ArchivedLogs:Marching Orders

Marching Orders
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jackson, Jim, Micah, Tag	2014-02-03 resistance is...
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. Clunk-clunk-rattle-rattle-tccchk. That is the quiet sound of Jax returning home from WORK, key in the lock...s. Many locks. He's not as brightly-coloured as he was when he /left/, his attire has gone through many incarnations and since just faded /back/ down to what he's /actually/ wearing. Which is, admittedly, still bright. Oilslick makeup in rainbow-swirl on black, lips and eyelids and nails tinted glimmer-on-dark. Loose-fitting UFOs in sky-blue and black mesh. Shiny puple Doc Martens. A black soft sweatshirty-jacket with its zipper cut on a bias, worn under a puffier shiny silver one. Green 'cow hugger' tee under that. He's just finished sending Hive a text as he enters the apartment, a little too pale himself a little too shaky after a long shift. (Jax --> Hive): Hey. You want doughnuts? Though why he's sending a text is anyone's guess, his /mind/ is sending a message all too clearly as well: << -- gotta talk, honey-honey. >> It's a kind of worn message as well, pulsing with headache that is in keen need of snackfood, the supply he carries with him depleted after work-train-class-morework. For a moment, though, he just slumps against the entryway hall, slowly sinking downwards so that he can /sit/ as he unlaces his boots. He's humming absently to himself as he does this, still clearly in a good /mood/ both internally and externally for all that work has left him physically worn. The lingering full-body soreness from freshly retouched tattoos isn't helping. The assorted clunks and rattles in the main room of the apartment serve to alert Micah to someone's presence. The sounds once that someone has entered he is able to identify as Jax. Taking a final sip from his mint and lavender tea, he deposits both his mug and e-reader on the nightstand before moving into the living room. His auburn hair is end-of-the-day messy, and it is /clearly/ past Pajama O'clock to judge from Micah's navy blue henley shirt worn over pajama pants dotted with tiny TARDISes tumbling through space and blue-and-grey striped fuzzy socks. The warmth of his smile is cooled some by worry, his brow furrowing slightly, as he takes in Jax's appearance. "Hey, hon." He crouches next to Jax by the door. "Y'want some juice, then we can figure out what else t'get you from there?" Domestic bliss, meet Jim's /fist/: whomp-whomp-whomp. It's the civilian's version of a policeKnock. Not quite pounding, but not really concerned with NOT sounding put-out and owly, "Singing telegram." He rasps; it has the muffled up-close-and-personal resonance through the door that can only be accomplished by pressing your face against the wood and muttering through your teeth. "Juice please," Jackson agrees immediately, brightening in a warm smile at Micah's appearance and lifting a hand to curl it around the other man in a quick hug. "I jus' told Hive t'come by. Is there still doughnuts left? I offered him doughnuts. Can't remember how many I leaved here this afternoon though." he tugs off his boots, leaving bright-coloured mismatched socks beneath, and for a moment more just sits where he is, head thumping back against the wall. He pushes himself upright soon after though, scooping up his heavy canvas messenger bag to drape it over a shoulder. "Honey-honey, can you do me a favour? I might need you to kinda. Get on top of me a little about schoolwork my mind's all /over/ the place a lot an' if I don't -- I have seventeen /tons/ of make-up work after jail an' -- my school'll kick you out in /two/ ticks if your GPA ain't up to -- think I might need help /focusing/ till I'm back -- catched-up. -- that was quick." He is a little flinchy at the whomping, though considerably less so than he would be at Hive's /usual/ brain-pounding. "-- Oh! Hi Jim. S'weird I jus' texted Hive -- oh was you /up/ there." Blinkblink. "Orange or cranberry-peach?" Micah leans into the hug, pressing his lips to Jax's temple in a quick kiss. "Oh, should be... I told Spence he was only allowed t'have /one/. I'll check." He holds out a hand, offering Jax assistance in getting back up from he floor. "An', yeah, that's fine. You let me know what schedule it is you're wantin' t'stick to, an' I can hold y'to it easy enough." His fingertips trace gently over the back of Jax's neck before he moves off into the kitchen to fetch juice and (hopefully) pastries to the living room. The /physical/ knocking does rather draw his attention, as he was expecting /Hive/ to arrive next. "Oh, s'that Jim? He bringin' Hive down?" The whomping is indelicately followed /up/ by a sledgehammer of brainthump. << what. >> It