ArchivedLogs:Financial Sense

Financial Sense
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah, Sebastian	26 March 2014 Practical matters. (Soon followed by warm advice.)
Location <XS> Art Room – FL2
Smells of paints and chalks and turpentine mingle freely in this room, well-used, well-stocked. Natural light flows in, plentiful through the large windows. The long counter-like tables are speckled with spots of color, and half finished projects often stand on easels or propped in corners. The many cupboards lining the walls are crammed full of art supplies. It's after dinnertime, now, and though some people are likely still lingering in the dining hall Jackson has been up here for a while. He /has/ eaten, just -- hastily, grabbed food, made sure Spencer got himself a plate, though he wolfed his own meal down and ducked back out while Spence was still happily downstairs pestering Taylor and Karrie and Daiki over /their/ meals. He has, now, ensconced himself in the art room, an easel set up with an incipient painting on it, still in the pale base-layers of colour that make it hard to tell where it will be going. He's not using borrowed school-paints and brushes for his own work but a fresh new set of much higher quality ones only recently purchased to begin the process of replacing his extensive library of supplies. There's colour in the air around him, shifting hazily through shades of greens and blues, but /he/ himself just looks washed-out. No makeup, no ink, no piercings, not much /colour/ to his pale skin. He's in plain blue jeans and a Cooper Union tee, plain black eyepatch, leaning back against a table and /staring/ at his canvas with narrowed eye as though it has displeased him. Micah is just getting in from work at this hour, easily betrayed by the smell of heated thermoplastics clinging to his mussed hair and his work clothes: new discount-store khakis and TARDIS-blue polo shirt recently purchased to replace his mostly-destroyed collection. Lime green velcro fuzz clings here and there to the front of his shirt. He must have stopped by their guest suite before heading down to the art room in search of Jackson, as his usual messenger bag and assortment of winter gear is nowhere in sight. He leans against the wall by the door when he enters, just watching, not wanting to interrupt Jax's work. Jackson doesn't move, when the door opens, though the colourful haze of light in the room does shift. It pales, slightly, spreading through the room further and then contracting back inwards. His palette still balances on his hand languidly, though at the moment his other hand is empty, just resting braced against the table he leans on, his brushes resting on a holder near at hand. Though his back is to the door and he doesn't shift his gaze from his canvas, he relaxes, humming soft and quiet. "Hey, honey-honey." Slowly the colours fade from the room entirely. "S'still dinner left downstairs, sweetie. Want I should grab you a plate 'fore it's cold?" “Hey, hon.” Micah smiles a little tiredly, moving closer to run a hand along Jax's spine in greeting. “If you're workin', I can go. Would be a little silly of me t'interrupt you /paintin'/ t'talk about what I was thinkin' t'talk about.” He shakes his head at the offer of fetching food. “If they're finished up 'fore I get there, I'll just grab a sandwich on the way back out t'the van.” He leans in to place a kiss to Jax's cheek. “Y'should get back t'what y'were doin'.” "I'm not workin'," Jackson assures Micah, with a small shake of his head. "M'starin' at dryin' paint an' plannin' where s'goin' next. But -- i /jus'/ finished that layer, ain't gonna /be/ dry for days now so." He hitches up a shoulder in a shrug, setting his palette down behind him and sliding his arm around Micah's waist. "Gotta shelve this painting till I /can/ work on it again. Right now m'jus' frettin' till it sets." He turns his head, brushing a small kiss to the side of Micah's neck in return. "Y'sure? S'good food -- wait, what's it you wanted to talk about?" He /frowns/, though: "An' sure you don't want to talk about it with food in you?" "Ah, that stage again. What d'you do when you're oil paintin' on a deadline? Have three dif'rent works at dif'rent stages an' just swap out between 'em when the others are settin' up?" Micah's arms wrap around Jax at the assurance his isn't interrupting, pulling him in nuzzling-close. "Y'need more time t'work on your paintin' an' schoolwork if you're gonna get back on track t'finish the semester. Y'should really cut down some of your work hours...just 'til the semester's done." "Yeah, pretty much." Jackson sounds a little wry at this thought. "I /like/ to just focus on one or two at a time because then I don't have to recalibrate my brain so much but when I'm really on a time crunch I've worked four at once before. Don't actually /sleep/ much doin' that but --" But then, he's not actually sleeping now /anyway/. He exhales happily, nestling into Micah's arms in