ArchivedLogs:Give And Take

Give And Take
Dramatis Personae Micah, Jackson, Dusk
In Absentia	24 December 2013 Jax has had an extraordinarily stressful day. >_<' (WARNING: Brief consensual violence at very end.)
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. In the early evening the apartment is quiet, at least very temporarily. Micah has been home just long enough to change from work clothes into a pair of jeans and a dark green button-down shirt decorated in a lighter green leaf pattern. His hair looks like he might have taken a comb to it recently, a rare enough occurrence this late in the day. He pads into the kitchen in fuzzy green socks that match the shirt, refilling the teapot when he arrives and setting it to heat on the stovetop. Opening the tea cabinet, he busies himself for some time with surveying the tins contained within. There’s been some cleaning going on here, at some point today. Counters wiped down, floor -- /half/ swept. The broom’s kind of been /forgotten/ against the wall by the ladder up to Tag’s loft, with a small pile of swept-up pine needles forgotten too nearby it. The lock turns, the door opening. Dusk has a box tucked under an arm -- the same one Flicker was ornamenting /their/ tree from upstairs earlier. His hair is damp, his wings damp, too, freshly showered Old Spice scent clinging to his skin. He sets the box of ornaments down beside the tree, slipping over towards the kitchen to drop a light kiss on the back of Micah’s head. “... dustpan.” It’s been a few hours but at least /now/ he is remembering he needed it. Jackson’s arrival home comes just on the heels of Dusk’s return. On an /actual/ guard shift and not bodyguard shift today, he’s in a proper uniform, the standard red and black of Mendel Clinic guards. Earlier today his makeup was silver-red-black to match it, but it has vanished. His hair is still bright green (streaked with black), /actual/ dye and not illusion. He looks kind of washed-out, pale, a little shaky as he slips his shoes off by the door. It’s a shakiness that’s only accentuated by the restless fluctuation of light around him, faintly unsteady. He hangs his jacket up, leaving his rainbow hoodie on over his uniform as he heads towards the kitchen. He presses (unfortunately /cold/ now that New York’s unseasonable warm streak has ended) fingertips to the small of Dusk’s back, his other hand snaking around the back of Micah’s head. To pull him close, and kiss him, /fierce/ and deep. “Hey, Dusk,” Micah greets, smiling at the little kiss. “Dustpan is not a tea.” Because the only thing people would be talking about was tea choices right now. “What tea do you want?” His fingers stroke along the nearest wing to him, tea cabinet remaining open with the decision not yet made. “An’ Jax!” Micah speaks this time without turning, waving as the other man enters, eyes still half-occupied with staring into the cabinet. He flinches a bit with the icy touch to the back of his neck. “Ohgosh, you’re freezin’.” Any further commentary is silenced by the sudden kiss. He wraps his arms around Jax, holding tight, returning the kiss. “Honey, what’s goin’ on?” he asks when he finally pulls back. “No, dustpan is /dustpan/. For sweeping. Because I was sweeping but then I got --” Dusk’s eyes shift over up towards Tag’s loft. “... distracted.” His wing presses back into the touch, its usual soft fuzz slick and damp from the shower. “Uh -- do you have something with vanilla? I --” He glances over towards the door as it opens, a bright smile flashing across his face. “Actually, maybe it’s not a vanilla kind of evening after all. Hey, J-- /jesus/.” This is at the touch of icy fingers against his back, muscles tensing up hard. “How many people are going to do that to me today?” His fingers trace lightly down against Jax’s arm, though. His smile fades into a slowly creasing frown. “... You, uh, alright?” Jax’s hand splays flat against Dusk’s back, sliding slowly upwards, fingers pressing down harder against the muscles where wings join up. Even after the kiss is broken off, he rests his forehead against Micah’s, chasing one kiss with a smaller one and then closing his eye. “I -- um --” His voice is shaky. His hands tremble, too, against Micah’s