pounds in like an anvil, heralding Hive's skinny form joining Jim's outside the door. He's in dark red and gold Theta Tau sweatshirt over Link-as-Eddard-Stark tee, fraying faded jeans, threadbare socks, choppy-shaggy hair mussed and falling down into his face. Long bony fingers toying restlessly with the iron ring on his smallest finger as he pushes a thin arm past Jim to shove the door open to let them both in. "Bringing my own gorram self down. -- Fuck you want, nancy boy." Dusk's last-night-song is /still/ stuck in his head. He's already holding his hand out. For a /donut/, which he makes known by /shoving/ a mental demand for donut into everyone's mind, Jim's included. "Eh? Nah. Off shift from Downstairs. Came topside few blocks off." Jim's in full tunnel gear, ragged kilt and a hibiscus patterned shirt, second hand corduroy brown jacket and the stink of sewers, "Think he's got it." He sounds nonplussed, even if he is running a rapid visual-scan over Hive, << -not getting any less bony; hair's a mess - usual muss or from lying down? - fuck is that, a promise ring? - >> There's other baleful thoughts, some related some not, but they're sluggish and fitting through a dense fibrous mind-fiber that's only gradually churning and creaking towards normal human speed. A common side-effect of being more flora than fauna for a given period of time. Grimacing through the familiar Hive-brain thuds, he's entering as well. Taking off his filthy boots, "How's tricks, kiddies?" From someone else Jackson might perhaps take offense at the epithet; from Hive it just prompts him reflexively to start /humming/ the Placebo tune cheerfully. He takes Micah's hand to pull himself to his feet, leaning for a moment into the other man when he stands before releasing his husband to let Micah fetch /food/. He trails off to the living room, too, his guests more than familiar enough with the house to let themselves in. "Oh yeah? How'sit down under? I sawum. Marrow yesterday. Gave her her -- cop-money. Needa give you yours too, actually," he admits sheepish-sorry. "We got doughnuts, I think," he tells Jim. "Maybe. Pumpkiny." Though he's letting Micah take care of fetching those, as he drags himself off living-room-wards to flop down onto an enormous oversized beanbag with a small hiss at pressure against his fresh ink. "Cranberry-peach," he finally answers. "An' I want y'here t'talk about your /brain/, Hive. -- Do we got any real food 'sides doughnuts?" He's pushing himself back up almost as soon as he's seated, towards the kitchen to /check/. Bounding down the hallway and slowing to a skip-skid stop, Tag manages to slip through the door before Jim closes it fully, Indiana Jones fashion. He wears a dusty rose Mandarin tunic and black gi pants with the right leg rolled up to bare one rainbow striped sock. Slung over one shoulder, his ever-present backpack bears a yellow-and-black stripe motif, as though it had been wrapped in caution tape. Cheeks rosy from the sprint and hair bright cinnabar red, he looks first proud, then slightly embarrassed as he waves at the small crowd littering the entryway. "Hi everypony I brought Lunar New Year junk food!" Not a strong believer in stopping for breath, Tag. "Hello t'you, too, Hive. Go sit." Micah actually /shoos/ the telepath toward the living room. "I'll bring the doughnuts out if there're still any t'be had. You want somethin' t'drink? Or you, Jim? I'm gettin' cranberry-peach juice for Jax." Searching the counter, he thankfully finds an even half-dozen of the donuts in the large Tupperware container. He delivers the box along with four--make that five, once Tag enters--dessert plates before heading back into the kitchen to handle drinks. "Hi, Tag!" he greets with a wave as he moves off. "Y'want somethin' t'drink?" Micah looks ceilingward at Jax's question of food, idly gesturing for the other man to sit back down while he thinks aloud. "Real food...um...think there might be some leftover peanut tofu an' noodles from last night? Want me t'heat that up?" Hive lets himself be shooed back off down to fold into a loose bundle of too much sweatshirt and too many bones in the corner of the couch. There's an almost annoyed /bristle/ to his mind that prickles up hard and poky against the other minds in the room at Tag's arrival, poking hedgehog-spines outward before he grouses his habitually grumbly-gruff, "-- sup. Ohshit. Junkfood. What the /fuck/ are you wearing dipshit it's /sleeting/ out there you're gonna be a Tagsicle." His eyes narrow on Tag's outfit in disapproval. He scrunches himself harder into the corner of the couch, hands withdrawing into sleeves and head sinking down beneath his hood when Jax says he wants to talk about his /brain/, like he's turtling up into a shell. "Fuck you promise