quiet relaxation. At least until the subject of work is broached; a faint shiver of tension runs up his spine, but he just squeezes Micah a little bit tighter. "Oh, gosh, honey. That -- would be nice I jus' don't know how we could afford the time off." "We can do it. I've been startin' t'pick up more work hours already. An' with the consultin' fees from Stark, I weren't doin' too shabby t'begin with. Business's actually been growin' /lucrative/ since I crossed over t'makin' any profit, an' that was before I'd even been runnin' a full year. Well...with the one slump for the whole plague thing, but other than that." Micah's arms stay snugly-wrapped around Jax through the shiver. "Just keep a little busier. Turn alla my volunteer hours into productive /work/ hours 'til we can afford me volunteerin' again. An' I can take out some pretty hefty loans if it comes to it. Profitable small business with growth potential in a growth industry...I'm a /real/ good investment on paper, at least." His fingertips trace up along the back of Jax's neck. "We can do this." "Micah --" Jackson hesitates, drawing in a breath. "You weren't doin' too shabby but we weren't exactly /rich/ even /before/ our whole house got blowed up. An' we've got a whole /house/ to build an' pay the mortgage on. That's on /top/ of replacin' /everything/ we own. I think you're -- bein' a /little/ bit optimistic about what we can afford to cut back on right /exactly/ this minute. I mean, if we'd been havin' this conversation /before/ the explosion --" He chuffs out a brief laugh, tired and slightly wry: "-- Well, okay, then I wouldn't /need/ the extra time t'begin with. But also we'd be in a more stable place to be even /thinkin'/ about cuttin' my work hours." "Honey, y'think I don't know? I been the one handlin' our finances since we got married. I know what we gotta handle. An'...we can honestly wait on replacin' a lotta things. /Can't/ even replace 'em 'til the Commons opens up. But even with that...I'm fine with doin' milk crates an' sleepin' bags for awhile if it means you can actually /finish/ with school. I've done the livin' in a van thing t'get finances straight before; it ain't as bad as people make it sound. Plus insurance should kick in for a fair bit of it once it gets itself straightened out. An' this project y'been workin' so hard on, hon..." Micah pulls back a little so that he can look at Jax while he talks. "It's only gonna be /more/ expensive if y'have t'repeat this semester, in the long run. That's what the loans'll be for. T'supplement in the meantime. You /gotta/ be able t'have somethin' for /you/ sometime, sugar. Let me do this." Jackson frowns, pulling back to lean against the table again, hand braced on the table again. "Micah, this is just like -- the worst possible time to -- we got so much gettin' back on track to do an' that's /with/ --" He shivers again, though this time it is a different sort of tension entirely. "We got a /trio/ of raids loomin' on the real near horizon that I don't even begin to know how we're gonna handle. An' the Commons -- have you been /feelin'/ Hive's frettin'? There's gonna be a whole bunch of people /out/ homes if it don't get completed on time an' -- an' it /won't/ if we start fallin' behind on --" His other hand lifts to dig its heel in against his eye. "It just -- /after/ all that stuff got sorted is the time t'cut back on workin', not before. Not with a lotta people countin' on us to get everything /done/ like it needs." Micah leaves a hand on Jax's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Honey, if there's one thing I can do, it's operate a budget. Even a patchwork budget made mostly outta loan money. If I can get this all worked out on paper for you t'cut back hours an' we still aren't even a second late on our regular bills, will you work with me? Please? I just...you /more than/ deserve t'have this. I want you t'have it an'...it ain't your /fault/ our home done burned down at an incredibly inconvenient moment. I mean...not that it's ever convenient, but..." He chews on his lower lip a bit. "I know I can work it for this. The raid fundin'...is another matter. But that /ain't/ solely your responsibility, honey. We can do some fundraisin', maybe? Not...in the name of raids, but in the name of helpin' homeless mutants, since that /is/ what we're doin' in the end. An' I'm sure Lucien'll be willin' t'help bankroll the Rescue Matt effort." Taking in a deep breath and letting it puff out slowly, Micah comes at the next suggestion delicately. "An'...are there still funds left unclaimed from that...cop fightin' ring? 