neck, Dusk’s back. “I had a -- I had a long -- a long. Um. Can we -- I need to sit down.” “Oh. Yeah, the pine needles just don't /stop/, do they?” Micah's eyes sweep to the floor briefly. “We got a lotta things t'be cleanin' for a bit. Um...I think the vanilla we have is a black. Caffeine okay? We got loose lavender if y'want any of that tossed in. I always like vanilla an' lavender together. Y'want vanilla tea, Jax?” He blushes /fiercely/ at Dusk's comment, though /this/ is conveniently hidden for a moment, at least, by Jax's second kiss. “Oh...honey. Let's go sit. Couch? Beanbag? Bed? How down y'need t'be, sugar?” Wrapping an arm around Jax's shoulders, he starts to shepherd him out of the kitchen, since all points are roughly in the same direction from there. “Pretty much don’t stop till the tree is gone,” Dusk agrees. His hand traces down, running now against Jax’s side slowly. “I’ll -- I’ll get the tea ready, yeah? It sounds like maybe it’s necessary.” His tone is light, though there’s distinct worry in his expression. He gets out mugs and a tin of tea, hesitating before taking the lavender out as well. His eyes track the others heading out, though for now he stays in the kitchen. “Oh I -- m’not really all that into just -- plain vanilla.” It’s probably a testament to his current state of distress that Jax manages this comment without any blushing of his own. “Oh. Oh no okay if you put lavender too that’s. That’s good.” He drops his hand away from Dusk slowly, staying close to Micah’s side as he is shepherded off. “I think -- bed. Is most -- good. For sitting. And privacy. And bed.” His arm curls around Micah’s waist, fingers scrunching the other man’s shirt into a tight fist. “Thanks, Dusk, hon...I think the tin's gold-coloured that's got the vanilla tea in, an' the lavender's in one of those clear canisters, y'should be able t'see it through... Um. Just bring it on back, okay?” Micah continues guiding Jax down the hall, half-turning back to offer Dusk these instructions. /He/ blushes well enough for Jax and himself both with that comment, though. He pushes the door open, bringing Jax through it and pausing only long enough to toe the door closed before settling him right on the bed. “Cuddles or pajamas first?” Jackson sinks down onto the bed gratefully, lifting his other arm to curl both around Micah, now. His head thunks forward against Micah’s stomach, eye scrunching tight shut. “Okay,” is not really a very /clear/ answer to a multiple-choice question, but this is what he gives at first, a little shakily. And then, actually in English for once: “I’m sorry.” He turns his head up slightly, burying his face against Micah’s shirt with another soft, muffled: “M’sorry, sir.” While Jax's verbal answer isn't terribly useful, his actions are far better at clarifying. Micah settles in next to Jax, tugging the other man up against him and half into his lap before circling his arms around him and delivering a series of kisses to his temple and jaw. “What are you apologisin' for, honey? 'Specially usin'...that word. That word more'n once. Take a deep breath in an' out. What d'you need right now, hon?” He nuzzles his cheek and chin against Jax's hair. Jackson takes a deep breath, as instructed. He curls gratefully into Micah’s touch, nestling close and tipping his face up into the kisses. “Because I didn’t -- I didn’t -- I had a chance to --” A sudden tension curls through his form, back stiffening, arms tightening around Micah. He turns his head, looking towards the door. “Where are the boys are they okay?” His breath is getting a little ragged and he forces another deep inhale. Exhale. “He says you’re all -- going to suffer. He’d do it, too, he’d kill every one of you just -- just.” At that stiffening, Micah pulls Jax closer, fiercely and perhaps even /uncomfortably/ tight. “Honey, stop. Back up an' start at the beginnin',” he instructs softly, near Jax's ear. “Boys're fine. Shane's home, just in 'is room. 