ring," he answers Jim aloud, and then: "-- guess it kind of is." "Yeah uh-," Jim must recognize the pitter-patter of Tag's little feet, because he lifts clear his left arm in time for Tag to duck under it without looking (probably sending his kilt swishing in the by blow), "-coffee. Black. Watch out - little guy." He isn't saying this to /Tag/. Just the room in whole: watch out. It's a little guy. It's loose in the house. Jackson's restless up and down energy is holding most of his attention, filling him with uneasiness << wired tonight. >> He doesn't sit - instead looms behind Hive's seat like some thick-necked bad omen tree, a few spring-green shoots emerged from the knuckely bones of his wrists and from behind his ear. "So what. You getting married to Jesus now?" << ...To stay off the (sauce/minds), huh? >> Jackson settles back down when he is gestured, with an almost apologetic press of hand over nose and mouth as he passes by Jim again and his clinging sewer-smell, aggravating his end-of-workday hypoglycemic headache-nausea pleasantry. "Ohgosh. Um. /Jim/ --" He winces, glancing to the bathroom briefly. "Honey-honey, do you think you mind freshening up just -- a little bit, my head --" He shakes his head, sinking back down into the beanbag and nabbing his juice to down half the tumbler in a heavy long swig. "Hive an' Jesus, /that'll/ be the day. M'pretty sure he's married t'Buddha already though. An' EVE. An' Flicker. Jesus could be a distant mistress I guess." His next gulp of drink is less desperate. "That -- all sounds wonderful, Micah, thank you." His eye flits back to Hive. "You wanna talk straight with me about how much worse it's gettin'?" "I'm plenty warm!" Tag protests, wiggling out of his pink sneakers and plopping himself down on the floor beside the coffee table. Also not a strong believer in /chairs./ "I move too fast for the cold to get me. Also, layers. Also, /junk food./" He sheds his backpack and starts digging through it. "I want tea. I /have/ tea, anyone else want some?" Then, back at Hive, "I /had/ a jacket, but it suffered an unfortunate accident." He illustrates this with the vivid memory of scrambling over a fence--almost gracefully until one hand loses its grip--to escape the angry elderly Chinese man on whose property he had presumably trespassed and/or vandalized. Popping back up, silver foil bag in hand, he scurries into the kitchen. "Can I help you with anything?" he offers Micah, along with a hug. "Wait, who's marrying Jesus? I thought only monks did that. And nuns." "Um...if you're brewin' things anyhow, would y'mind startin' up some coffee for Jim, too? I'm gonna get food goin' for Jax an'...may as well toss the whole container on in case somebody else ends up wantin' some," Micah replies to Tag from half-inside the refrigerator where he's retrieving another large Tupperware container full of peanutty-vegetable-tofu noodleyness. Retrieving a pan and setting it on the stove, he adds a dab of peanut oil, the leftovers, and a sprinkle of water for reheating. He pokes at the mixture with a wooden stirring spoon, though his attention is drawn more to the living room. "Y'need some painkillers, too, hon?" He doesn't say anything more once Jax gets down to business-talk with Hive. "You do fucking reek dude." Hive probably barely noticed until this was pointed out. His own personal hygiene can sometimes be /lacking/. He probably bathes about five times more when he's in a Borg-coma and other people are playing PCA than he does when he's left to his own devices. But now that Jax is looking nauseated he is suddenly tipping his head back towards Jim like /oh/ yeah /someone/ just walked out of the damn sewer. He points a bony finger towards the nearer of the two bathrooms. Then grimaces, at Jax's question. His finger flicks at the ring. "Not really, no." He leans forward, snagging a donut off the table. "Loudest fucking 'yes' I ever heard," Jim withdraws from the couch all slow and crotchety, pressing a fist against the small of his back, ignoring the bitter swell of exhaustion and guilt lurking, << some sponsor you are, jimmy. how the hell're you ever gonna be a - >> He waves a hand either way, bumbling towards the bathroom, "Yea yeah. Be back. Can't even tell if it smells half the time anymore. Don't have /lungs/ half the time. You got clothes that'd fit my ass?" The last words echo in the acoustics of the bathroom, where he closes the door. The rumple of clothes being shucked soon follows. "Mmm -- yeah I have a buncha sarongs, they fit everything." Jackson isn't in a hurry to get up, though; he leaves Micah some time to heat food, Jim some time to wash up, /himself/ some time to finish off his juice more slowly, Tag some time to start up some coffee. Hive -- probably some time to