ArchivedLogs:Breaking Silence

From X-Men: rEvolution
Breaking Silence
Dramatis Personae

Jackson, Shane

2013-12-06


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Location

<NYC> The Sharktank - Village Lofts - East Village


Everything in this bedroom comes in pairs. Two beds (pushed together to the center of the room to form one larger one), two desks, two bookshelves, two dressers, two closets. The walls hold a scattering of artwork in Jax's typically whimsical-surreal style.

The right side of the room is impeccably tidy; desk neatly arranged: often a laptop or a nook, but otherwise cleared off, everything tucked in its drawers save for a small arrangement of textbooks and music books and little colourful glass figurines or pale bone sculptures on its upper shelves. Closet neatly in order, clothing (favouring pinstripes, vests, slacks) pressed and hung, shoes on a shoe tree inside the door. Books on the shelf neatly categorized.

The left side of the room is a riotous spill of colour, bright eclectic wardrobe (lots of skirts and dresses and clothing with many bright patterns) haphazardly thrown together; desk cluttered with books and notes and an assortment of bones, its shelves also holding little glass or bone sculptures, though this alongside a wealth of mechanical parts or small robots in various states of completion. The floor here tends towards clutter; more robot-parts, clothing, treacherous Legos lying in wait for unsuspecting feet.

After falling asleep curled up in the beanbag alongside Micah, Shane might probably have gotten more sleep than his father did. Either of his fathers, really, with Jax also on night shift. But by the time Jax /returns/, at least, he's moved from his beanbag chair and disappeared back into his room during the general flurry of morningtime getting-ready-for-the-day.

Jax looks very faintly harried as he returns from the clinic, slipping off his shoes and heading straight to knock on Shane's door, three quick raps. "Shane, you comin' to class, pup? Got like -- five minutes, or I'mm'a be late."

The door opens, just a crack. One enormous solid-black eye peers out. "I thought you went straight from Io to --" The eye narrows. "Did you come home just because of me?"

"I usually go straight from Io to school, yes," Jackson informs Shane evenly. "I asked Alec if he could relieve me early so that I'd have time to come pick you up. If you're coming. Five minutes, okay?" He doesn't wait for an answer; he turns to disappear into the bathroom instead.

The door closes again in silence. But five minutes later, there is a Shane, dressed in vest and dress shirt and pinstriped slacks, pulling his peacoat on by the door and getting on his shoes. There's a strip of jerky hanging half-eaten from his mouth and he's chewing on this as he slips on his creepers.

"Thank you." Jackson is still dressing -- in that his makeup hasn't settled into any proper colour, and beneath his unzipped rainbow hoodie his t-shirt is still making up its mind what it wants to be, too. He's traded out his skirt for tight black skinny jeans, liberally adorned with zippers and straps hanging off their silver D-rings. He tugs on his boots quickly, black knee-highs that he zips up the sides hastily. He tugs his jacket out of the closet, his keys off a magnetic strip by the front door where they have been hanging, his messenger bag, and heads out. A borrowed Zipcar, as it often is when he doesn't just /steal/ Ryan's Stark electric roadster.

Shane grabs his backpack and heads out after Jax. He's quiet on the walk to the car and quiet as he buckles himself into the front seat. "You disappeared after dinner." It's not accusatory, just curious.

Jax's jaw tightens, faintly. His makeup vanishes, still undecided, though the lingering sparkly deep-blue nailpolish remaining suggests that this is a /genuine/ addition. Bodyguarding someone while they work and sleep tends to come with a looot of downtime. His fingers tighten on the wheel as he gets onto the road. "Student had a 'mergency. It was handled, they're safe."

Shane nods. There's no small measure of /concern/ in the look he gives to Jax, but he says nothing. His head thunks down against the window, eyes focusing outward. His gills flutter slowly at the side of his neck, claws prickling down at his pants. "Safe." He echoes this word soft and curious. Then more staring. It takes a while for him to break his silence again. "I just wanted to help."

Jackson is content to be silent as long as Shane is. He focuses out on the road, fingers drumming restlessly at the steering wheel. He flicks a quick glance sideways to Shane when the boy speaks. "I know." His fingers tighten on the wheel again. "But sometimes you jus' kinda rush headlong into things without even stoppin' to think. If that's what Chelsea wants, we'll help. But want to make sure that happens in a way that's safe an' not gonna hurt no /more/. I mean, maybe it'd be like Eric an' be totally a hundred percent fine. But we gotta stop an' talk long enough to be /sure/'a that, y'know?"

