ArchivedLogs:I Put On My Robe and Wizard Hat

I Put On My Robe and Wizard Hat
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Peter	2013-06-19 What? They totally did.
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. 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. Sunlight still floods into the wide windows of this apartment, even with evening wearing on. There's music playing, something heavy and industrial with the cheery refrain 'The ambitions are: Wake up. Breathe. Keep breathing.'. In contrast to its heavy feel Jackson looks rather bright-cheery, colourfully patchwork shorts, a bright yellow Funshine Bear t-shirt. He's standing by his easel; it's got a painting on it that is slowly inching its way towards complete. At the moment he's working on the silhouette of a person standing in front of a mirror; their reflection seems to be climbing back /out/ of it. Tiny flickers of light skip and dance through the apartment, brightly colourful in their scattered swirl. Knock-knock-knock comes the sound of Peter's fist against the side of that door-frame; it's followed by -- Peter's FACE. Peeking in around the edge of the door. Peeeeering at Jackson as he works on his painting. Peter's clothed in a loose fitting blue-collar shirt (he didn't change it after yesterday!), dress slacks, socks -- and /one/ webshooter. Still a little persnickity about that. But actually, he's persnickity about something else, too: "Jax? I saw some of the news reports -- they're talking about the videos--" Peter's nose is wrinkled; his brow is crumpled. There's something maybe-frustrated, maybe-/angry/ in his voice: "--why is the one /I'm/ in not out there?" Jackson stops, fingers curled loosely around his paintbrush -- held with his entire hand he paints with it held more like a /sword/ than a pen. His palette balances loosely on a palm, the lights fading out around the room as he turns towards the door. "Hey, Peter!" comes in warm initial greeting, but this fades too, into a small frown. Then a deeper one. He lays the palette down on his unused stool (sitting while working, not apparently his thing!) and rests the paintbrush atop it. "Is that a bad thing?" he wants to know. "We chose a couple. Didn't release all'a them. They're doin' the job we wanted." "--but they're -- everybody thinks they're /monsters/," Peter responds. There's an unusually /harsh/ note in his tone; he steps into the room, now. Folding his arms across his chest -- something defensive about his posture. Like he's expecting Jax to start lobbing paint globs at him from the tip of that brush. "I didn't -- watch them," Peter adds, tentatively, a little flustered at this admission -- glancing, quickly, toward a far wall. "But I've been listening to what people are saying about them and -- the one I'm in -- they don't -- Shane /saves/ me. Maybe if people saw that one -- they wouldn't -- they'd stop calling them monsters." Jackson exhales slowly; there's a clench at his jaw that twitches his lips into a thinner line for a moment. Just a moment. "People're sayin' some pretty terrible things," he agrees, and there's a very /distinct/ unhappiness on his voice at this; a few of those flecks of light spark to life again, fiercer and brighter. He pushes it back, leveller calm when he continues: "There was just -- some concern. About the impact it'd have on everyone /in/ those videos. We tried to be real careful about the ones we put out there." Peter's huffy prickliness begins to dissolve underneath Jackson's response; the arms slide and unfold -- the harsh note dwindles to something softer, meeker, more subdued. But still insistent. "How would /that/ one hurt them? I mean, from what I heard, the only other video has them --" He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. "--they don't--oh," Peter says, and now the back of his head lightly -- baps the door frame. The arms return to wrapping around his chest. "--you're talking about /me/." "Yeah," Jackson agrees, quieter, "you and everyone -- it's. This whole thing is real ugly, Peter, and folks didn't --" His arms tighten against his chest. "Didn't want to spread the ugly any farther than it was necessary. There was also