just GRUMP. But then he gets up to shuffle off towards his room and return with a very large sarong wrap, black and rainbow-batik patterned with lotusflowers in his own very distinctive artistic style -- to those in the room who have seen Hive /naked/ (read: PRETTY MUCH EVERYONE, given his need for care when he is Borgbrained, the lotusflower pattern looks /pretty/ similar in design to Hive's sole tattoo) He brings this out together with an oversized Xavier's sweatshirt and a large Mindless Self Indulgence tee. He leaves these clothes folded neatly just outside the bathroom door with just a quiet pair of knocks and then returns to his beanbag. And returns to quiet. For a little bit longer, at least. Probably long enough for Food. Probably long enough to get some food /into/ himself. "Here's the thing though. I mean, I fret. And fret and fret and /fret/ and you'd probably just let us /all/ fret at you forever but you smash your head against /Promethean/ walls and that crosses into my territory, cuz I need to /know/ how my people are doin', and it's on me to make sure /I'm/ lookin' after 'em. So why don't we take a step back and you talk straight with me about how much worse it's gettin'." "Mmm, coffee..." Tag has wrestled the bag of tea open, but suddenly looks torn. Granted, not for very long. "Right. Both, then." He sets the water to boil and measures out a generous scoop of tea leaves. Then, digging a silver tea canister out of the cupboard--"COFFEE OF DOOM!" not-written on it in Tag's colorful not-hand--he measures out an even more generous scoop of fragrant grounds. His implements prepared, he slips out of the kitchen and out of Micah's way, returning to his spot on the floor, curling his legs under him while he roots through his backpack, eyes on Hive and Jax more than whatever he is looking for. Micah stands in the kitchen through the grousing and clothing concerns, poking at the pan with the spoon until the leftovers are heated through. It's enough to fill three bowls. Fetching three pairs of chopsticks to go along with, he delivers one bowl to Jax, one to Hive (apparently it has been decided that he's eating), and one to the table for anyone else who might claim it. One last trip to the kitchen nets him a small glass of almond milk, which he pairs with a plate and doughnut when he returns to the living room. Settling down next to Jax on his beanbag, he starts to pick bite-sized chunks off of the doughnut to dip into the milk before eating. Hive glowers silently through all of this, still turtled up on the couch. His teeth /grind/, loudly audible in their slow grit. He takes the bowl, though he just pushes the food aimlessly around the bowl with his chopsticks, staring blankly down at it. "It's not getting worse, Jax, it's getting better. It's just fucking slow, okay. I don't know what anyone wants from me. Do you know what I." The chopsticks clickclickclick rapidly against the edge of the bowl. "I lived through the fucking apocalypse so --" He exhales heavily. "I just don't know what a fucking doctor is going to -- it's not something you can fix. I just want to undo all that shit." Jim's presence for much of this exists in a series of noises; the door creaking open for him to snag the clean clothes Jax had provided. The squeak of a faucet, the running of water. The rumpling of a towel while he dries. His mind is weighty but far more purposely obscure now from it's usual paranoid monologue. If anything it's deliberately pointing /back/ at Jax even while straining to hear the illusionist through the door while he fumbles his way into the sarong. Yes, he'll wearing it - without /comment/. He stalks from the bathroom, overlong now-damp gray hair and The Dude beard matching the dirty-hippy vibe all the way to the kitchen, where he shoves his dirty clothes into a trash bag and ties it off securely. Seeks out a window or god damn fire escape he can hang the reeking sack out on. "Dude, you hearing yourself?" he asks, shaking out his hands and dropping onto the couch alongside Hive. "How do you know? I mean, all that stuff, it /has/ an effect on your brain. The actual hardcoded /meat/ part of your brain. That's the only reason Lucien even /helps/ anything at all. Because all that -- has messed with the hardware. So maybe the doctors could help an' you won't know till you see them an' I /don't/ know, Hive, I don't know because you don't never say nothin' but I'm tryin' to --" Jax shoves his chopsticks into his bowl -- he looks like he kind of wants to forget his food too, like Hive is doing, but /his/ metabolism is far less /forgiving/ of this kind of behavior so he finally just digs in. "-- understand. An' Micah said he'd go with you. /Any/ of us would go with you, /Lord/ I sure don't know what havin' your