ArchivedLogs:A Little Quiet

A Little Quiet
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah, Ion
In Absentia	27 November 2013 Some food prep and some chatting with friends. (Also, warning: more adult-themed toward the end.) (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. Even with a scattered influx of refugees, the Lofts is quieter, these days, than its usual. No loud parties from the students up in 507, no trumpet practice at odd hours from the woman in 211, no Geekhaus game nights or drunken yelling from the couple down the hall. At the moment, though, Lighthaus has music, Shakira playing from Jax's laptop in the kitchen. "Ciega, Sordomuda" currently, which Jax is humming along with and intermittently interjecting what few words of the Spanish he remembers. He is at work at the moment turning newly acquired groceries into casserole, chopping scallions while bouncing along to the music. His clothes are brightly cheerful as well, black and purple and blue star-dotted 'believe in faeries' t-shirt and sky blue UFOs and glittery purple nails and makeup. Also at the moment, the door opens to admit a Micah towing an empty handcart back from deliveries of goods to some of the other apartments in the building. “You makin' Jim-squash?” serves as a greeting since he hasn't been gone long. Micah's auburn hair is about its typical level of tousled messiness. He's dressed in a Batsignal hoodie, worn open over his chocolate-brown Firefly dinosaur T-shirt and a faded pair of jeans. The cart gives a little squeak of protest as it is collapsed and tucked away in a corner so that Micah can go peeking over Jax's shoulder at food-in-progress. “Need help with anythin'?” Ion does not live here, certainly. He's not an /unusual/ face in good times, keeping in touch with the other Prometheans, but the small apocalypse has kept him largely busy since Harlem. He also certainly does not have a key, and yet! Here he is pushing the stairwell door open with a THUD of one hand against it and striding down the hall towards Jax and Micah's apartment. He is still dressed kind of like there is an apocalypse, but then, he /often/ is; dark jeans and sturdy (new! pricey! though they've already picked up a coating of blood on their soles) black boots and his Mutant Mongrels kutte with its fangy skull-and-crossed lightning bolts design worn over a thicker denim jacket against the cold. He has a crowbar in one hand but he's swinging it lazily to tap against a boot, his bright smile not particularly indicative of any recent or upcoming violence. "Oy, Cyborg, hold the door? Tell me," he adds hopefully, "that you have some food in here, the roads are seven kinds of nightmare I don't want to have to go all the way back up north." "The squash is just gettin' roasted," Jax answers lightly, "you wanna chop me some broccoli? There's, uh, a lot an' it's all gettin' --" He tips his head back to peck Micah on the cheek but it is Ion's greeting more than the kiss that derails his thought. "Who's the -- oh s'you, hi! Um this ain't food /yet/ but s'gonna be." He leans over the counter to peer towards Ion with more careful scrutiny than other times might warrant. "How you been holdin' up?" Micah returns Jax's kiss and is about to reply to the request when Ion calls out. “Ohgosh, I just let the door slam on Ion.” He disengages rapidly to push the door open once more for the new arrival. “Hey, Ion, hon. S'good t'see you. Y'can...leave shoes an' oversize weapons at the door.” He gestures to the stack of shoes by the door. “Jax's cookin' a thing. You're welcome t'join once it's food. I'm gonna chop. So choppy.” The redhead closes the door and traipses back into the kitchen, trailing his fingers along the small of Jax's back before retrieving the broccoli. He might be humming Dana Carvey's 'Choppin' Broccoli' song. Just a little. The opening door finds no Ion there anymore; faced with the closed door and not overly burdened by any surplus of /manners/, he's simply vanished to reappear with a faint pop just inside by a living room wall. "-- shoes, right, lo siento -- the rain did do a little to clean some of the muck from the streets but ah only a little." He crouches to unlace his boots, and returns Jax's scrutiny in equal measure. "I'm alive, sunshine. Hard to /catch/, see? You both pulled thr -- where are your boys?" he asks them with sudden cautious suspicion. "Wh--oooah uh wow hi wha -- did I know you could -- how /did/ you just --" Jax's knife is set down on his cutting board so that he can lean even farther over the counter, equal parts startled and impressed. "Boys're all fine an' whole. Out at the twins' school. Weren't untouched there but it was safer. An' your crew?" Micah just shakes his head at the teleportation antics. “Apparently he's a blinkin' teleporter. Not like Spence or Flicker, though.” He sets about his chopping task with practiced