ArchivedLogs:Guilt
| Guilt | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 29 December 2013 Everything is horrible forever. (Directly after Micah kills Malthus and soon followed by an arrest.) |
| 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. It's near to lunchtime but it's still brunch that's being prepared at Lighthaus. Waffle batter sitting on the counter and tofu scramble in a pan and potatoes in the oven. Jax has been cooking since he got back from church, not even really bothered to change; his tie is gone and his suit jacket is draped over a chair at the kitchen table but he's still in slacks, dress socks, dress shirt. His hair's changed some time in the past couple days, lime-green replaced with a brilliant bright purple with pink highlights, and his eyepatch is blue with a silver dragonfly embroidered into it. With most of the food largely prepared, at the moment he's not working on feeding his /kids/ so much as feeding the furred members of the family; Sprite is leaving dark hairs on his grey slacks as she winds about his ankles eagerly, having heard the siren call of a tin can lid being peeled back. "C'mon, patience, honey-honey," he is futilely requesting of her. Obie's already been fed, munching his way happily through a bowl of kibble mixed with meaty wet food. Shane's sprawled on the floor on his belly, Nook open in front of him. Not yet bothered with real clothes but at least he's not naked for once, in black loose tank top and warm green plaid flannel pajama pants. His chin is pillowed on his forearm, other hand intermittently flipping through pages. His /back/ is being used as a platform on which to construct -- something. Some kind of K'nex tower that wobbles precariously every time he shifts his arm. Spencer reprimands him /sternly/ for these shifts of movement. There are footfalls and breathing outside the door for several minutes before other sounds follow. Time taken to consider the barrier to the portal. Time to remember how one handles such things. Locating keys, recalling how to use them. The click in the lock is not immediately followed by the door opening, but rather by a few beats of silence. When the door opens it is slow, hesitant, ponderously creeping open like the door of a haunted house...though with better oiling of its hinges. Micah stands in the doorway in his olive canvas jacket and faded jeans, messenger bag slung haphazardly over his shoulder. His hat is in his pocket and may never have been on his head to begin with, his hair sticking out at every conceivable angle as if he had rolled down a hill to get home as opposed to taking a vehicle. His face is pale, eyes dark-ringed, expression strangely blank. He finally steps through the door, pauses, then pushes it closed. Without any greeting given, any habitual throwing of locks, removing his coat, or even taking off his shoes, he proceeds toward the bathroom. "Oh!" Jax brightens at the sound of the door opening. "Hihi! Micah-honey do you want --" His cheer drains away as he pokes his head out of the kitchen, cat food bowl still in hand, to peer over towards Micah. He takes stock of Micah's expression and manner with a rapidly more worried expression, slowly crouching to set the bowl down for Sprite against the wall by the fishtank. "... sweetie?" His tone has turned starkly from bright to worried, and he pads after Micah, teeth sinking down against his lip. "Micah what happened?" "Whoashit you're home." Shane rolls up into a crouch, toppling Spencer's tower down onto the ground. "... shit." His nostrils flare, jaw clamping down tight. "/Shaaane/." Spencer sighs, exasperated, but his exasperation doesn't last long. He bounces to his feet, practically flying across the room towards Micah, arms open wide for Hug. "/Dad/ hi there's a new ponies we haven't watched it! -- /Daaad/," this has the same tone he used for Shane, "Your /shoes/ -- what's wrong." His enthusiasm dims, too, as Shane gets up to clamp a hand down on Spencer's shoulder, cautioning him quick and sharp: "Don't." Micah moves into the bathroom, dropping his messenger bag on the floor with entirely more clatter than such a thing would usually warrant. The flap falling askew reveals the cause: a portion of his running foot visible inside, it and the small toolkit he carries for prosthetic changes clanging hard against one another with the impact against the floor. He continues into the room until the bathtub proves to be a physical impediment to further movement, then stares at the shower curtain. He thinks to pull back the curtain after a time and does so, then stares at the tub. "Has