'Bastian's out helpin' get things ready for parties an' Game Night in the other apartments. Spence is over Luci's. Everybody's fine.” His lips compress into a thin line at the last from Jax. “He who?” The door opens again quietly; Dusk carries three mugs, two held carefully in one hand and one in the other. He nudges the door closed again behind him with a heel, setting the two mugs down on the nightstand and then sitting on the bed at Jax’s other side. “Kill who?” His eyes narrow faintly. He offers the tea out to Jax with a quiet caution of, “S’still hot.” Behind him, his wings shift restlessly. One curls outward, still a little bit /damp/ as it drapes around both the other men’s backs. Jax takes another deep breath, leaning in to Micah further. The too-tight squeezing oddly seems to relax him more than previous more gentle touches, some of the tension easing in his posture. Not in his voice, though, still a little shaky, still a little too edged. “Back up,” he repeats, “okay, right. M’s -- I apologize, I. Right. I had a long shift there was -- Gabriel, he. Io couldn’t help him, he didn’t -- make it. And then I was going -- walking. When I got off shift, I. Ran into Malthus. I don’t know if he was waitin’ for me or if it was just -- accident but.” Against Micah, beneath Dusk’s wing, he trembles; the light around him does, too. “He had a gun but he didn’t. Just. Talked. He asked if I -- blamed myself.” You don’t have to be a telepath to infer the answer from the heavy thick guilt weighing down Jax’s tone. “Thanks, honey,” Micah offers when Dusk brings in the tea, shoulder brushing against Dusk's wing when it wraps around him. “Oh...I'm sor--that's horrible. About Gabriel. I had hoped...” He just shakes his head. His attention is /fully/ drawn away at the mention of Malthus, his gaze shooting quickly to Dusk before he returns to Jax-comforting. “He didn't try t'hurt y'none? An'...we done talked about...how weren't any of that your fault. S'more /his/ fault'n it is yours at all. Are you...okay? Where did he go?” Again, his arms squeeze almost painful-tight, deep pressure compressing around Jax's torso. Dusk’s wing squeezes tighter at the news about Gabriel. But it’s Malthus’s name that puts a harder edge to his expression, jaw tightening and his fingers clenching around the cup. “Where was this.” His voice is lower, flatter, devoid of the inflection that /should/ make this a question. “-- Jax, this.” His breath hisses out quick and sharp. “Was not. /Your/ fault.” His eyes sweep over Jax carefully, and he draws in a quick sniff of breath through his nose. Scrutinizing -- signs of blood, signs of injury. Signs of illusion. Jackson seems unharmed, at least, despite being shaken; no blood, for sure, and his current very visible pallor, scars, lack of makeup, faint almost-healed bruising from the police last week, all suggest that he’s not bothering with /hiding/ anything just at the moment. His breathing slows, faintly more strained as Micah’s arms squeeze in tighter. He nestles his head against his husband’s shoulder, exhaling with a very small whimper. “He didn’t. Try to hurt me, not -- not /physically/. But he said -- he said as long as I’m alive then. He’ll -- everyone around me will. Suffer. And that I could --” His hand lifts to press knuckles to his lips. When he lowers it, he takes the tea from Dusk, not actually drinking but gripping the cup tight and clicking his teeth against the rim. “Could end it. If I just.” He shudders again. “I should have. OhGodhelpme,” he whispers, “I should have just killed him.” When Jax's breathing slows, the muscles of Micah's arms relax slightly, leaving him in a firm hug rather than a constricting squeeze. His head tilts down to press new kisses to Jax's hair, forehead, jaw. “Ohgosh, honey. Ain't you causin' no sufferin'. You make things so much /better/. S'him an' people like 'im causin' the sufferin'. Don't y'let 'im twist things on you that way.” Hidden around Jax's side, one of his hands clenches tight enough into a fist to whiten the knuckles. “I got no problem with the notion of /you/ not killin' nobody, Jax. Ain't no good t'come of it. We had this whole talk with the boys as t'how one of y'all attackin' Malthus would just result in y'all gettin' killed over it. An' now with you bein' the face of Mutant Good in the world? We /can't/ have you doin' those kindsa things. You made the right choice not tryin' it, honey. Y'did good, okay?” Dusk’s fingers brush slowly against Jax’s hand as