ArchivedLogs:I'm Listening

I'm Listening
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jackson, Micah	12 March 2013 Hive has /visitors/. Micah and Jax have...responsibilities.
Location <NYC> 403 {Hive} - Village Lofts - East Village
There's kind of a college-dorm feel to this place, though some of its occupants have left college behind. Entering the apartment finds visitors greeted by the perpetually messy living room, a mismatched assortment of couches and chairs (and milk crates) surrounding the wide table in the center. The wall holds a range of posters; some political, some sporty, some from video games, and a string of white lights strung over the kitchen doorway might be a holdover from Christmas. The kitchen adjacent is just as cluttered, its table unfit for eating due to its perpetual covering of books, papers, cereal boxes, projects; the fridge is usually sparsely populated. Ketchup. Beer. Not a lot of food. There are two bedrooms here, split between the four people; the fold-out couch in the living room (often folded out!) suggests that at least one of them does not actually claim a room as their own. Tuesday means games, at least in general, and though last week was cancelled due to training for the raid this week, come hell or high water, Hive's apartment is determined to have /some/ semblance of normalcy. And so their refugees (the ones who /aren't/ geeks, at least; the geeks can stay) have been shuffled off to Jax's or Ryan's, Flicker (still acid-ravaged, still tired, but slowly recovering) has been moved from bed out to the couch, the gaming table cleared off. With Flicker still recovering it is Easy Game Night apparently, at least in terms of having no rules to learn; Ticket to Ride is a standby and requires no new learning. Though maybe a lot of fighting. Still. It ends without bloodshed. People go on their way. Hive has been uncharacteristically quiet through the night. His commentary has all come mentally, rather than audibly, without his usual painful mental bludgeoning and with, instead, a chorusing echo of manyvoices together. But he doesn't talk much. He doesn't even play, really, instead watching and kibitzing over Flicker's shoulder until the night is over. As people start to trickle away and the apartment starts to return to quiet, he is still uncharacteristically reserved. He slouches in an armchair, staring at the table like he can /will/ the neatly boxed-up game to return to the shelves. Jax is being helpful! Look. He is getting up to put the box away with the massive stacks of other games. He is not dressed appropriately geeky for this geekfest. Colourful, though. His slim-fit black jeans are embroidered up their sides with red flames, and he wears a red fishnet shirt with this, a silver-studded black sleeveless top paired with it. His hair is bright in purple-red-green and his nails and eyeshadow glitter. The eyepatch, today, is bright purple, a silver star in its center. "I probably need a better strategy," he's saying to nobody in particular, "than 'try to collect the most /colourful/ cards.'" Micah is also being helpful, gathering abandoned cups, wrappers, and other signs of geek-snacking and sorting these to the sink and trash as appropriate. He is not dressed very…anything, in a green-and-blue flannel button-down over a plain white T-shirt, with faded patched jeans. “It’s not a bad strategy provided you’ve accepted that your Endgame is not everyone else’s Endgame. Though that does make it so that you can both win and lose at the same time.” << Jax always wins, >> Hive's mental chiming sounds in his multitude of voices, << or ties with Flicker. They win by dint of having the most fun. We should start keeping score in smiles. >> He's not being helpful at all. He's watching Micah clean up, his eyes oddly vacant, distant, though they're directed towards the other man. It takes a while before they focus, and in some ways the focus might be more offputting; it comes with a quiet mental touch that doesn't so much press as /taste/. Flicking against Micah's mind and slipping back away again. "I'd get /all/ the points then," Jax says, and then reconsiders: "No, cuz it's most fun when everyone /else/ is smilin', too, so I guess I'd just try to share the points around s'much as possible." His tone is light, but he's watching Hive and his vacant look with a distinct note of worry. "Hive, honey-honey, you ain't really eaten all night. Should get some dinner into you." He never goes anywhere without food. Lentil chili, today. He follows Micah to the sink to snag a bowl, wash it out, so it can be filled with