'Cause it's been a long time now, honey. I can't think of much more poetic use for it than turnin' the unclaimed monies into a fund for /rescuin'/ other kidnapped mutants. Sure sounds better than lettin' it sit there an' givin' it an' uncomfortable look-over from time t'time." "It ain't just Matt. I mean there's /his/ facility an' there's the /two/ that Hive an' Luci tracked down to bust me an' Dusk outta jail an' we known about those months an' just /let/ them keep torturin' folks in there an' we can't just let them /sit/ and stew in there forever because /I/ wanted to finish /school/ a little bit faster." Jackson lifts his hand to scrub -- no, he /has/ no hair, his fingers just scuff against smooth head with nothing there to /grip/ and he drops his hand again, muscles tense and the lights around him shivering. "It /ain't/ my fault, no. But that don't change that we still got a /whole/ lot needs doin', Micah, an' we /don't/ got a whole lot to work with an' now you're askin' me to work with even less so that -- what. I don't even know why I'm still /botherin'/ with this stupid degree except I started it so it feels expected now. What's anyone ever done with an art degree, that ain't gonna help /nothin'/ worthwhile I do in my life." His eye opens a little bit wider at the mention of the Thunderdome money: "An' /that/ money is not -- even remotely in any ways mine I am /so/ not /using/ it to /bail/ myself out of this. 'Cuz you can spin it how you like but dippin' into those funds now that's what it'd be /doin'/. An' I just -- none of this is /worth/ some stupid piece of paper says I can paint. Maybe I won't never finish. Wouldn't be that big a loss." "I know 'bout all three of 'em, honey. I know. We ain't /just/ been waitin' 'cause it's expensive. Folks've been gettin' a little...shot an' blown up an' full of tumours an'... We've got /things/ that need dealin' with /too/. An' it takes time t'do those raids right so don't everybody just end up dead." Micah's eyebrows knit together tightly. "Ain't nobody remotely sayin' that you're just sittin' 'round wastin' time. Or suggestin' that y'do. You started school for a /reason/, didn't you? Y'wanted it for somethin'. You've worked /so hard/ an' dedicated /so/ much time an' now you're in the /last/ semester an' you're gonna give up? What in the world kinda example does that set for Shane? We got a hard enough time tryin' t'convince him to try for /anythin'/. What's it say when even you, with all the support that all of us try t'give, can't even get the thing y'been wantin' an' workin' toward done when y'were /this close/ to it? /You/ mean somethin', too, Jax. /You're/ important." Micah's hand drops and he takes several steps back, his expression looking obviously /hurt/. "How could you /say/ that? That I'd suggest we take that money for ourselves? It ain't...remotely. I wouldn't. Not /ever/. Not even /think/ it. I'm just sayin' that /maybe/ 'stead of puttin' ourselves in debt pourin' money we don't have into the rescue missions. We could use money that /does/ exist, that you've ended up in control of whether you like it or /not/, t'/help/ people. What good does it do sittin' there? It honours the memory of the people who ain't there t'claim it better t'be savin' lives with it than t'be leavin' it sit in an account gatherin' dust. A livin' memorial's better'n a gravestone any day." His head shakes, eyes scrunching closed and heels of his palms moving up to press against his forehead before his fingers continue on to rake-pull at his hair. "Maybe it says there's more important things," Jackson answers with a harder curl of fingers against table, his other hand lifting to press agains his scalp again. "What on earth do I even /do/ I need an art degree for? What's /anyone/ on earth /ever/ done they need an /art/ degree for. The clinic pays good money an' inkin' people pays good money an' after takin' care'a the kids I just -- this degree sure ain't gonna help with anything I do s'actually worth /doin'/. An' these raids, we -- we /need/ the money. I mean, I don't even /just/ mean for the raids -- those /too/ but -- the longer we wait on 'em the longer /Hive's/ waitin' an' just -- we can't --" He exhales sharply, hand lifting to dig back against his eye with Micah's step back. "Micah --" There's a faint curl of apology in his tone but it just flees into something frazzled, frustrated. "Or /maybe/ 'stead of puttin' ourselves in debt I'll just /keep goin' to work/ like I do an' we'll take /care/ of it 'cuz we'll /have/ the money because I won't have /stopped working/ right when we're up against the wall." Sebastian is quiet, often, and quieter when slipping barefoot around the school; dressed down in only jeans, a Batman logo tee, he's really only /immediately/ distinguishable from Shane at the moment if you've /seen/ them earlier today (Shane's shirt was orange! It had Despicable Me minions on it!) when he pokes his head in the artroom door. More distinguishable as he actually slips inside, in that he waits quiet-meek by the door rather than immediately interrupt. His eyes are wide -- but then, they're /built/ wide, fixed in huge-black stare at the older men and his hands folding behind his back. He pushes the door back closed with a heel, gills fluttering nervously at the sides of his neck. His quiet clearing of throat is soft, but a little bit