half-attention. “Boys're okay, yeah. We been stayin' out at the school, mostly, through the quarantine. Since I couldn't work an' Spence's school ain't been open no-how.” Jax's question earns a nod in agreement. “How /are/ your folks?” Ion sets his boots neatly against the wall, resting his crowbar up beside them. "Zombies eating everyone," he muses, wandering the perimeter of the room with fingers trailing lightly against the wall, "whole of {the city} falling to pieces and your home is still immaculate, is this a mutation? Second mutation? Maybe yours?" He looks to Micah with brows raised. His smile is brighter than ever at Jax's surprise. "Surely you -- no, I forget you do not /actually/ know everyone. I don't," he corrects, crouching down at the far side of the room and then vanishing to reappear by the kitchen table, "teleport. I only travel, yeah?" He leans back against the wall, legs crossing and thumbs hooking into his pockets. "Oh -- oh that's /good/ to hear. Good boys, you have. My people --" He shrugs a shoulder. "We were not really sitting so comfortably before anyway, yeah? Not such a difference now. Been bloody. This world always is. A few we lost. More we didn't." Jax's eye widens, his own smile quick and bright to match Ion's. "/Showoff/," he accuses teasingly, "that looked pretty teleporty t'me though." He finally picks his knife back up to finish chopping his scallions. His cheeks flush darker, gaze skipping around the room as he tips the scallions off into a large mixing bowl. "Whole town's a terrible mess, it don't gotta be in here too. -- Y'wanna jus' toss those in here when you're through, honey-honey?" He nudges the bowl closer to Micah and starts to open cans of chickpeas. "-- Guess the world often is that. M'--" He wrinkles up his nose. "Wish it'd give y'a break now an' then." Micah chuckles, shaking his head. “S--” He circles a fist over his heart, then starts over. “No mutations here. Mostly's Jax directin' nervous energy at cleanin'.” Once the bowl is nearer, Micah slides the chopped broccoli into it using the dull side of the knife, making room to chop the last remaining crown. “It /does/ look pretty teleporty. Prob'ly more fancy, though.” He smiles over at Ion as he finishes his chopping. “Wish it'd give everybody a break now an' then. Need some more downtime between crises.” The remaining vegetables find their way into the bowl. "I tell you what, angel," Ion answers Micah, "when I find myself a break I will pass it on to you, yeah? I would not know what to /do/ with downs-time if I had it anyway. Probably go crazy, being honest with you. You live long enough time in crisis mode you forget /how/ to live like a person again." A fact that he doesn't seem to be /lamenting/, he says it with the same grin he's been wearing. “And sol, you are the last person who can speak on anyone else showing off, what you do kind of, /defines/ flashy." "Ain't teleporty then what is it?" Jax's brows knit together, and he turns a frown on Ion briefly. "S'kinda what I worry on. Like all this'll just always feel like normal forever. Folks don't work so hard to change normal." He drains the cans of chickpeas into the sink and tips them into the bowl, too. His blush deepens, brilliantly red. "Ain't like I'm flashy on /pur/ -- well, ok. Sometimes I'm flashy on purpose." “Sure wouldn't mind the extra, but you guys could prob'ly use the breathin' room, too. From time t'time.” Micah leans against the counter now that his task is completed. He doesn't stay there long, slipping an arm loosely around Jax's waist. “S'got a point, though, hon. You're just about /always/ the prettiest one in the room. Whether or not you're bein' flashy.” Ion just shrugs, stepping forward to pluck a raw floret of broccoli from the bowl and crunch down into it. "I breathe better when I'm moving. Forget I'm alive if things aren't kind of /shaking/ up around me." He props elbows on the counter, eyes skipping over the other two. "You might have a bias there, maybe," he supplies with eyes twinkling, "though he's not all wrong, any given flock you do always have the brightest plumage." "Sharks get like that." Jackson makes this comment with a small smile. He leans into Micah's side, pulling the bowl close to start mashing its ingredients together with some breadcrumbs and vegetable broth. His blush isn't getting any /better/. "Think you do got yourself a bias there, honey-honey, you seen some'a our friends, I wouldn't catch no eyes in comparison 'cept the ones are kinda freaked out. -- Do tend towards /bright/ though, I'll give y'that. Though with /Tag/ 'round, not even always brightest." He tips his head up to squint at Ion as he mashes. "... what would normal life even look like for you? I ain't never knowed you since nothin' but chaos. Not sure I even got a clue what your baseline /is/. Or -- actually even how old y'are or where y'done