food. Or at least that's the /idea/. He kind of just ends up lingering to wash the other dishes while he's there /anyway/. “Everyone wins all of the games. It’s very elementary school field day,” Micah teases with a grin as he returns a half-empty juice jug to the refrigerator. “You may as well eat a thing now that Jax is on it, Hive. There is no chance to survive, make your time.” Micah has kind of gotten used to the mindtalking, but the mind…pressing is new and not really recognised for what it is. He glances behind him like someone had tapped him on the shoulder. Huh, weird. With a shrug, he grabs a towel to help assembly line the dishwashing. << Not really hungry, >> Hive says, though these words carry with them a strong undercurrent /of/ hunger. Ache. Hive's oddly glazed eyes are still focused over towards Micah. << Maybe hungry, >> he allows next, and the next brush of his mind to Micah's is firmer. It doesn't pull back, just snakes its way inside in a slow curious probing. Not gripping. Just exploring whatever thoughts lie nearest the surface. Jackson smiles as Micah joins him at the dishwashing again, but it's a little wan. A little concerned. His echoed, << not hungry >> is /quite/ skeptical, and he isn't really thinking about Hive's /dinner/, here. << He's always hungry, >> is his next thought -- kind of concerned but also kind of /nervous/. And then guilty for his nervousness. He shoves it back down to smile a little brighter as he works his way through dishes, stacking the clean ones neatly in the drying rack for Micah. "Micah's right, ain't no fighting this, honey-honey. -- Hey, nothing's wrong with elementary school games. I miss four square." As Hive's 'maybe hungry' comes through, Micah twists a knob on the stove to turn the heat back on the chili pot to warm it for Hive. "Hmm...I was much more into tetherball. Because the ball...it was tethered. No need to chase it in random directions. Bonus when I was younger." His thoughts trace idly through half-memories of children, wheelchairs, crutches. A lot of falling. A very petite, dark-haired lady--physical therapist--he'd had /such/ a crush on when he was too little to even know what crushes were. He reaches for another plate, swiping at it with the towel. Hmm. Head feels a little funny. His brow furrows faintly. << We didn't have those -- >> It's a vague thought, calling to mind different childhood games in Thailand. Tetherball is a foreign concept to Hive. He's still poking. It's barely even conscious, now, a slow /drift/ through Micah's mind, his eyes still focused on the other man's face. There is a sudden shared image -- Micah's face /melting/, flesh rearranged -- and Hive sits up /abruptly/ with a slight tensing of shoulders. << Maybe hungry, >> he affirms again, scrubbing at the side of his face. Jax doesn't stick the last bowl in the drying rack, but keeps it, setting it on the counter beside the stove so he can fill it with chili. Not immediately, though. He's leaning against the counter, waiting for the chili to warm. << Hive, >> is deliberate, this time. << You slipping? >> "There's tetherball out at the park," he muses absently. "I have a sudden hankering for playground games. -- Y'aright?" He's glancing over at Micah, and his furrowing brow. Micah has a glass in hand, towel twisted to be able to fit inside to soak water droplets from its bottom, when the shared-image comes through. It's a fortunate thing that Jax didn't put the bowl into the rack, because Micah promptly drops the glass back into it with a clatter. Surprisingly, it doesn't break. Micah's head is suddenly full of meltyface man and shoulder wrenching, Nox as a shadowblanket, wrapped around him...oddly intimate and terrifying at the same time. His heart is racing uncomfortably. Micah stares down at the glass, fingers clenching the towel. Hive twitches, and it might be at the sound of the glass clanging or might be at the sudden spike of feeling from Micah. His mind /wraps/ around that, a tight squeeze of pressure that grips hard and doesn't let go. His eyes are fixed on Micah's face again with a curious intensity. << You know us/me, >> the concept of self is a little fuzzy. Plural-me, meltyface-me; /Hive/ is lost in there as only an afterthought. Jackson twitches, too, his eye widening and his hand instinctively moving to touch fingers to Micah's elbow. "Hey, Micah --" His voice is soft and concerned. He's not looking at Micah, though, he's looking at Hive. His fingers curl just slightly around Micah's arm. "I think we should go." << think you should sleep, >> is added silently; that is the deliberate