a --" His teeth sink against his lip. "We didn't get a whole lotta warnin' we had like a day to try and track everything down and. You're still a minor, it's more'n just your consent involved. Legally speaking. And we was in /sort/ of a mad rush." Peter's teeth dent down on his bottom lip; he's not looking at Jackson anymore. He's looking at the opposite end of the door frame. Eyebrows crumpled together. Arms folded. Shoulders propped up on the wood. There's -- a sense of /thought/, there. Gears churning, grinding, gnawing away at some problem. And then: "Do you still have the video?" "-- Yes," Jackson answers this caaaautiously. Looking at Peter with a small frown. "Can," Peter continues, voice low -- /not/ looking Jackson in the eyes -- "I have it?" He continues to stare at the door frame; his arms tighten a little. Jackson still continues to frown at Peter uncertainly. His teeth wiggle at one lip ring. "-- Why?" "Because, um--" Peter says, now reaching out to curl his finger into the metal slot the door's piston locks into -- pulling and tugging at it. "--I, just want it." /TUG/. Jackson's nose crinkles. His suspcious look isn't really /fading/. "T'do what with? -- please don't break my door, honey-honey." Peter is strong. You never know. "I'm not gonna--" Break the door? Or, /what/? Peter doesn't finish the thought, yanking his finger out of the socket and /jamming/ his hand into his pocket. Just, SHOVE. He's still very clearly avoiding eye contact with Jackson, though. "--/s'my/ video, isn't it? I should get to have it." Well, the TWINS are on there, too. But Peter doesn't seem interested in that fact at the moment. Jackson presses his palm against his face, shoulders falling kind of tiredly. "Peter --" There's a faintly worried edge to his tone before he says: "I think you should talk t'your folks about this, not me." /Now/, finally, Peter manages to sling his eyes on over to Jackson. There's a ripple of escalating tension in his expression; the hand not shoved into one of his pockets /squeezes/, fingers denting into his palm. But then, slowly, he forces himself to breathe; he closes his eyes and begins -- tapping. The back of his head, against the door. Not hard; just a delicate -- tap, tap, tap. Like he's keeping the rhythm to a song in his head. "...just. Tell me? If it would it help. If that video was out there," Peter says, his head coming to a rest after maybe, seven or eight taps. "Or is there something in there -- that would hurt -- somebody else?" "Peter --" Jackson's brow creases. He takes a step closer, one hand lifting towards Peter; almost like offering a hug but he hesitates, dropping his hand back to his side. His jaw tightens again; his hand lifts to rub his knuckles against his eye. "Help what," he offers then, quieter. "Peter, I /really/ think this is a thing you should talk with your folks about. The kinda attention this is drawing -- they're gonna want." His cheeks puff out, and he exhales heavily. "They /do/ want. To look after you. And this ain't gonna make that /easy/." "Easy," Peter repeats, his eyes finally opening -- missing the motion of Jackson's hands, only seeing him standing nearer, rubbing at his eye. He blinks, as if the thought hadn't occurred to him. "Harder -- it would. Maybe. Make things harder for them. I guess. I don't know. I just--" Eyes lock down on his toes. The tenseness in his fist is gone, now; he just rolls his shoulders back in a boneless shrug. "...everything was horrible, there," Peter says. "Everyone had to do -- horrible things. But, the one video we have, where. Someone did something --" Wonderful? Somehow, the word doesn't seem to fit. By the look on Peter's face, he doesn't know what word /would/ fit. "--/different/. Something -- /not/ horrible. We -- can't show that? He saved my life and, we aren't gonna let anyone /see/ it? Because --" Nothing comes after this because; Peter doesn't know what else to say. He just -- /slump/. "It'd make things harder for them," Jackson says quietly, "I mean, I -- I can take a lot. But I ain't had /no/ pain sharper'n seeing my boys hurting or in trouble and having no way t'fix it." His arms curl against his chest instead, and Peter's