come from or nothin'." “Movin's one thing. I like keepin' movin'. Lately's gone a little above an' beyond keepin' challenged an' busy, though.” Micah shakes his head, though he smiles at Ion's ingredient-theft. “Just call 'em like I see 'em,” he argues, only partly-playful. He comes up close against Jax, nuzzling into the space at the juncture of the illusionist's neck and shoulder. “Best'n brightest /and/ prettiest. Y'always catch /my/ eyes. Even if they're no-good bias-eyes.” His fingers stroke against Jax's belly, though he does throw some attention Ion's way at the list of questions, curious about some of the answers himself. "Well. Not sure I would always want the zombies around," Ion acknowledges with a crooked smile. "Is a bit much." His eyes follow the path of Micah's hand, watching where fingers stroke belly. His weight sinks down more heavily onto his elbows, and he shakes his head quickly. "Maybe chaos /is/ my baseline, sunshine." His hand lifts, fingers rubbing together with a small crackle of sparks skipping from fingertip to fingertip. "Went live one day and never /stopped/, those labs were the longest time I /stayed/ put in my life. Even back home in Argentina, mi familia, we didn't do /settled/ so well." His fingers flick against his leather vest. "Was born to the road, I think." He glances over the other two men again, and turns his hand up questioningly. "Where is your normal, then? Before zombies you," he indicates both of them with a small wave, "were what, bringing supplies to criminals and breaking freaks out of government custody, don't tell me /you'd/ be happy in quiet." "Far from home," Jax says, frowning slightly, "did they pick you up /in/ Argentina?" This notion looks like it troubles him. Though not enough, currently, to distract from his quiet happy sigh at the tummy-rubbing, a brief glow shimmering in the air around them. "Your eyes is beautiful eyes. Even /if/ they're biased." He doesn't seem particularly upset about said bias, though, his smile warm and pleased. "You've been on your own since you manifested?" His teeth dig down against his lip. "I -- would be happy in quiet. In," he admits, "a vacuum. I don't think this world yet makes it real easy t'be comfortable restin'." “Prob'ly had more quiet in my life than...the rest of y'all combined,” Micah admits with a faint blush. “I mean, aside from all the medical stuff as a kid...it was all farm, school, auto shop, an' odd jobs. Then graduated an' it was more school an' jobs. Then graduated again an' it was work actually in the field an' then...started work on my own an' came up here. Not an overly interestin' story.” His hand continues its rubbing, arm just a little tighter where it encircles Jax's waist. “Have gotten a lot more creative with m'downtime since I got t'New York, I guess. Just been a lot of folks needin' help up this way.” "Right. But that was then. You tell me with what you know now, you would just --" Ion snaps his fingers together once quickly. "Go back. To quiet. Cuz I tell you what, even if you find yourself some downtime, there's going to be a hundred more people just out your door clawing to find some themselves." He reaches back over to nab another piece of broccoli. "I mean, you sure didn't /have/ to be there for us in Harlem. If I had to guess --" He points his broccoli floret at Jax. "I'd bet people like you aren't going to /let/ yourselves have quiet so long as things are shitty out there." He shrugs at Jax's question. "Didn't pick me up in Argentina, no. I kind of, /accidentally/ jumped -- lots of borders actually. Couldn't really control the travelling so well. Got nabbed by immigration in California. Was /happy/ about it, really, I thought they'd get me back to my folks. Ended up in those labs instead." Jax clicks his tongue against his teeth disapprovingly at Ion's continued theft, though he mostly just looks amused. He takes the bowl back to mix in more seasoning and then press the whole mixture into casserole pans. "Don't need chaos t'be interestin'. I /like/ hearin' stories like yours. Reminds me of how things could be again." He grins crookedly at Ion. "-- If we work at it. You're prob'ly right. It'd take a much different world out there 'fore we'd actually settle into quiet." He turns to pop the pans into the oven. There's a frown on his face when he turns back around. "How long's it been since you spoke with your folks, then? I mean, do they know --" He gestures vaguely at Ion. “No, I just meant that...quiet can be nice. When situations allow for it. Not that I think we should ignore everythin' goin' on just t'have it. Though it's worth takin' a few minutes for catchin' your breath between crises so y'don't go completely insane.” Micah frowns slightly at Ion's story. “Ohgosh that had t'be extra scary, bein' so far from home an' then all of that stuff happenin'. I know it's pretty terrifyin' when