ArchivedLogs:Definitely Vacation

Definitely Vacation
Hopefully with better energy-whatsits.
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah	21 May 2013 Everything is horrible?
Location <NYC> 303 {Holland} - 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 bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the 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. 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. Jackson's apartment, Tuesday night, is quiet. Spencer has been put to bed, Sprite is napping in a beanbag. Jax is cleaning. The bathroom looks spotless, the living room looks spotless; he's currently removed all the grates from the stove and is scrubbing one of them in the sink. He's dressed rather blander than his usual. Lightweight black pants that look like they were built for hiking. A grey Xavier's tee. Scrubscrubscrub/scrub/. /Clickthunk/, says the lock in the front door, by way of quietly announcing Micah’s arrival. The slim young man’s form slips through the door a moment later. He is dressed, as he is wont, in rainbow-patched jeans and a T-shirt, this one a faded black bearing a stick figure proclaiming ‘Stand back I’m going to try Science!’ His torso leans back against the door to close it, locking it again without the need to look at his hand’s perfunctory actions. Micah watches Jax as he pulls off his shoes at the door. “Uh-oh. You’re scrubbin’ things,” he observes with a tinge of concern in his voice. "They -- were dirty," Jackson informs Micah, a bit of an edge to his voice. "I mean there was stuff /seared/ on like -- turned into /charcoal/ now --" The edge doesn't carry through to his smile, quick and warm as he glances up, leans against the sink so that he can peer out over the dividing wall and towards the front door. "Are you -- I mean hi! I mean how are -- you." “Hrm,” serves as Micah’s response, his eyebrows dipping little bows to one another. He wanders into he kitchen, polkadot-socked feet padding quietly. “I’m fine. Just finished gettin’ things together for fittin’ durin’ clinic tomorrow.” He rests a hand on Jax’s shoulder, brushing a soft kiss just at the corner of the other man’s lips. Not interrupting the scrubbing, because once /scrubbing/ starts, well… Sometimes it is best not to interrupt. “More to the point, how are /you/?” Jackson is scrubby. SCRUB. Kind of fiercely attacking a stubborn bit of burned-on who-knows-what. He leans back just slightly into Micah's touch, tilting his head to answer the kiss with another. The metal in his lip rings is hot, warmed with the uncomfortably high heat of his body. "I'm -- clinic tomorrow," he repeats, and nods. "Right. Good. Um. Good. I'm -- cleaning." He sets the grate aside on the empty drying rack, starting in on the next. "I don't know," he admits, "ask me tomorrow. Micah, um." He frowns down at his hands, but then just keeps scrubbing. "I love you." Micah presses himself softly against Jax, present but carefully not inhibiting his movement. “Not good. But I understand the cleanin’.” He tilts his head to better observe Jax’s expressions…at least expressions-in-profile. “Is…somethin’ happenin’ tomorrow?” Concern mode has flipped the switch for full-on /worry/ at this point. “I love you, too.” The hand on Jax’s shoulder squeezes gently. "We found the kids. Well, I didn't but -- they -- the kids. Are. Found." Jackson keeps scrubbing. "You ever been to Georgia?" Micah’s eyes widen into hazel /saucers/ at this sudden announcement. “Jax! They found…where? What are…?” He manages to strangle a never-ending series of questions where they are forming in his throat, when he realises that Jax is not looking /excited/ at this. His mouth occupies itself with answering the question instead, though the curiosity is almost /painful/. “No. I ain’t been a lotta places at all.” "We should go. Home. -- My home. For a -- for a break. Quiet. Ride horses. The mountains in spring are pretty much gorgeous." Jackson is still scrubbing, but then he sets the grate back down in the sink. His hands just rest under the stream of hot water. "They're --" He frowns down at his hands. "In -- Chinatown." This is not the most informative, and yet it is the piece of information that he gives. He shuts the water off, shaking his hands out into the sink. "-- What kind of memories does your van have?" he asks, kind of abruptly. "That sounds nice... Once