it been news yet?" he asks without turning in a soft, even tone, voice a little rough like someone first waking in the morning. "I don't even know...how long it has been. How long does it take for things to be news?" This last is a little puzzled, but at least comes with some hint of inflection. "What?" Jackson sounds /puzzled/ as well, following Micah into the bathroom. "Has what been news, Micah, what -- /happened/, what's wrong?" His voice is soft, too, gentle with concern but with a strained edge of anxiety to it. He reaches out a hand, fingertips brushing softly against Micah's elbow. He looks down, no /less/ puzzled at the clanging of bag and running foot inside it. He looks from the foot to Micah's clothes, no comprehension dawning. "How long's it been since what?" The front door bangs back open; Sebastian bursts into the apartment in kind of a hurry. He's more dressed than Shane, dark corduroys and a green button-down, bare feet quiet slapping against the wood floor as he hastens towards the bathroom. Sniffing thoughtfully. "-- It's done." It's flat, halfway a question but halfway not. Spencer squirms out of Shane's grip to hurry to the bathroom door, poking his head around Sebastian's waist with a now-worried frown. "What happened why is everyone what's wrong with dad." Shane doesn't say anything, here. He follows after his brothers, but takes each of them by hand to gently tugtugtug them back. Not /away/ so much as no longer /crowding/ the bathroom door. His gills are fluttering rapidquick, breathing halted and eyes impossibly wide in his narrow face. The questions go unanswered. Micah flinches away when Jax attempts to touch him, moving to sit on the side of the bathtub. His eyes stay fixed on the faucet, wincing at the added voices but not turning. “I need to...” A hand reaches out, goes so far as to rest on the cold metal of the faucet. He slumps toward it a slightly. “Probably. Probably it's already news. So many people with cell phones. Witnesses. Needed...witnesses.” "Micah..." Jackson moves closer to the tub slowly. His face has paled, eye just fixed on Micah. He crouches down, slowly, by the side of the tub, in front of where Micah sits. His hand moves out to rest on Micah's knee, his other lifting to the other man's back to steady him when he slumps. Now his voice is a little shaky, lower and tightened by a slowly growing fear. "Micah, please. For God's sake finally /talk to me/." Spencer fidgets uncomfortably, leaning against Shane's side. His frown is deep, his stance shifting unevenly and his fingers clenching harder in Shane's at the obvious agitation from the other men. "What's /happening/," he whispers to Shane. Shane doesn't respond. He watches Micah and Jax with gills still fluttering fast. "/Ba/." Sebastian's voice is sharper, harder, than its usual. "/Tell/ him." Micah's head shakes in a slow denial, starting when Jax approaches and just not stopping. He tenses, sliding further away when the hand moves toward his knee. At Jax's order, his teeth dig sharply into his lip, quickly beading blood around them. It's 'Bastian's order that makes him flinch, teeth releasing, a pained expression on his face. He still doesn't turn, though he does finally address someone directly. He even sounds a little more like himself, though himself on the verge of crying or worse. "Spence...honey. Maybe you can go play in your room for a little while? Please." Around Jackson there is a very small flicker of light, blossoming and then guttering out like a candle. It flashes at Bastian's tone more than anything else; what colour his face had drains from it. He looks to the twins, brow slowly rumpling. His hand pulls back slow and somewhat numbly from Micah, dropping to his /pocket/ to pull his phone out of it and switch on the screen. "... tell me what." Now /his/ tone is flat. His gaze sharpens on Micah's face. Sebastian's eyes narrow on Micah, his weight shifting a slow step back closer to his brothers. Now his gills flutter, too, his claws slowly extending and then retracting. "But I don't want to play in my room I want --" Spencer's protest stops abruptly with Shane's firmer squeeze at his hand. "Yeah." Shane's voice is very breathy, very uneven, his gills still rapidly shifting. "Spence, you really should --" He nudges Spencer off towards his bedroom. "I don't /want/ to play in my room /what's wrong/." Spencer reaches his other hand for the doorframe, digging his heels in as -- much as they can be dug in socked feet on wood floors. Which is to say, not very /much/; Shane pries him out of the doorway without much effort, bodily /hauling/ Spencer off towards his bedroom. "Tell him." Sebastian's voice is still hard. Still sharp. Micah cringes against Spencer's resistance, but doesn't speak again until the sound of the boy's door closing can be heard. “I'm. I just couldn't. With Spence. He wouldn't...understand.” His fingers clench, gripping the fabric of his jeans. “I'm sorry, I...” He fails to edit his words with this, the rest of the sentence sticking in his throat. His head shakes again, jaw tightening and loosening before he can force it out. “I killed him.” Jackson has a reflexive twinge at the use of that word, but it fades into a blank uncomprehending stillness at the confession to follow. "What?" At first he just looks utterly blank, looking at Micah without a trace of comprehension. It's only when he looks at /Bastian's/ tension that this seems to click as Not A Metaphor. "Micah, you -- wait, /who/ did --" He rocks back down heavily to thump into a sitting position, one hand braced against the cold bathroom floor behind him. "No. No, you couldn't -- you /what/? When -- how -- /what/." "He'd have killed you, Pa," Sebastian says heavily, claws still slowly extending and retracting. "He would have /kept/ coming at you until you were /dead/." Shane only returns after shutting Spencer up grumpily in his room. Still tense, his clear inner eyelids shifting closed in quick-blink. "But it's done now right. It's done and he's gone and everyone's fine. /Right/?" The heavy thump of Jax sitting finally pulls Micah's eyes away from the bath tub, looking back to determine if he's okay. He looks like he can't decide whether to cry or be sick and thus does neither. "I had to... I /had/ to, he was gonna kill you...or Shane or 'Bastian or...or.../Spencer/. Or everyone. Everyone." His hands start to shake. "Malthus," he spits the name out quickly before he loses the nerve to answer Jax's questions. "I...I took a gun. And I aimed it at his head. And I shot him." He almost sounds uncertain as he tells it, like it might have been a dream. Or just another one of the illusory target practice sessions. "He's dead." Jackson just sits in silence, for a time, eye widening. His hand lifts, fingertips pressing to his lips, and he doesn't even seem to notice that he is moving as he scoots back across the floor, away from Micah, until his back is pressed up against the sink cabinet. "No, you --" His voice trembles when he tries to speak. Tries and fails; he gets no farther than this before lapsing back into silence. His breathing comes shakily, the lights around the room quivering as he tries breathing slower. Deeper. It's the twins' speaking that snaps his eye open again. He just stares at the boys, head eventually slowly turning towards Micah. "They /knew/?" Not shaky anymore; now his voice is /hard/, his teeth clenching as his fists do, phone forgotten in one clenching hand. He gets to his feet in one swift motion, everything in the room suddenly far too bright. The abrupt fierce glow around /him/ suddenly far too hot, starting to fill the small bathroom. "/They/ knew?" There's the barest half-inch of motion towards Micah and he seems to /yank/ himself back from this, reach behind him to grip the sink tightly. "You /murdered/ a man and you brought our /sons/ into it?" "He wasn't a man," Sebastian protests, "he was a monster. He would have killed /all of us/, Pa, he needed to die a long time ago." Shane, though, flinches at Micah's blunt explanation, eyes lowering to the ground. He shivers, slipping past Sebastian into the bathroom. "Ba --" He crouches by the bathtub, flinching again at Jax's tone. At the bright-bright lights. His eyelids lower half-closed, and he reaches a hand towards Micah. "Ba, it's over. It's done, okay, you're home now, it's going to be okay. It's over. -- Pa no it wasn't /like/ that he didn't -- want us to know he -- we just. I -- wouldn't stop asking, he. Didn't just /tell/ us." Micah starts to shake, shivering like a person long out in the cold at Jax's rising anger. He seems to shrink in on himself, becoming smaller, but not flinching. Not even when Jax starts to move toward him. His expression turns more resigned, feeling deserving of whatever punishment might be meted out to him. "I...killed him. I'm sorry, I had to. I had to." His head shakes in denial of the boys' involvement, however. "They wasn't. They had nothin' t'do with it. I didn't even tell 'em what I was doin' they just. Have such a sense of smell an' they're...such...clever... They figured most of it out. I'm not any /good/ at this kind of thing. I tried. I tried so hard t'keep all of you out of it. So