pointed. "There's, um. There's another option, you guys." "You started that degree for a reason, Jax. Can't you even remember what it was? Don't you ever get t'have your own life? Ain't there nothin' important t'that? Why's it always gotta be the answer is you sacrificin' yourself an' nothin' else works ever? You always feel like y'gotta make yourself suffer. This ain't no dif'rent." Micah's voice is a great deal softer, smaller as he continues. "An' your martyr complex /scares/ me with how many times I've almost lost you. It scares me that it's still your answer to /everything/." Micah's head shakes at the mention of Hive. "We ain't waitin' for financial reasons. If that were the only thing keepin' us from goin', I'd've had the loans taken out an' y'all would've /gone/ already. Don't...make it sound like we're lettin' Hive /die/ while we wait for money, 'cause that ain't it. You don't think I'd be doin'--?" His head shakes again, more fiercely, tears forming in his yet-again squeezed tight eyes as he turns away. Blinking, he moves for the door and...there's a 'Bastian. Palms pressed into his eyes, Micah rubs away at the tears that were still threatening to spill there. "B...hi." His voice comes out entirely more strangled than the simple greeting-tone he was aiming for. He flushes bright red, flustered, not able to so much as give a response to 'Bastian's words for a few moments. "I ain't /suffering/, Micah, I just ain't -- my priorities've jus' /changed/ from when I graduated /high school/, I don't --" Jackson's teeth clench, both his hands curling against the back of his bald head to press his palms inward. "I've /got/ my own damn /life/, Micah, an' /this/ is it. I'm not a -- /martyr/, this is just /what/ my life --" His mouth presses together very abruptly at the quiet voice from the door, his own cheeks deepening crimson, too, hands dropping to thunk knuckles down against the table as he turns a startled glance to the door. "-- B. Ah --" His mouth closes again, and he swallows hard, head dipping downwards with a sudden scrunch of eye. "-- Hi. Um. Wait – what?" Sebastian's black eyes open /even/ wider when Jackson curses, a very slight shift of weight -- /forward/, not back, reflexively starting towards his father with a small lift of arm at even the mild profanity; his startled expression leaves his face kind of ridiculous-proportioned for a minute, overlarge pits of deep black dominating his narrow face with a look not quite so much anime-cute as just kind-of-demonic. "Um --" He doesn't continue further into the room, though, ultimately leaving a long countertop length of space between him and the others. "This -- might be a bad time but it was -- topical. I just sat down with Dai today to figure out our /own/ finances for the Commons and everything. And I can help. He and I both make good money, Pa." His gills flutter again, but then settle down. "We could manage it. I have enough to /let/ you manage it. If you don't worry about any of the stuff Shane and I lost, we can replace that /ourselves/, and --" His eyes flit between both the adults now, gauging, "-- let me defray some of /you/ guys' house costs, too. Only until June," he asserts kind of /quick/-emphatic. "But you /can't/ fail this semester, you've worked /so/ hard and I know you're kind of out of oops-my-life-blew-up-/again/ leeway at school but if you take off from Inkline and the Clinic till graduation you could do it, right? If you didn't have anything to focus on but just -- I mean, classes here and then just -- your own work? You could manage it?" Micah winces at the cursing, shoulders hunching up and teeth digging into his lower lip. “It is kind of a bad time,” he confirms in a low almost-raspy voice. He listens quietly to 'Bastian's proposal, watching a spot on the floor just in front of the boy's feet. His head shakes, not expecting any of it to be received much better than anything he'd said earlier. Jackson presses his knuckles back to his eye. "B, you guys have your /own/ house to -- to buy. To /build/. To -- an' Dai's got /college/ nex' year an' /you/ should be savin' for -- that's /your/ money an' you need to keep it for takin' care'a stuff that's important for /your/ life. I -- thank you, honey, jus' -- Look, your Ba an' I will -- work this out, alright?" Sebastian hunches forward, palms bracing against a tabletop as a sudden-sharp bark of laughter shudders up out of him. "/Important/ to my life? /Christ/, Pa, what the frak do you think /you/ are?" His eyes are still wide, his tone incredulous. "What could /be/ more important?" /That/ observation earns a nod of agreement from Micah. "I already know I can work out the housin' issue an' our own budget. We're only havin' trouble with not bein' able t'cover all that /and/ all the rescue missions at the same time. I always told you boys if y'wanna donate t'causes you believe in with your own money, that's your prerogative." He takes a small step back to lean against the end of a table, standing