Spence accidentally bounces 'imself random places. I don't even wanna think...” He cuts himself off with a shudder, fingers gripping into Jax's shirt. “Might get your fingers bitten if y'keep nabbin' the food 'fore it's done, though,” he replies with a deliberately lightened tone. Ion shrugs again. "I was -- twelve? Thirteen? I don't know, six or seven years I guess. They didn't have a /phone/ I couldn't --" Another shrug; for a moment he looks troubled, but it passes soon into a new quick smile. "Long while back anyhow. Maybe you should put a /tracking/ chip in Spencer, /can/ be kind of disorientating just waking up somewhere new. And I can't help it," he wiggles fingers towards the food as it disappears into the oven, "/fresh/ vegetables, that's a treat. Does he bite?" he asks Micah, "Can't say that would not be a treat too." Jackson pales slightly at Ion's words, stopping to set the oven timer but then just curling his arm around Micah. He holds the other man close, biting down on his lower lip. "You're only nineteen?" he asks first, and then, "-- You jus' -- I mean if you just vanished, your parents, they -- don't know? They never knowed?" His gaze briefly shifts towards Spencer's bedroom door, his hand rubbing slowly at Micah's side. It is testament to how distressing this thought is that the subsequent question only barely dusts his cheeks with a faint trace of pink. "I don't -- often -- wait that question don't really need a answer did it." “Oh...I'm so--mmn. We heard so many of these stories but it don't never...it's always horrible.” Micah nods at Ion's...suggestion, following Jax's gaze to Spence's room. “We've actually talked about somethin' like that before. We mostly end up trackin' folks’ phones when they take off for whatever reason.” He squeezes Jax closer when he wraps that arm around him. “Veggies are as fresh as possible. Squash actually came from the garden upstairs.” He manages a little grin at Jax's almost-answer. “Um...actually, only sometimes. I tend to be the bitey one t'be honest.” "Nineteen. Guess so." Ion nods at this, after a moment of thought. His teeth bare in another easy grin: "Pah. Big family. Vagrants anyway. They probably figured I moved on, yeah, why worry them." His shoulders tighten up. He follows the path of Jax's gaze, but then just looks back to the other men. "Is different for you. You know his deal, you know how to look." The grin sharpens when Micah clarifies. "Ah, but you weren't the one running this kitchen. So my fingers are safe, then." He pops his stolen broccoli into his mouth and leans back against the counter. Jackson exhales slowly, leaning into Micah's side. "'cuz if they loved you, they'd /want/ to know --" he starts, but trails off with a deeper blush. "M'so -- t'ain't my business, I just --" He glances towards Spencer's door again. And squeezes Micah that much closer. Another deep breath calms him enough for his blush to spread, deeper and redder. "Your fingers're fine. He only bites with /love/. There's other things'n teeth for punishment." “Everybody mixed up in this stuff seems t'be so /young/.” Micah wraps his other arm around Jax as well, offering more support. “If they was wanderin' 'round that much...would y'even know where t'start lookin' t'contact 'em if y'wanted to?” He leaves the topic alone there, as well, not wanting to push it. His lips curl upward at Jax's suggestion. “Sure we can find a good, solid wooden spoon t'rap your knuckles with if it comes down to it.” Ion's smile twists a little crookedly, his eyes lowering from the other men to the counter. "They loved me, sunshine," he agrees, more softly than his usual, "and that's why it would kill them to know all of this." It never takes long, though, for his smile to even back out, bright and amused. "Knuckles, I'm sure you could find somewhere more fun than that. -- Oh /ho/, speaking of biting, I should ah --" He gestures up towards the ceiling. "Make sure Dusk has some dinner before I steal some of /yours/, I swear I did not /only/ come here to mooch." Jax's brows furrow more deeply, a brief swirl of shadow darkening the air around him. But he nods, detaching an arm from Micah so that he can step forward and give Ion a fierce if one-armed hug. "Oh, good, s'always good when there's more people can look t'him, too. An' y'can mooch any time, honey-honey. Ain't hardly rich but I /am/ Southern an' that means don't none'a my friends gotta go hungry long's there's food still on /my/ table." “More /fun/ than that sounds like more of an after-dinner kinda activity than a way t'protect the broccoli,” Micah observes through a smirk. He finally succumbs to the rash of blushing, red spreading across the bridge of his nose, as well. “Though, yeah, Dusk's the champion biter around...pretty much everywhere. You're more'n welcome t'eat here, honey. We just been teasin' 'bout the veggies. Welcome