message while inadvertent beneath it lurks, << think you should /stop/. >> Micah is rather tightly wound at this point, and Jax’s touch causes him to startle. But it’s just Jax, and then the touch on his arm is firmer, reassuring. He relaxes his grip on the poor, strangled towel. “Um…guys? I think I’m gettin’ some strange brain-noise here. Is that a thing that happens?” His thoughts are a miasma of uncertainty and alarm. << should sleep, >> surfaces not so much as conscious speech but a soft agreement that bubbles up unwanted, in close tandem with, << should stop. >> And below this, a chorus of other thoughts, jumbling together: << can't stop >> << pretty face >> << want it >> -- this is mingled. Attraction. And a desire to /twist/ that pretty face into something mangled and unrecognizable. "You should go," Hive eventually agrees, hoarse-rough out loud. Even before this eventual agreement, Jax is slipping his arm through Micah's. He's tugging the other man towards the door, somewhat urgently. "S'a thing that happens," he agrees, "but it ain't -- we should go. Please." The please is as much to Hive as it is to Micah. << This ain't you. Hive. /Hive/. >> It's not yelling so much as /calling/. Trying to draw that one Hive-voice out of the chorus of people. Micah allows himself to be led, trailing along after Jax. But he’s still watching Hive. “Is he gonna be okay? Sounds like a psychotic break /actively in progress/ or somethin’.” Concern-worry sits prominently in his mind, clearly mirrored in knitted brows. << Not a break, >> echoes in Micah's mind, and it comes with a sense of amusement. << Never better. >> But his mind pulls back from Micah's. His eyes, though, linger, following the others towards the door. Jax pulls Micah outside into the hall, closing the door behind them. "S'complicated," he says with a wrinkle of his nose. "Hive's fine. Are /you/ okay?" He's searching Micah's face with a rather distinct look of worry. "Hive can be -- it can be -- um." He bites down on his lip. "-- You're still Micah, right?" Micah is still glancing back at the door, as if he could actually see what was going on /through/ it. He turns to Jax with the questions, scrunching his features briefly in confusion. "Yes? I mean...who else would I be?" This earns a relieved squeeze of Micah's arm. "Never know." He's looking at Hive's door with a deep frown. He turns away, heading towards the stairwell. He stops, though, with a blush and a glance back to Micah. "Sorry, I shouldn't just assume you're, um, coming with. M'sorry to -- get you all --" His nose wrinkles. "You're so /good/. And this is all kind of a mess." Micah smiles at Jax's arm-squeezing. "No need to apologise. I guess superpowers can go all wonky from time to time just like anything else." He blushes faintly in response, smile broadening. "If that was a 'please follow' invitation, I'll take it." And words precede actions, as he falls into step behind Jax. "Oh, you got no idea," Jax says, a little wryly. One last squeeze and then his hand slides off of Micah's arm, fingers brushing against the other man's hand in passing before his hand moves away. "Been kinda a /week/," he says, and though this is light, cheerful, his smile is a little crooked. "But just, um. Be -- careful if you're around Hive right now? I don't want you, uh." His noise wrinkles. "Eaten or nothing." “It does seem to keep bein’ a week, yeah,” Micah jokes lightly. Jax’s word choice catches him mid-step. “Eaten? Like /eaten/ eaten? He get all cannibally when he’s like that?” Micah’s expression is rather…incredulous. Jackson stops, once they're in the stairway. He bites down on his lip, looking at Micah for a moment. His head shakes, floppy hair spilling down over his forehead. "Not like fava beans an' a Chianti or nothing. S'his power. It gets -- hungry. For minds. Mighta probably been the, uh, strange -- brain-noise you mentioned feeling." “Ah…that’s reassuring.” Micah does not sound all that reassured. “I felt…like, a pressure in my head? But the really weird part was the thoughts and the…voice? of it. Didn’t sound like Hive. I’d just started gettin’ used to him brain-talkin’, and that didn’t sound like him at all.” "Ain't real reassuring at all." Jackson leans back against the railing, one palm braced against it and his nose wrinkling. "Yeah, he starts with the chorus-talking and you kinda almost /wish/ he was still just bludgeoning at you, don't you?" He looks at Micah. Looks back at the stairwell door. His shoulders are a little hunched as he looks down at his shoes. "It don't sound like Hive cuz it ain't Hive. It's a lot of