that this was only on...me." Trembling more noticeably, his gaze is drawn down to his hands. "I did this." There is somehow surprise in his voice at this declaration, the truth of the statement and the action finally becoming a reality in his mind. "Oh...ohgosh, I...did this." "Wouldn't stop asking. You wouldn't stop -- /I/ asked you, /I/ asked you and you -- time and time again you said. Said not to worry said it'd be okay said -- you fucking /lied/ to me, Micah. About /killing/ a -- this is -- there is nothing /okay/ about -- you /murdered him/." The heat coming off Jax is spiking higher. Sharper. There's a distinct burning-fabric smell starting from his suit, a still more unpleasant burning-/plastic/ smell where his phone is starting to /warp/ in his glowing clenched hand. "And you could lie to my face and turn around and put that on our /children/ --" His hand clenches harder, phone slowly starting to buckle inward where his fingers press. "You did this," he agrees, and though in his tone there's hard anger his expression is starting to just look /lost/. "How could you --" He looks down at his phone slowly, as the plastic smell grows more noticeable. Only now seems to notice the fierce bright glowing, the smoking of his clothes. He takes a step back, towards the door. "Oh god." "Pa calm down." Sebastian's gills flutter; he shields his eyes with a hand, but doesn't back away. His tone is distinctly wary, though, where it used to be more even. "Please, you're going to -- Pa you have to stop. This is /good/. Not the /lying/ that's." His jaw clenches, his muscles clench, head dipping for a moment. "-- but Malthus." Shane has reverted to not-talking, the quick-flutter of his gills making this hard. He curls in smaller when Jax's anger grows. 'Pa --' he mouths, but only that far. His eyes squint up further, and he reaches around Micah to turn on the bathtub faucet, running the cool water. "Move," he finally manages, to Micah. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I couldn't /tell/ any of you. Y'needed...not t'be involved. I said...as much as I could. I tried t'be as honest as...but I couldn't let any of you get involved. I was tryin' t'/protect/ you. It's my job t'protect you, I...ohgosh. I'm sorry.” Micah's eyes fill with tears, but they don't spill over. There is no time for this, as his eyes are shooting wide at Jax's smoking and melting. This finally springs him to action, jumping to his feet even as Shane is telling him to move. “Water...good, water,” he mutters, going to the hall closet to retrieve the nearest fire extinguisher and blanket out of well-drilled habit, bringing these back to the bathroom with him, ready to employ either or both. "Protect us -- you /murdered someone/ Micah you can't --" Jax is shaking, now; he drops his phone to the ground, very likely kind of useless now, judging by the way it has warped and buckled inward at its edges in a twisty-melting scrunch of plastic. His clothing is moving from smouldering to actively flickering into small flames at its outside edges. "Who's going to protect us when they come /arrest you/, what am -- what am I going to /do/ if they lock you up forever, they -- you can get the /death/ penalty for killing a -- a law enforcement -- you could --" The shaky tremble of his voice implies an onset of tears, but at his current temperature none are actually successfully /falling/, more than hot enough to make water simply sizzle and evaporate on initial contact. Water and fire extinguisher -- both likely very good plans, the bathroom rug is beginning to smoulder as well. "-- I just, what would I /do/ without you here, Micah, I can't. I /need you/ you can't go -- off and --" He shakes his head quickly. Shane clambers up onto the edge of the tub to unhook the shower head from its mount, switching the water up to it and turning the water out towards Jax. Sizzzzzzle. Though he keeps the cool water focused on him, quenching the rug, quenching his clothes, at least for the moment. "I mean it's not like he --" Sebastian looks at Micah with suddenly narrowed eyes. "... you didn't do it in Central Park or something did you?" Micah aims the fire extinguisher toward Jax, coating him in white foam that just ends up washed to the floor with the spray from Shane's shower nozzle. "They never enacted the law t'reestablish the death penalty for murderin' law enforcement officers after the whole thing was struck down in 2007. Senate passed it in 2008, but the Assembly never acted on it. Governor disestablished death row instead," he informs rather mechanically, a little sickened by how recently he