I /should/ have known." Doug's not so far away yet that he can't hear Jackson. "That was the whole /point/ of those cameras, and I just..." he scrubs at his face again, and shakes his head. "If I hadn't been so stupid, we would have been warned. We would have /known/." He looks back over his shoulder, wiping his cheek as he does. "People will never forgive me. /I'll/ never forgive me. What a fucking /child/." He inhales another shaky sob-breath, and continues heading for the door. "If you need anything, let me know," he says dully, without looking back. "I need -- /want/ to make things right." Jackson shifts uncomfortably where he stands, taking a half-step forward to put himself again between Spencer and Doug. Spencer is -- lurking behind him, /decidedly/ uncomfortable with all this tension as well. "Forgive him for what?" he says up to Jax, but Jax just quiets him with a hand placed on the boy's shoulder again. He lifts his other arm, basket dropping into the crook of his elbow as he rubs at his temple with a wince. "Shh --" He for a moment seems to be irritably shushing someone -- /else/, though who it might be is anyone's guess. "Doug there's always a whole lotta /if/ an' you can't --" He hesitates, drawing a slow breath. "I mean, you can learn. But you can't change it so you may as well --" He swallows, hard. "Jus'. Do -- better movin' forward." < Borg > Someone is curling back up into a tighter knot of swirling dark colours, discomfited now. << Nothing. Apologies. I was startled. It's fine now. >> < Borg > Someone thinks more warm-hug calm-protective thoughts. < Borg > Someone also wishes to comfort and/or punch someone. Doug stops, at that, and he straightens ever so slightly before he slumps again. "Learn," he echoes. "Hell of a fucking lesson." He sighs, and looks over his shoulder again, the side of his mouth lifting briefly in a maybe-smile. "I hope I can do better," he says, resuming his shuffle. "God knows I've been shit so far." He lifts his hand, then. Could be a wave; it could be dismissive. It's too dull and unfocused to tell. "I'll talk to you later, maybe," he offers half-heartedly. "Like I said. If you need anything...." There's a visible flinch in the teenager's frame, and he /does/ hurry his shuffling to a pace more walk-like, and beelines for the front door. Apparently, groceries can wait. Jackson draws in a deep breath, just nodding a little numbly. "I'll talk to you later," he finally just agrees. "I'll -- be in touch. Doug take -- care." He watches the other man heading out before turning back towards the shelf of baking goods. His arm rests up against one of the shelves, weight slumping heavily into it. His hand lifts to press his palm hard against his mouth, dropping only when Spencer snakes his arms around Jax's waist. His breath catches with a very small hitch, and he turns to set his own grocery basket down, eye squeezing shut against as he just curls his arms tight around his son.