people together and Hive gets lost in them all." “I don’t know about bein’ bludgeoned or nothin’.” Micah pulls a face at that whole concept, stopping to rest next to Jax. “No, far as I can tell he always sounds a little plural? At least recently. It was more that he was soundin’ /like/ someone else. Someone I don’t care to hear from again. ‘Specially not in my head with his facemelty ideas.” "Oh." Jax winces, and he lifts a hand to brush his fingertips against Micah's jaw. Micah's very /not-melty/ jaw. "Oh, no, he wouldn't want -- he." He bites down on his lip, looking over Micah slowly. "That guy hurt a friend of ours," he kind-of explains, "Hive's trying to put it right again. But it's hard. There's -- it leaks, I guess. Other people's feelings cross over to him." His frown is deepening. "Ain't nobody melting your face, though." Micah is very briefly distracted by the touch, head tilting ever-so-slightly to follow Jax's fingers, like a cat leaning into pettings. "No, I know he wouldn't..." Micah frowns slightly. "Just sounded like a full-blown identity crisis, is all. Not a pleasant identity, either. I don't envy him, bein' stuck with /that/ rattlin' around his skull." "Sorta an identity crisis, yeah. He's got a lot rattling around in there right now," Jackson says, and it's quieter, more worried. "Some'a the people we brought home --" He stops, not so much hesitation but a slow tired sinking of his weight, his eye scrunching shut for a moment. A slight shift of position brings him more in front of Micah than beside him, forehead resting against the other man's and his fingers still tracing against the side of Micah's face. "S'a long story," he says apologetically, but the fact this is followed up by, "-- I feel like I got so /much/ long story to tell you," makes it not so much the evasion this statement usually is. Jax’s hesitation warrants a Micah-hand on his right shoulder, which gives a comforting little squeeze before sketching along the length of his arm. “Y’don’t have to. Tell. Or explain. Until you want to. Or you need to,” Micah offers little sentence fragments, hazel eyes studying Jax’s expressions closely. “But when you do, I’m listening.” Jax's expressions fall mostly towards the worried end of the spectrum; he's studying Micah right /back/ and with no small measure of concern as he does so. "You're here so often. Helping out. Being a /sweetheart/. You just jumped into the middle'a all this /chaos/ and crazy and I ain't even bothered to tell you /why/ this building's full of trauma patients and half of Flicker got melted off and Hive's trying to eat your brain and it -- all kinda seems like something you should /know/." At the end of this rambling he winces, glancing back towards the stairway door. "-- we left the stove on." Frown. He doesn't move though. Micah gives Jax a little crooked smile in attempt to salve some of his worry. “I figure I’ll know what needs knowin’ in due time. There’s been a lot of crisis and urgency to deal with that’s been more important. Things’re things.” He grimaces at the reminder of the stove. “If that ain’t just the end all of things that get worried about that usually /aren’t/ true. We did.” Micah’s eyes track to the door, as well. “We have to go back. Food’ll start burnin’ soon. Set off the fire alarm in a buildin’ full of wounded folk. Call unwanted attention.” "We have to go back," Jackson agrees. He offers this agreement while his hand is curving around to the back of Micah's neck, while his other is moving to rest at Micah's hip. He offers this agreement with his eye slipping closed and a slight smile touching his lips to answer Micah's crooked one. "An' be responsible." His fingers are kneading. Absent, gentle, at Micah's neck. "Soon." And maybe he even will. Soon. All of this…contact…does no good for Micah’s focus. He’s leaning into Jax’s (uninjured) shoulder, a hand slipping to rest at the small of the other man’s back. Eyes closed and lips slightly parted to…give a little groan of frustration when that ‘soon’ reminder is spoken. Eyelids flit back open. “We should really get on that now.” He shakes his head, muttering, “this bein’ responsible business is seriously overrated.” His weight shifts over his feet, suggesting doorward motion. "Comes with some perks, though," Jackson says. /Cheerfully/! At least, his tone is bright, and there's a quick smile touching his lips. It takes him a moment longer to actually disengage, but he turns for the door at length, too. "Like not having the apartment building burn down." With another squeeze of Micah's hand, he shifts away to go Be Responsible.