Shane's jaw tightens this time. He watches the road and not Jax, the buildings passing along outside. "I don't usually know how to help. You guys always save fucking everybody and I can't even help --" His gills flutter faster.

"You /can/ help, honey-honey. Jus' -- a little bit slower, take time t'learn all the facts /first/ an' then figure out what route'd be best -- I ain't no ways sayin' you shouldn't try an' do what you can. Just --" Jax's brows furrow faintly. He leaves one hand on the wheel, his other reaching over to brush fingertips down against Shane's neck.

"I /know/." Shane sounds irritated with this sharp snap of words. "I fucking /know/, okay, I just. Hfff." His breath hisses out, shaky until his gills calm under Jax's fingers. "It wasn't about her," he admits unhappily. "Fuck, no, I mean, I want to help her /too/. But I --"

Jax's glance flicks sideways again. He continues brushing at Shane's gills until he moves his hand back to the steering wheel to merge onto highway, head turning away to keep an eye on the road as he does. Then -- just quiet, watching Shane again for a quick moment.

"B's going to kill himself." Shane sounds heavy and tired at this. "I mean -- shit don't freak out it's not like. Not like /now/ not like he's been saying -- but if the fucking world doesn't kill him first he's going to. Some day. He wants to claw his own fucking skin off -- some days he /tries/. How the fuck am I supposed to help that, Pa? If someone's just. Just /wrong/, if they just feel /wrong/ in their own body I can't /change/ him and and I can't make the world treat him better. Her I could -- help at least. Be more how she wanted." His voice is hitching again, although tis time his gills are lying flat.

It is only by a narrow scrape that that first sentence doesn't trigger /their/ deaths, too; Jax's fingers tighten hard, his foot pressing down by some unconscious reflex on the brakes like maybe they'll just make the whole /world/ stop.

They make the car stop instead, of course, right on the highway; behind them there's a loud blare of horn as another car swerves into the next lane to avoid collision. "-- Ohno sor -- oh." Jax catches his breath as he speeds back up, the muscles tense in his arm. "OK. Right." It takes another few breaths before he's calm enough -- either from Shane's words or from their near accident -- to speak.

"You can't change him. But you can still help. Help be support for him so he's always got a place he's loved even when the world's terrible. Help him know how beautiful he is so's maybe one day he'll start thinkin' the same. Help," Jackson says with a small crooked smile, "change the world -- that one's way slower, but we can work on it. An', honey-honey, I think you help him jus' by bein' /you/. You wear the same skin he does an' /you/ got so much joy in you an' so much pride in who you are. Can help him see just by livin' your life that it don't gotta be a curse."

'Ohfuck.' This is mouthed rather than said aloud; Shane's gills are abruptly fluttering far too much for him to /take/ enough air to speak. His hand clings down tight against his door handle, his eyes wide as they snap back to the road. He releases the door handle, expelling a hard breath when they continue on without dying. "{Sorry. Fuck. Sorry}," he offers in breathless Vietnamese.

While Jax is quiet, he takes the time to catch his own breath; he turns his head to watch his father quietly when Jax speaks. His eyes shine too-bright, gills starting to open and close again. "I try," he whispers.

Jax doesn't answer for a bit. He's very focused on steering the car in non-fatal manners. Once he's hit a stretch of smooth driving he finally allows himself a look over at Shane. His own breath catches for a moment, with it. He moves one hand back over, brushing slowly down against Shane's gills once more. Then lifting, to slowly trace his thumb against the boy's cheek. "You do so much more'n just try, angel."

Shane turns his head, cheek pressing against Jax's hand as tears streak down his face. He mashes his face up against Jax's palm, eyes closing. He stays like this for as long as it's safe, only moving whenever Jax needs his hand for driving purposes again.

He doesn't say more. He switches on the radio, scanning through it until he finds a Latin music station. He glances over to Jax briefly, thoughtful, and then leans down to open up his backpack, dragging out his history textbook to make an /extremely/ eleventh hour push into his homework.

A small curl of smile pulls at Jax's lips at the homework, late though it may be. He quietly drums his fingers along with the radio. And drives.