ArchivedLogs:Getting Back In Touch

Getting Back In Touch
Dramatis Personae Jim, Melinda	2013-08-19 '
Location <NYC> Melinda and Tag's Apartment - Lower East Side
The apartment is composed of four bedrooms, two baths, a living room and an entry space attached to the kitchen, near the door. That kitchen is covered in tile, from floor to countertop to back splash on the wall, all white, with light, thin blue stems and flowers. The cabinets are newish, with blond wood kept meticulously clean of fingerprints. It is also outfitted with an excellent coffee maker, or two, with all the accoutrement to go with it. The living room is mainly furnished by found pieces, two chairs and a couch. None of it was constructed at the same time, but it all has been reupholstered with the same cloth, the surfaces colored similarly and with a regular weave. The wood has all been refinished as well, dark and able to hide stains well. The walls are colorful, but that goes with the territory of having a mutant roommate with Tag's ability. Today, it is a sage green with some abstract blue and orange intermingling in different places. Tomorrow it will be different. A cursory inspection shows that five people live in this four bedroom apartment, so it's difficult to pick out what belongs to any one person. Thump. Thump. It's not wildly late; corner stores are still happily open, and bars are still in the rowdy stage of the night. Thump. But at around 9pm on a Monday, it's probably late enough to be called inconsiderate by most standards. Thump? Answer your DOOR, Mel. From inside, there is the clattering of a dish against another dish and a quiet curse. After that, there is an extended period of silence before there's finally a shadow at the peep hole looking out. Then, a little more silence before the chain is put on the door and the deadbolts are undone. Mel peeks out hesitantly before pulling the door open a little wider, looking a bit wired. She sways with too much coffee, dressed down in jeans and a navy blue tee shirt that has a floral band around the middle. She pauses, looking Jim over and considering. "What did I hit you with one of the first times we met?" Her eyes are dead serious as she studies him. OhSHIT. On the stoop, in tatty fraying cargo shorts and a hawaiian shirt, Jim instantly crumples his eyebrows together and shoves a kind of smushed up FISTFUL of cheap flower bouquet - daisies, in pink and yellow and orange like a sunset - behind his back. And reflexi-snarks, "Your /feelings/. You gonna lemme in?" "I'll let you in when I know it's you. You're just pissed because you already know. Now come on. I didn't ask about when I first, first saw you. Didn't need to bring that up, did I?" Mel grouses back at the man at her door step, but her tone is warm and there's a small smile pulling at the corners of her tired eyes. "What." Jim /was/ being difficult. Now he looks /confused/ - which means he's going to be MORE difficult. "I don't even know what that fucking means." "Oh. Well, you probably don't remember that I was there that time Shelby got you shot. Well, whatever. Fuck, this questioning thing isn't very useful." Mel frowns a little deeper and eyes him. "You swear you're Jim?" "Mel." Jim swears to /nothing/. He just looks extra cranky now and /disgruntled/, mouth hanging open for a moment before it closes again - to make WORDS. "What the fuck is going on." Now he's just... holding the sad crumple of flowers at his side. Like some sad scrawny goose he'd strangled for dinner. He looks down the hall and back like he's waiting for someone to poke their head out of their apartment to be like 'dude, I don't know either'. And he erupts with, "/Flowers/. A'right? Fucking... posies. Or. God damn - mums or some shit. I brought 'em to the kid's first show and she cried /pedo/ and you took her side without any fucking evidence because you're a god damn man-hater." "Thank you." And the door closes. Boom! Barely seconds later, the door is unchained and pulled open quickly. "I really am sorry," Melinda rushes to explain, "but I got a phone call today that made me think that shit was about to hit the fan with the family of one of my roommates and Murphy's out and I ..." She shakes her head. "If you want the full story, I'll tell you. Just, come inside." The last part is less of an attempt to smooth things over after the initial interrogation, and more of an invitation. "Wait." Jim is entering, with his brows further disgruntled like he isn't sure /why/ he's coming in but by god he's doing it at a full-on stride, his head turning to say over his shoulder before he's even /past/ Melinda, "How the fuck does Murphy play into this? What kind of roommates are you /keeping/ here?" "One guy happens to have a mind controlling telepath for a dad. He kept his distance from dad for a long time, but then dad managed to find him and throw him in some messed up rehab down in Chinatown." Mel exhales and locks the door behind Jim, moving to sit on the back of the couch afterward. "Long story short, we got him out, my friend took him somewhere safe, and I got my memories of the whole thing wiped so I could go back to my regular life." She rubs at the bridge of her nose. "I texted Murphy when I wasn't sure I'd get out of Chinatown. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now he's taken it upon himself to be my personal guard dog, because something about his brain fucks with telepaths." "Yeah, s'like a fucking mental Hot Carl," Jim is muttering distractedly as he makes a kind of reflexive /prowl/-circuit through the living room, his back at first towards Melinda as he squints through windowblinds, "-of course it was fucking Chinatown…" On his pacing does eventually have him cycling back around towards Melinda, who he shoves the ragged bouquet of flowers at like Here. Hold This. His hard eyes have a way of looking /at/ you without seeming to be looking at you; mentally he isn't DONE prowling, "Y'know asking a telepath security questions isn't gonna work right." And, abruptly, he presses a hand against the side of Melinda's head, fingers depressing her hair towards the back of her nape. Whatever circling he'd been doing has finally deposited him Here. And NOW. And he's looking directly into Melinda's eyes, "You alright?" Melinda doesn't bother to watch him prowl, initially, her gaze directed at the ground, her own mind reeling with the current events. Her lips are pursed when he catches her attention with flowers, hands reaching out automatically to grab the flowers and pull them in against her torso. Her breathing is quiet and even until he reaches out for her, brows rising as she pauses her breath for a heart beat or two, gazing back at him. "Had to try. Could have maybe caught him off guard, found a discrepancy. Better than not trying at all." Her words lose their way and take longer to escape her lips, trailing off entirely after a while. "Physically, yes." She draws in a deeper breath to energize her next response. "Mentally and in my gut, I am still scrambling. Like I'm tonguing the hole where I just had a tooth fall out, wondering where and well it fell out. I'll survive." She pauses and studies Jim right back, not asking him questions but visually inspecting his new scars. "Guess that's a fucking /feat/ right there, these days," Jim mutters, looking back and forth between either of Melinda's eyes as though there was some way to /see/ the telepathic work she'd had done. This isn't exactly Nip/Tuck. Jim's scars are mercifully no /more/ numbered for his brief stay in the government's clutches - the rippled gash down the side of his face, the parallel dents that drag down the side of his temple, none of them seem to trouble him. Or even ping on his awareness. This mutual gazing is one of those awkward moments, and Jim follows it up by… "Christ, Mel." His other hand closes around the other side of Melinda's head and - thud. He just kind of drops his forehead down against her, grumbling. "I didn't even know about any of this." "It just happened, honestly. Haven't been talking about it at all, on account of the nature of the situation - and can't remember who I /have/ spoken to about it, on account of the nature of the situation. I wanted to tell you. I didn't know if you were around - then you were and I couldn't be sure if I left you a voicemail before." Melinda's arms hang loosely at her side, the left still gripping the bouquet. Her eyes close when their foreheads touch, taking another breath and holding it. When it escapes her nose, it carries with it a bit of the tension trapped in her muscles, and a dry laugh. "Brains are fragile things, it seems. Like... jenga." "Nah." No shock, probably, that Jim instantly disagrees. Not loudly, not aggressively, but gruff-flat. "If brains were that fragile we'd all be in pieces by now. Look." He tips Melinda's head back a few degrees and gives it a brief /jostle/. "Just." He looks over her face with some cross of frustration and wear and other ragged Jim-ish crankiness that flounders for words or MEANING. His brows furrow, teeth click, looking into Melinda's eyes. "Don't worry about it for a while." Melinda lets out another breath that sounds like the ghost of a laugh when she is jostled. She reaches a free hand up to rest on the crook of his elbow. "Yes, because telling me not to worry works." She takes in a deep breath and holds it, then lets it go slow, eyes closed for the calming breath, then opening as she gives Jim a little smile. "I should get on a twelve step program. First step, stop worrying and smell the flowers." She twists the bouquet grasping hand until the blooms are pointed back upward, some of them crushed between narrow space between their bodies. So what if she can't actually smell them. She smiles a little more anyway. "Lovely." Jim doesn't smile back. His lips just press together and he lowers his eye to the ratty little bouquet. His breath pulls in, and, after a moment of silence between the Mel will feel the slightly wilted softness sagging through the stems slowly grow firm again. Vital. With a soft velvety sound, thin, vibrant new leaves begin to uncurl. Some of the half-opened blooms begin to bloom in a clumsy grace, the bouquet growing larger, taller, more buds beginning to plumpen and the open as well. Below, the cut stems begin to mend, healing over and slowly hang down a delicate webbing of new roots. No words are spoken. Maybe that's merciful from Jim, and he raises his eyes back to Melinda's face. Questing. Braced. Melinda studies his expression and grows slightly conflicted. She loosens her grip on his arm and moves it inward, brushing her fingers against against his chest before reaching up to gently caress his cheek. She inches forward, still unsure, feeling the heat of his breath. Her fingers move to brush against the fringe of his hair, to feel the smoother side of his face. Her hand stretches out, one thumb running against the bottom edge of his lip. She's hesitant, but drawn in, her gaze lowering to his mouth. Jim's eyes don't close, but they flex at the corners like they might have, when his face is touched. Then slowly it crumples, relaxes. And in this small window of peace, smelling of cigarettes and green things, he leans in and kisses her. And kisses her. And kisses her.