he relinquishes the tea. He rests a hand on Jax’s knee after, squeezing tight. “No.” His voice is clipped, and hard. “No, you shouldn’t have. You should never beat yourself up for being a /good/ person, Jax. You’re -- the best person I know. You should hold onto that.” He presses a firm kiss to Jax’s temple, resting his forehead against it afterward. “Noplease --” Jax’s protest comes reflexively when Micah’s arms loosen. His cheeks flush afterward, and he hides his face for a moment against Micah’s shoulder. “Just -- felt good, sir.” He mumbles this a little bashfully, tipping his head down to take a small sip of tea. The blush deepens as the others speak. “I ain’t, though. I’m just --” He shakes his head quickly, hair spilling down over his eye. “Not nothin’ special. But he seemed to -- it’s weird it was almost like he /wanted/ me to kill him. I don’t think -- that’s true exactly I don’t think he wanted to /die/. But he said. Just straight up /said/ -- that I could end all this right there. He weren’t saying I was causing suffering just that he’d /make/ everyone suffer. But I could -- if I was jus’ willing to --” He stops here, frowns deeply down into his tea. “... no, he didn’t say willing. He said if I had the courage. To jus’ murder him while his back was turned. An’ then walked away, I could’ve.” His teeth click against the rim of the cup again, his hands shaking worse where they hold the tea up to his mouth. “I think he knowed I wouldn’t. But I think he’d -- have been glad of it if I did. Or well, I mean, he’d’ve been /dead/ so maybe not glad of nothin’. But he mentioned the sewers. Said it woulda been a good death for me there. Savin’ you. A -- a martyr, he said. Free of sin.” This makes him frown deeper. “-- I /ain’t/, though, that’s dumb. I screw up /all the time/. But --” He falls quiet, fingers squeezing and relaxing around the mug. “He’ll do it. He’ll kill everyone. /You/ an’ the boys and -- everyone and I could’ve.” At Jax's protest, Micah's arms compress down again. “Okay. Okay, sugar, just make sure you're still breathin' in as deep as y'can,” he whispers into Jax's ear. “An' you /are/ special, Jax. You're...every kind of special. That was all a /trick/. There's no way he doesn't win, doin' that t'you. If you /don't/ try t'kill 'im, he just /knows/ he's gettin' in under your skin. Just like what he did t'the boys. An' if y’did try...well. Then he gets the /satisfaction/ of knowin' you're just another murderin' mutant like all the others. An' turnin' 'is back on you like that? Perfect evidence of you attackin' when y’weren't attacked. Hard t'claim self defence against a man walkin' away. I'm sure he didn't /actually/ want t'die. But on the off-chance he was actually unprotected an' you were successful.../you'd/ go down for it. There's no way you'd be allowed t'live after. An' the spectacle of the Big Mutant Hero goin' down for murderin' a upstandin', unarmed, non-X-gene-carryin' military man? Can you imagine? Even in /dyin'/ he'd be gettin' his way.” Micah's teeth dig into his lip, hard and fast enough to blanch it immediately, to bead the slightest bit of blood before he can bring himself to speak again without...screaming or crying or some form of excessive display of emotion. “S'a /tricky/ little snake, he is. An' he didn't mean you're perfect, sugar. Don't gotta be perfect. Just gotta be an image of Good. S'what he wants t'take down. Told the boys as much.” Somehow, he manages to squeeze Jax even /tighter/, just briefly. “I don't want you dyin' no-how. Least of all for /me/.” Dusk lifts his hand when Jax’s hair falls down, fingertips brushing it gently back away from the other man’s eye. “Micah’s right. That -- he just wanted to /get/ to you. Make it so no matter what you did he was /hurting/ you. Because you /are/ good, Jax, and he’d love to break that. To /make/ you into the kind of man who --” His wing tightens, here, squeezing hard around the other two. He rests his hand over Jax’s, steadying the shaking, and leans into kiss Jax, hard and fierce. He stands after this, somewhat abruptly. “Just -- don’t let him --” His wings pull in, folding against his back. “It’s Christmas. Make delicious food and put up a million decorations and be with your