between the others and sidewise to them both. A brief look is spared 'Bastian's direction, but Micah doesn't seem to have much to add at this point. /That/ observation makes Jackson actually /flinch/ backwards a half-step, a brief ripple of light shivering around him. His arms curl against his chest, his eye scrunching closed. His mouth opens, and closes again. "B -- you can't just --" He breaks off, frowning down at his shoes. His teeth wiggle at -- where a lip ring /should/ be; ultimately they just close on skin. His fingers squeeze hard against his biceps, nails digging in against starkly pale-uncoloured skin. His eye stays fixed downward, his breathing a little more ragged. "I mean, it's -- all just money. Money is fluid. If it's helping one place you'll be free to put yours somewhere else. I don't really care /how/ it's parceled out. I just have /enough/," Sebastian insists. Or, okay, pleads. "That you could just focus on school and /graduate/ and -- please. /Every/ one of us wants to see you succeed, Pa. At something /you/ love. I /know/ Ba wants --" His eyes shift to Micah, his gills rippling again. "We can do this." "Not arguin', honey. Just sayin' y'don't have t'wait for nobody t'/accept/ anythin' from you if you're donatin' the things that are needed for the missions. S'a dif'rent story than tryin' t'pay someone's bills for 'em." Micah moves closer to the door again, but this time to offer 'Bastian a hug as opposed to escaping through it. "I love how much you care an' how generous you are. An' I love /you/. But I'm not gonna take your money from you. However. If y'wanna buy your own things, or give it t'good causes for people who can't help themselves just yet, I'll support that. I would...ask you t'be reasonable about it. Make sure y'have what y'need. For now an' for things that could still happen. An'...maybe things'll be postponed a little, but...if you're careful y'can minimise that, too." His arms squeeze a little tighter. "I know we can do this." Jackson turns aside from this, light still shivering around him as he walks farther back into the room, heading for the wide windows. His arms stay curled tight around himself, but the light calms, rippling one last time and then settling back to normal. His eye stays focused outward on the grounds, fingers still clenched tight against his arms. Sebastian leans into the hug, his arms wrapping back around Micah. He mooshes his face up against his father's shirt, gills rippling as his weight leans in. "/We'll/ be fine. Don't really need to touch savings /much/ for house stuff our salaries are -- we'll be okay." His arms squeeze tighter, too, and then he steps back, peeking over at Jax by the window. "Just, please consider it, Pa? Jane would approve leave for you, I think. And you're only at the studio by appointment anyway, /they/ won't mind. And you're /so close/. And Shane's --" His gills flutter quickly. "-- could use an example of life going well. And /God/ after /everything/ you do for /everyone else on earth/ you /deserve/ --" He shakes his head, blushing. "Please talk some /sense/ into him," he says, much softer to Micah, before he /does/ turn back to the door for escaping. Micah's eyes track Jax for a moment before turning back to the teen in front of him, fingers moving to pet 'Bastian's gills into a more relaxed state. His voice is barely above a whisper when he answers. "I want more than fine for you. I know Shane...wanted t'ask you for start-up money. Just reassure 'im that...this is a delay, at worst. An' I can help 'im with figurin' out business loans an' such if he needs, okay? He /does/ need t'see life goin' well. Includin' /his/." 'Bastian's request brings Micah's teeth pressing into his own lip again. "I'll give 'im some time an' try again. Y'heard how well it was goin' before. Think we all need...time as much as anythin' else." 'Bastian gets one last squeeze before Micah releases him to slip off. "I've got work," Micah announces softly, though it sounds louder in the stilled room. "I'll let you..." Whatever it is that he needs to be doing. Thinking. Staring out the window, apparently. "We can talk more later." He gives a resigned little shrug before turning for the door once again. Sebastian just gives Micah a tiny smile, stretches up to peck his father lightly on the cheek. "Love you," he answers this with, and slips out the door. Jackson's head turns, slightly, at Micah's soft announcement. At first he just nods, looking back towards the window. It's abrupt when he turns, spinning back towards the door with a sudden, "-- Micah --" But whatever follows this just ends in silence and a hard swallow. "Okay," he says instead. His eye fixes somewhere at table-height, focusing in on his abandoned palette. "I -- okay. Later." Micah pauses a moment in the doorway, whispering, “Love you,” in an echo of 'Bastian's parting. Whether or not it is actually audible is another question, as he continues off to that work that still needs doing.