in general, but the way things've been lately? Ain't no such thing as moochin'. Y'share what y'got when y'got it in this kinda crisis.” He steps forward to pat at Ion's back. “Let Dusk know he's welcome t'come down here for dinner after...food.” Touching Ion comes with a small zap, kind of /permanently/ static-charged, but he wraps his arms around Jax to pull the artist into a tight bearhug that lifts the other man briefly off his feet before setting Jax back down. Micah gets the same treatment next, minus the zapping. "Yeah?" His eyes flick over the others. "What're you doing after dinner, then?" Not that he waits for an answer, actually. Just flashes them a grin and rests his hand against an outlet over the counter an instant before vanishing. "I --" Now Jackson's blush is furious; he scrubs at his cheek like that will get rid of it, and then presses his knuckles to his lips to stifle a laugh once Ion has disappeared. "Oh. Oh /gosh/." Micah giggles at being /picked up/ by the other man, somehow not expecting it even after Jax was just lifted right next to him. “Oh um...” The question earns another bout of giggles, the red claiming the tips of Micah's ears and the back of his neck. “That's a handy way of gettin' 'round.” Jackson moves up behind Micah to wrap his arms around the other man from behind, pressing a kiss to the back of Micah's neck. "He's -- got a lotta energ -- oh gosh I didn't even mean that pun," he says with a laugh, resting his forehead against Micah's neck. "Just. Blushin' or no blushin', there's some folks it's hard not t'smile around." Micah leans back into Jax, head tipping forward at the kiss. “Well, it's just a real apt observation,” he chuckles. “An', yeah, he's a real good guy. Did a whole lotta work with 'im at the church in Harlem. Was a good energy t'have around a bad situation.” Jax nuzzles into Micah's neck, lips brushing there again. His hands slip beneath the other man's shirt, fingertips brushing up against Micah's stomach. "S'good. Go through enough terrible, sometimes it can be hard t'keep smilin'. Can be hard t'keep /other/ folks smilin'. Figure we need as much'a /that/ as we can get." His hands press flat against Micah's belly. "Though it don't help he's adorable too. Or -- is that don't hurt? M'pretty sure he was jus' tryin' to make us blush." “Oh...mmn.” Micah melts against Jax with the kiss and the touch, twisting his arms behind him to brush his hands along the small of the other man's back. “Sure can be. He's an asset.” He turns his head to return kisses to Jax's jawline. “Pretty sure he was...not that I'd /mind/ if he asks again later. 'Cause, yeah. Adorable an' then some.” His fingers slip under the hem of Jax's shirt, nails scratching lightly against his skin. “You sure keep me smilin' a whole lot.” Jackson is smiling, at least, warm and wide at those kisses. He shivers, nestling back up against Micah at the scratch of nails. "Oh-h-h." His breath shivers out, too, warm against Micah's neck, and he presses his lips the next time to Micah's. His hands slide down to dip fingertips beneath the waistband of Micah's jeans. "Y'know, there's a /bit/ on the clock 'fore I gotta take these casseroles out. Don't /gotta/ wait till after dinner t'keep you smilin'." Micah's lips are certainly curled upward, between kisses. “Smilin' already, but I sure ain't gonna argue any other plans y'might have on the matter.” He turns around for better access to wrap his arms around Jax, his hands slipping back into place for a firmer plying of nails. “Could have a couple thoughts, m'self.” Turning around comes with a deeper kiss, lingering, as Jax works open the fly of Micah's jeans. His breath catches, muscles tensing beneath Micah's nails. "Think I had some," he murmurs, "but you're kinda chasin' thoughts straight outta my head." One of Micah's hands reaches up to twine fingers into Jax's hair, returning the kiss hungrily. “Oh, that's a shame. Shouldn't be wastin' those kinda thoughts.” Another kiss at the angle of Jax's jaw leads Micah's mouth down to nibble at his neck. “Might could be we should take whatever timer you're usin' for the dinner back into the bedroom...” Jax tips his head back with a soft happy sigh. His hands slide down, pushing Micah's jeans just slightly downwards as his fingers curl around the other man's hips. "Might could --" Though he turns his head slightly to look back at the oven clock, counting down. "-- but movin' the oven'd take so much more work than you jus' fuckin' me right here." Micah's teeth bite in harder at the tipping of Jax's chin. His body presses tight up against the other man's as Jax grabs at his hips. “Phone's got a timer. S'better than tryin' to move the oven. Won't work so well once the plug comes outta the wall. An' might spill all the food.” He pushes Jax back against the counter, pressing a fierce kiss to his lips. “But here is good, too.”