family. And remember that we have about a million cameras watching /every/ way in and out of this building and he is not going to lay a finger on anyone here. I’ll make sure of that.” Jackson does keep breathing. Slow and deep, relaxing once more when Micah’s hold tightens. He tips his head up against Dusk’s fingers at the fixing of his hair, and returns the kiss just as deep. “... I was going to make brownies. And cider. My ma always makes a -- huge pot for. During decorating everything.” He rests his head back down on Micah’s shoulder when Dusk stands, lowering the tea to his lap. “We can’t just. Stay in here always though. And he’s not going to /stop/. I just want you all safe.” Micah blinks a few times, turning his face away from where Dusk can look at him directly at the talk of the kinds of people who… “Can y'just trust me when I say it's gonna be taken care of, honey? That everythin' that can be done t'keep our family safe is gonna be... Can y'let go an' give me that?” Though his voice has gone quiet, the hard press against Jax does not lighten up at all. Eventually, at the talk of holidays and celebrations, he does shake his head, turning his face back into a more neutral position. “What d'you need t'get y'back into the swing of the festivities, hon?” He squeezes a little bit tighter. “What can I do?” Dusk’s eyes fix on the others for a long moment, his jaw clenching tight. “You’re our family, too, man,” he says eventually, soft. “/We/ want to look out for you just as much.” He does look at Micah, even when the other man turns away, but then picks up his tea off the nightstand and turns, shoulders tense and wings tightening and relaxing restlessly, to head out. “I --” Jackson takes another sip of tea, and then sets the mug aside. His arms both curl around Micah, tight as well though it is more /cling/ than /squeeze/. “S’a lot to ask, sir.” His voice has dropped to a quiet whisper. He focuses on breathing for a few more seconds. “... but I’d trust you with my. Well. My /everything/.” He presses his face against Micah’s neck, a tiny flutter of moisture brushing against Micah’s skin, tears dampening his lashes but not quite accumulated yet enough to /fall/. For a moment his breathing stills again, at Micah’s question. There’s a tremor in the room’s lighting before he starts breathing again. His voice is very small when he answers, tiny and pleading: “Hurt me.” Micah manages to meet Dusk's eyes, if only momentarily, before the other man leaves, giving him a nod. “Good...good, then, hon. Give it over as much as you're able. An' hopefully...it won't be so much of a worry for too much longer.” He kisses along Jax's jaw three times, gentle in contrast to the tight hold he's maintaining. “Love you /so much/, hon.” He nods again at the request, the movement likely felt more than seen by Jax. When the hold loosens, it is sudden and complete. Micah reaches for one of Jax's arms, grabbing it around the wrist with sharp fingers, squeezing in tight enough to compress the long bones of the forearm together where they meet above the wrist. He tugs the arm forcefully up behind Jax's back, locking it there, slowly twisting and pushing it up further. His other hand twines roughly into Jax's hair and yanks his head back away from where it presses against him, forcing his chin back to bare his neck. Leaning in, he bites down hard into the flesh of Jax's throat with no time taken for slow rasps of teeth or nibbles of skin. Just fierce, deep, bruising biting that will surely go so far as to break skin if it is maintained. “Love you.” Jackson nuzzles into Micah’s neck, brushing a soft kiss against it. “I’ll try. S’easier t’give it over when you --” His words cut off here, breath catching in sudden sharp intake at the hard grip and twist of his arm. His eye widens, and he gives a small whimper, face flushing deep red. There’s a sudden relaxation that comes with this, though, tension rushing out of him like a release of breath, like a /surrender/ that leaves him malleable to the rough handling. His breath quickens, felt sharper and harder where Micah’s mouth presses hard to his neck. It gives his voice a rougher quality when he finally breathes out the end of his sentence: “-- /take/.”