mind was like through that but I sure /do/ know what hatin' doctors is like." His weight settles -- almost unthinkingly more heavily against Micah's side. His gaze skips from person to person around the room. Tag, Jim. "You jus' got a lotta folks around here who -- it ain't like we're jus' gonna /shove/ you off there an' make you go it alone. But I watch you, Hive, some days your hands is shakin' too bad to type. That ain't aright." Yoink! Tag does not say it aloud, but he /thinks/ it quietly as he claims the valance bowl with an appreciate nod to Micah. At the same time, he pulls a large ziploc bag of rice crackers in various shapes and improbable colors from his backpack and drops in it place of the bowl he took--again, Indiana Jones-fashion. "Vegan, I checked." Exchange made, he settles down with his back against the couch and begins shovelling noodles into his mouth. He polishes off almost half of it before leaping up and running into the kitchen to brew assorted caffeinated beverages. Returning, he sinks to the floor again and leans his head back onto the couch cushion. Dark eyes fix on Hive, upside-down. "Sometimes doctors /can/ help," this softly, strained by the odd angle of his neck. "Honey, y'been...shakin'. An' either not sleepin' or sleepin' all day. An' havin' trouble completin' sentences. Even /thoughts/. All of this is what you're callin' /better/ an' /right after/ Lucien did all he could for you at the time." Micah's fingers pluck at his doughnut as he speaks, though his eyes are fixed on Hive. "Y'got /metal/ in your brain where it oughtn't t'be. S'worth at least lettin' 'em /check/ on. See if they can figure out what's goin' on. Maybe /help/. If you're ever gonna get back t'...some semblance of regular-you again. Somethin's gotta be done. An' we...love you too much /not/ t'fret at you about it." He looks back down at the much-abused pastry. "But you've /heard/ all my arguments already." He glances over at Jax, briefly, hopefully. "How the fuck can doctors help /this/," Hive snaps back down to Tag. "You don't have any --" His teeth grind again. "I was hundreds of people. Through that fucking zombie -- you all had to live through it once. I lived through it hundreds of times. I died. Over and over. I came back. Over and over. And that's not even." His hand lifts, knuckles slowly rubbing at his temples. "People remember that. I mean that's terrible all itself but. Every one of those people boosts my signal, you know." His voice is a little hollow. "And a signal boosted that strong -- I didn't just live through it hundreds of times, you understand? I could hear /every single mind/. In all of New York. And then some. Literally. Every person." Crrrrk, his teeth grind again. "And they were pretty much all screaming." That last sentence is muttered down into his bowl, hands dropping his chopsticks to clatter -- down to topple over the lip of his bowl and then off, falling into his lap and then to the floor. "And I can still hear them. A doctor can't fucking /fix/ that, dude. And it's just. I don't think my brain's really built to handle --" His jaw works inwards, teeth grinding once more. "Every time I tap into other minds now it's harder to tap /out/. Don't need a fucking doctor, just need to stop. And I have been. And Lucien's been helping. It's just loud and it's shitty and I don't think there's any way I can explain to you how --" He just shakes his head, eyes fixed blankly down on his bowl and his shoulders tightened inward. "Gonna crack a molar grinding like that," Jim doesn't even try to catch the dropped chopped sticks with his mangled-gnarly hands, though he does lean over to move the bowl out of the way. Trying not to drop all over Tag's upturned face on its journey to the coffee table. Then Jim sits back again, arms crossing. It fits his shoulder up along Hive's. "Fuck of it is? Yeah. You're probably /right/ about half that - doctor can't do jack shit about what you've had to--" hear? see? "--fucking /know/ 'n go through. Not a shrink in the god damn world." He takes in a breath, "But we're not talking about what you've had to /see/, we're talking about /brain/ damage. Shit some dumb mook off the street could see with their god damn eyes with an MRI. Shit fucking up your system so bad you can't even use your god damn hands. Working on a physical enough level it's apparently moving out of /Lucien's/ range - 'cause whatever he's doing, it ain't /sticking/, no matter how many times you take turns putting each other in a fucking coma. That's gotta be what - brain scarring? Some fucking... /clot/?" God, he needs a donut right now. Tag, being right there, gets a poke to the skull and a sneak-point towards them. Psst. Hook a body up? Something twists and roils across the uncomfortably sharp-bright