words make him swallow. He steps forward again, this time to move his hand to Peter's shoulder, squeeze gently. "Peter, it." His eye squeezes shut for a moment. "It ain't my call," he says again, when he looks at Peter once more. "Your folks didn't want us dumping all this on you. They want what's best for you, Peter, they know better'n /me/ or Hive or anyone -- they're your family. You should. All this. Talk to them about. About it all, I don't know. Maybe it'd be better. /Doing/ something with all that terrible that happened. Maybe it'd be worse, it's a /whole/ lot of abuse you'd be signing yourself up for. But -- either way it. Ain't. My call." "Okay," Peter relents, and there's -- sort of a childish glumness to this, like he's just been informed SANTA CLAUS IS NOT REAL. But it's followed by, a swoop forward, arms slinging around Jackson's waist. "--m'sorry. I know you're just -- okay," he repeats, and -- /squeeze/. Release. Step back. "I'll, talk to them," he says, a little firmly -- but by his tone and expression and the crinkle of his brows, he already knows pretty much how the conversation is going to go. But, at least, he does not look /angry/, now. Just -- frumpled. Jackson squeezes back, tightly; his head tips down, lips pressing for a moment to the top of Peter's head. When he lets go and steps back it is with a quick sharp breath drawn in. "Peter --" There's a hesitation in his voice, but eventually all he says is: "When d'you start work?" Peter's head tilts up -- /interested/ -- at the faint trace of hesitation in Jackson's voice. But then -- "Oh," he says, pausing and thinking as his brows crumple a little more -- but now in thought rather than frustration. "Um. I don't -- actually know," he admits, flustering. "...actually uh, I might not -- be able to take summer classes. Depending. On how often I'm --" He shrugs. "M'sure you could work it out," Jax says with a shrug, "I think Bastian's doing both. Think it'll be good, though. Workin' at a place like that, s'bound to have no /end/ of interesting things t'focus on." "Is he?" Peter asks, eyebrows /shooting/ up. Because: "/Because/ I really want to -- continue, I mean -- take summer courses /and/ go work there I was just worried -- I mean I'll probably not have a lot of time but /holycrap/," Peter adds, "he has /HOLOGRAMS/. Jax, like your -- illusion things? But they're made out of /SCIENCE/!" "What am /I/ made out of, then," Jackson wants to know, with a laugh, "magic?" He reaches to squeeze Peter's shoulder again, then glances back towards his canvas. Then to the door. "Y'wanna give me a hand, actually?" he wants to know. "I'm puttin' together some supplies for the folks in the tunnels, don't think s'been hardly easy for 'em getting out and around right now. Could use a hand pickin' stuff up at the store, packing it all up neat." "Oh you're," Peter pauses, waving his hand -- fruitlessly, kind-of-frantically -- "wizardy, yeah, I mean. Mutant powers don't make sense we're basically /all/ just a bunch of Gandalfs." At the mention of giving Jax a hand -- and the tunnels! -- Peter brightens, squirming just a /bit/ underneath Jax's arm-squeeze. "YES," he says, before adding, a smidge quieter: "Yeah I totally would love to help with that I, wanted to see if Anole is okay. Plus I could lift all the supplies MYSELF." He flexes an arm, as if to demonstrate. Look at that, Jackson. ALL MUSCLE. Jackson grins, quick and bright. A peaked grey wide-brimmed hat appears on his head. Peter's clothes shift to a length of grey robes. "Rad. Lemme tuck my paints away and we'll hit up a couple stores 'fore they close. I could /definitely/ use the extra muscle. Prob'ly won't actually /take/ the stuff down till tomorrow but -- you'll be around, yeah?" Peter's eyes widen at the sight of ROBES on himself. And then he looks up, and. WIZARD HAT. And he /grins/. "Yes," he asserts, quite firmly! Before adding: "Actually I am, probably going /back/ to campus tomorrow. But, not until late, so. Yes. I will totally be around then. Let's acquire. ADVENTURING supplies at ye olde adventure shop!" And by 'adventuring supplies', he means. MORLOCK SURVIVAL SUPPLIES. The two probably have a lot of overlap.