the boys're..." Micah makes a face at 'Chinatown'. What? "Are they okay?" So, he can't help but let another question slip through. The need to know is /burning/. Jax does a good job of distracting with perplexing questions, though! "Lucille? She's got...there are security cameras? Because of all the /stuff/. Is that...what you mean...memory?" "No -- I mean like." Jackson's brows furrow. "Like. The things she's seen. Things that have happened in her. Do you think she's -- /happy/." He wipes his hands dry against his shirt, and turns around to lean back against the counter to face Micah. His hands still wring at his shirt even once they are dried, restless. "They're -- alive. I -- think." This explanation has not fixed Micah’s confused-face. “Um…mostly. A lot of work? Singin’. Drivin’. Phone calls. Readin’. Sleepin’. Just /me/ really, except…hrm. Ran over Tag. That was more the AT-AT’s fault, though. Lucille missed him.” This is a /bizarre/ conversation. Then Jax says ‘alive’ and Micah just wraps his arms around him and /squeezes/ tight. “Oh…oh. What do we do now?” "There was a person here. The other day. Who -- feels things? Memories. Feelings. In objects. My apartment was -- pretty much too painful for her to even be in, I --" Jackson tips his head forward against Micah's shoulder. In Micah's arms he is tense-stiff, no less so when he lifts his hands to curl them into Micah's shirt. "... I always think of my home as kinda a happy place but I -- guess it really ain't. Just. A lot of pain packed into --" His shoulder lifts and falls jerkily. "Go get 'em. Gonna be kind of a -- I think there's a lot of others. With 'em. Gonna have to --" He trails off uncertainly for a moment. "Gonna have to do something." It takes Micah a second to get the gist of what happened before he responds. “No…no. It /is/ happy! A lot of the time, but, I’m guessin’ all o’ those injured folks you were keepin’ here had a whole lot of trauma. Physical an’ mental an’…energy-whatsits that psychic people pick up.” He pulls Jax closer again, then has to tilt his head a bit awkwardly to look the other man in the eye. “I’m happy here,” he adds. If that helps. “Gotta get ‘em. Is this…like when you ‘got’ all those folks before?” "Do you think it stays?" Jax drops a hand to his side, and then a little back, fingers tracing against the countertop. Slowly. "I mean, she's -- real /attuned/ to it, but do you think all that energy -- stays. Here. Everywhere. Places just kind of soaking up the things that happen in 'em." His other hand just clenches tighter, bunching Micah's shirt into a fist. "Good," he offers in a quieter whisper. "I want you to be --" His eye squeezes shut, then open again. "Maybe. No. I mean, yeah. I mean -- no. It'll -- there'll be a lot of people I think but -- it's not -- an organization like --" His teeth clench. There's a quiet /grinding/ noise. "... they have 'em in cages. Like dogs. Set to /fight/ each other. Sell tickets, take /bets/. Have a fun night /out/ watching mutant kids kill each other." His voice is oddly calm, with the telling of this. “I dunno, Jax. I don’t even know how any of that /works/. Maybe it’s like…mental time-travel. Stuff ain’t here, but psychic-person’s mind is /there/, kinda. I couldn’t say.” Micah frowns, realising that wasn’t exactly reassuring. “You wanna burn some sage or somethin’?” Because that’s what people do for energy-whatsits, right? Micah’s only answer to Jax finally explaining what is going on is…a sound. Like someone punched him in the stomach. He stands gripping Jax tightly, just figuring out how to breathe. “That /has/ to be illegal,” he finally spits out, gravelly-voiced. ‘Illegal’ is probably the kindest word he could have used with that tone. “Would the police help?” This -- earns a /laugh/. It's kind of breathless, kind of ragged-edged, and Jax squeezes Micah tighter. "... I /have/ some sage," he admits, because he is Kind Of A Hippie, "but not the -- actually maybe it's at Ryan's." FROWN. Not that he doesn't have a key it may as /well/ be at his place. "... D'you want some. Tea? Coffee. Drink. Something." His nose wrinkles. "Maybe a liquor." Possibly to fortify him for the rest of this answer: "The cops are the ones running the thing." Micah chuckles in return. It is a sort of broken-hysterical sounding chuckle, but there it is. “I could go ask there, if y’really want it now. An’ I don’t need anythin’. Unless it makes you feel better t’be gettin’ it.” There is another little strangled-noise in answer to the cop comment. Jax could possibly win an award for the most times Micah has been rendered speechless in a single conversation. When he finally manages to speak again, it is with readily apparent frustration. “It…/argh/. This is so far beyond Internal Affairs already, isn’t it?” "This is so far beyond --" Jackson's head just tips forward again, forehead resting against Micah's shoulder. His breathing is shaky. His touch is slowly creeping from uncomfortably hot towards painfully hot. "An' people wonder why I don't trust --" He swallows, his hand trembling against Micah's back. "We're going. To. Get them. But I. Micah, I." This breaks off, too, into another swallow. "The /cops/." That same ragged-edged laughter is audible in these words. “What do… I mean how…?” Micah can’t seem to pick a question. If Jax’s temperature is causing him any discomfort, he’s good at not showing /that/, at least. He finally lets his breath out in a great rush, as if he had been holding it. “Is there /anything/ I can do?” he finally settles on, his voice kind of small and pathetic. "... actually." There's another laugh here, no steadier than the ones before. Maybe a little more manic. "-- Actually yeah. There's. Going to be a lot of people. Who need to get away. Having a /vehicle/ is pretty much like a superpower around here. If. If Lucille doesn't mind making -- a few unpleasant memories." His grip on Micah tightens. "... and if you don't mind, um. It's. It might be. It could get. It /should/ be OK but these things can get. Dangerous." “I can drive if y’need me, yeah. Prob’ly I might oughta rent a van, though. Need space for if there’s a lot,” the thought of /a lot/ makes Micah wince, “of people. Less recognisable if y’need t’be harder t’find.” He bites down hard on his own lip for a second, then smiles wryly. “I’ll make sure to buy the insurance on the rental, then.” "I -- think there's -- probably. A lot. They --" Jackson swallows. "Kill them. Pretty frequently it sounds like. In the fights or." His head shakes. "Gotta have a good number if they're OK with killing off the ones they --" His head lifts, then bonks down again against Micah's shoulder. "We'll," he promises Micah, "try to make sure the rental pulls through aright. Who knows. It might quick. Clean." His shoulders tremble in -- another quiet laugh. There's a fierce glow spreading through his skin, bright white-hot rather than the soft warm backlit glow that grows when he is /happy/. "-- What're they going to do, though. If you're. Recognizable. /Arrest/ us. For kidnapping maybe." Micah looks a little sick…again. He doesn’t say a word through all the talk of killing. “I don’t even know…I’ve never tried to steal people from an illegal police operation before,” he replies through giggles. Fractured, ridiculous giggles. “Hey. Jax. Y’hafta…not. Catch on fire.” Micah gives the best advice! He finally releases his death-grip on Jax to turn on the cold water tap, letting it run to cool for a bit. He holds his hand under the cold water, then rubs the damp hand over Jax’s arms. This process is repeated a few times, if it seems helpful. For a moment Jax actually brightens, hotter and fiercer, at the cold touch. But then he sinks back against the counter, exhaling slowly as Micah's hand runs against his arm. The light starts to fade, slowly dimming, slowly growing less hot. "Chinatown's a nightmare for parking," he tells Micah with a crooked /grin/. "They'll probably. Ticket you." Micah’s answering grin is still sort of strange, a shade of mixed-up, as he continues to stroke at one of Jax’s arms. “Hm…I’ll have to find an appropriate /loadin’/ zone, then. People loadin’.” He twists the spigot back off before wrapping still slightly-damp hands behind Jax’s neck. “I think it’s worth a few tickets, either way.” "If they do give you one, you should contest it. Like to see the cop who shows up to try and defend that'n." Jackson's head tips forward, slightly, shifting to press his neck up into the cool touch. His hands lift, fingers curling against Micah's arms. "After this. /Vacation/." “Yessir.” Micah nuzzles his /face/ into Jax’s shoulder. Thank you, this /is/ quite comfortable. His voice is understandably muffled when it surfaces again. “Definitely vacation.”