planes of Jax's mind (/too/ sharp, /too/ bright, they're likely not doing anything /pleasant/ for Hive's headaches), clenching hard and sickened at this explanation. Hard and sickened at Jim's casual dismissal of it. His fingers clench against his chopsticks, and he fights the urge to get up, wrap his well-muscled arms around Hive's stick-and-bones shoulders and just hold /close/. Instead he swallows, looking up steadily at the telepath. "No, I can't imagine," he finally says, soft and low, trying to tamp down the bright flaring protectiveness in his mind into something less sharp. Less /vivid/. "And it's possible you're right and there's nothing to be done but wait and muscle past it. But it's been getting worse and if there /is/ something to be done, not doin' anything ain't gonna get you nowhere but terrible. So you're goin' to a doctor, Hive. An' you can grind your teeth at me all you want, but I'm makin' you an appointment. You can choose who you want t'go with you, an' you'll go. An' /if/ they say it ain't nothin' physical, I won't make y'go to a second. But could be they'll be able to help tell you what's up. Could be they'll be able t'/help/." Tag doesn't flinch at Hive's explanation, but he does when the chopsticks hit the floor. Then he gathers them in one skinny hand and deposits them on the coffee table. "There's a lot we don't, can't understand," he mumbles. "Doesn't mean it's pointless to try...something." Looks at Jim quizzically, looks at the table, looks confused. "I would--" His phone buzzes in his pocket and he scrambles to his feet again and into the kitchen. He returns with two mugs, one of which goes to Jim along with a blazing purple donut, and sits back down huddled around the warmth of his own beverage. "More coffee in the kitchen. Can make more tea, too. Uh..." << What was I saying? >> "I can go with you if you want. I'm down one job for another ten days." Micah watches Hive as he speaks, brow furrowed, right hand clenching into a fist before circling over his heart, almost idly. There is no particular thing that he's answering, just a need for the word that can't be said. "Honey, it's bad enough. It's bad enough y'have t'deal with all that. But the docs /might/ be able t'help with the organic parts of the problems. It might...give you a better place. T'hold strong from. Against...all of..." His head shakes, fingers squishing another bit of donut free onto the little dessert plate. "Any of us would. Will. Go with you. To be assessed. An' maybe after if they can be a help." Hive's teeth continue to grind as Jim speaks, his posture clenched up into a hard tension wound so tight a faint tremor can be felt where Jim's shoulder settles in against his. Just slow grind, grind, grind, that quiets into a fading silence when Jackson's quiet drawl begins. His eyes close. The tension doesn't leave him, coils up tighter. Whatever anyone /after/ Jackson says just washes over him; he stands in a very /abrupt/ unfolding of bony limbs, speaking through teeth still clenched. "Yessir." In his gruff voice it could be sarcastic but it's clipped and precise as if he's saluting. He's /not/, really, hands in his pockets and his shoulders still set in their habitual slouch. "You just tell me when, then." He's turning for the door already, not looking at Jax anymore, /or/ the others either. Just /glowering/ down at the floor with a rippling prickle of mind-to-mind-to-mind that touches up against the others in the room with an unmistakable wash of fury. Jim doesn't look up when Hive stands; that moment of contact has found his considerably bulkier frame and meaty shoulders knotted down into their own clenched surfaces that don't bounce or shift for the loss of weight on the couch. Cup clenched against the wave of fury pouring off the telepath, his respiration is slowly in, slowly out. Slowly in... There's a sound, in the kitchen - the soft rustling of leaves and quiet creak of green stalks straining taller where the household herbs are billowing up, billowing out, like sprouting green clouds - small buds open, flower, fall away, become green, become TALLER, flower again, branch off fractal limbs until - 'plink'. The quiet sound of a clay pot splitting has Jim shoving to his feet as well with a hiss. "Just uh. Lemme know when." He mutters, heading with a modicum of haste towards the window, jaw clenched - retrieves his sewer clothes. The potted plant hanging in the window is spilling over its sides here as well for a split second, then creaks to a stop when Jim snaps his head towards it. Then he's also heading for the door, clearing the fuck out of this dog and pony show. "Yeah." It's heavy. Jackson just -- closes his eye. And sinks in more heavily against Micah's side as the others clear out, in silence.