had researched the information and why. He brings the heavy blanket in to wrap around Jax tightly, patting at him, calmer now that he has this clear and necessary action to perform. "They shouldn't know it was me. I had...help. T'disguise me. Even if someone has it on video they would never know it was me. We were...on the street. There were witnesses. But they all saw /not-me/ pull the trigger." He swallows hard against the parched tightness of his mouth and throat, still having difficulty with relaying the details of his actions. Jackson slumps back against the sink, still shaky, now, still glowing, though under the foam and then the cool water and the deep breaths he takes the ferocity of this brightness is starting to subside. Reflexively, he leans into the patting, leans into /Micah/, closing his eye tightly and slowly lifting a hand to start to curl around the other man's waist. He drops it again almost immediately, pulling back from the touch quickly. "Okay. You had help. You --" He sounds hollow, now, flatter. His face is pale as he looks up at his husband. "I can't -- how could you, I can't --" He swallows, taking a slow step back, feet splashing against the now very wet floor. His head just shakes, heavy and numb. "I can't. Be around you right now, I need to -- I just. I'm going to -- change, I need to. Not. Not --" His shoulders shudder. "... B, can you check on Spence, I gotta. I gotta --" Still glowing but no longer /incendiary/, he pulls back from the blanket, arms wrapping tightly around himself as he starts for the bathroom door. "Gotta – think." Sebastian's mouth opens. But closes again, quickly. He frowns at his fathers, frowns down at his hands. He slips away quickly, disappearing towards Spencer's room. Shane stays. He only turns the water off once Jackson starts to calm, returning the shower head to its mount. He splooshes across the floor towards the others, lifting his hands towards them /both/ in an almost supplicating gesture. "Pa please he was -- he was just -- this is --" His hands drop to his sides, his eyes darting between both of them unhappily. "... can I do anything? Please? What do you need?" Micah's patting falters at the accusation, though it is Jax's declaration of not being able to be /near/ him that has him stumbling back several steps, as if struck. His sneakers squish into the bathmat, leaving wet footprints on the floor in the hall just outside the door. "I...I had to. I couldn't let him kill you. I /love/ all of you so much...you're my family, I couldn't..." The defences dissolve into tears, finally running freely down his cheeks. "Should...should I...go?" he barely manages to ask, forcing the breath out between his lips as surely as if he /had/ been punched in the stomach. Jackson turns to slip out of the bathroom, dripping from his soaked clothing though his lingering heat has left his feet already nearly dry. He shakes his head at Micah's protestations, eye scrunching shut. The last question makes him freeze, though. He stops outside his bedroom door, turning to look at Micah. He opens his mouth, shakes his head again. "N -- y -- may --" He looks from Micah to Spencer's bedroom door. To Shane. "... potatoes are burnin' in the oven," he finally answers. "I can't -- no. Please don't I love you I -- I just need. I just need some time to think okay I can't. /Lose/ you I just. Need to calm down." His tone is a little /wry/ as he adds, "... settin' the apartment on fire won't help our eviction case. Can we just -- talk. In -- not now. Soon." He almost takes a step towards Micah, but then opens the bedroom door and disappears inside. Shane's gills still flutter quick and unsteady. 'Pleasedon'tgo --' He mouths this more than says it, breath coming out so softly as to be almost inaudible. He creeeeeps his way forward, stealing thin arms around Micah in a very tiny very brief hug. And creeps on past to the kitchen to deal with the -- possibly unsalvageable food. Micah's eyes widen at Jax's hesitation, his changing beginnings of replies leaving those eyes looking wild and /injured/. He watches Jax retreat, still somewhat uncertain. He doesn't even have time to bring his arms up to hug Shane back before the teen has moved on to the kitchen. His shoulders heave in a sob, his back sliding down against the wall until he is sitting on the slightly-damp floor, staring down at his hands with his /own/ look of accusation. "I'm sorry...I'm such a...terrible...person...I don't even...deserve to be here..." He collapses forward, arms wrapped around his knees and forehead tucked down against them, sobbing raggedly. | |
