ArchivedLogs:Not Here

Not Here
Dramatis Personae Micah, Jax, Hive	19 December 2014 Part of the Future Past TP. Takes place directly after horrible dreams.
Location <NYC> Candyland - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
The stairs lead up into a landing hall, bright as well with a set of bay windows and a wide cushion-strewn ledge beneath them at its far end. To the right of the landing the first doorway opens into the bathroom, warmly coloured in yellows and reds and sandy tiles; its large bathtub-shower also holds a mosaic on one wall, strange fire-creatures and manticores echoed in the small fiery faeries sprinkled at sporadic intervals around the rest of the room. Past the bathroom on the right-hand side is a smaller door into a linen closet before the actual door into Spencer's bedroom. Spencer's sturdy furniture set has been designed with rambunctious children in mind, most of its structure climbable with a loft-bed connected by a short tunnel to an also-lofted reading nook with a sliding door to turn it into its own private cave; the desk and dresser sit beneath the bed and there is a shelving unit beneath the platform that serves also as steps up into it. A slide down off the bed falls down into large squishy beanbag and the whole of the structure has been designed and painted reminiscent of a spaceship, a theme echoed in the way the closet doors have been painted to look like the TARDIS. On the left-hand side the first door leads into the master bedroom, bright-lit not just from its huge windows and skylight but from a rather exorbitant overabundance of lamps. It's colourful in here, the hand-crafted wood furniture (king bed against the left-hand wall, pair of small nightstands to either side of it, a pair of dressers flanking the closet on the right, a large desk with a multitude of drawers and shelves along the back) cheerfully painted, the walls home to plentiful artwork, brightly coloured glass figurines scattered around the shelves and stained-glass suncatchers hanging in the windows. One set of windows leads out onto a balcony, stretching out to share with the guest bedroom adjacent; it's set up for /lounging/, a large hammock at one side, a pair of hanging net chairs flanking the table on the other. Next to the master bedroom is the smaller guest bedroom, sunny-yellow and furnished with queen bed, dresser, a small desk of its own; doors here lead out into the balcony as well. At the end of the hallway shortly before the window nook, a hatch in the ceiling drops down a rope-ladder that leads up into the tiny attic-space; not so much a proper /floor/ as it is a sloped-ceiling nook of space beneath the roof, it nevertheless has its own circular window and skylights and rather than left unfinished it's been furnished with beanbag and folded futon-mattress and a tiny low table with drawers tucked beneath it. Fitful would be a severe understatement in description of Micah's sleep deep into the night. Rather than his usual curled-up ball of blankets and TARDIS-themed pajamas at Jax's side, he's been thrashing, almost talking in his sleep, whimpering intermittently. His eyelashes are wet with hot tears long before he so much as attempts to open his eyes, a louder sob gasping from his throat once he does, shoulders shuddering visibly. Jax is awake before Micah is, pulled awake by the thrashing and talking. Wide-eyed, breath catching. He turns over onto his side, hand moving to Micah's shoulder. First to rub and then to squeeze and then to /shake/, gentle and then firmer. "Micah. Micah, honey, honey-honey. Micah, sweetie, get up, wake /up/." When the other man's eyes do open he slides his arm around his husband's shoulders, leaning in to press a kiss to the other man's forehead. "Honey. Honey, it was just a dream. You're here. I'm here. You're awake now. I'm here." The shaking makes Micah struggle at first, as if to escape the other man's grip. The words are more helpful as he slowly comes to, instead clinging to Jax fiercely and burying his face in the other man's shoulder. The ragged-shuddery breathing continues for some time, tears dripping hotly onto Jax's skin. One sharper intake of breath finally provides him with voice enough to say, “B.” Nothing more, just yet. Jax's fingers knead at Micah's back, slowly pressing there as he presses more kisses to his husband's forehead. "I'm here. I'm here. I'm here." His brows pull together. "B's here, honey. She's home. Was at Fight Club last night. Came home with Shane, she's here, she's fine." << Not fine. >> Hive's voice is a jolt in their minds. Thudding, heavy, jarring-hammering, a sick-crunch-slam of pain. << Stressed, terrified, she saw it too. >> There's something grim and unhappy layered under his voice. << But she'll be fine. That's not going to happen. That won't happen. >> "No, ze isn't fine, ze's...horrible," Micah argues, words still half-strangled. "Ze hates me...hurt me. Think ze /shot/ Peter." It is a little difficult to keep timelines and presences straight when only half awake and in a turbulent emotional state. What might usually be answered with just a wince when Hive's painful-presence arrives receives, instead, another pained whimper-cry. "Not fine." Jax's shoulders tense, curling inward. Breath catching, eye squeezing shut as he steels his mind against the sledgehammering. "It was a dream," he repeats. "They're terrifying and they're painful but they're /not here/. Not now. They ain't happened, and she's /fine/. She ain't shot nobody, Micah, an' she ain't -- /horrible/, she's our /kid/ she -- don't hate you. She definitely ain't shot Peter. Was a /dream/. You're here an' /she's/ here an' you're both fine an'," he says in firm agreement with Hive, "it /won't happen/." A mental image presses up against the two men's minds. Shane and B, curled up together next door in their sunroom, Shane's arms curled around B's shoulders. Daiki, pressing kisses to both their gills, slipping off to the kitchen to make them breakfast. No robo-parts. No shooting. A little shaky, perhaps. But in /their/ home there. << There, now. >> "Not here?" Micah forces several deeper, slower breaths, encouraged along by the images that Hive shares. "It was the worst...of all of 'em it was the worst. I thought everyone was dead, but...just...everyone /but/ B. Ze was...I think ze hated me for bein' /alive/. Ze was...I don't know. Crazy." He shivers up against Jax's side. "Not here," he repeats, as if saying it makes it more true. Jax's lips press tightly together. His face turns in against Micah's hair as he tries hard to push down the strong surfacing thought that B is /already/ a little crazy. "That ain't here," he says aloud. "That ain't now. That's a /maybe/ future that we ain't gonna let happen, remember? Right here, right /now/, you're here with me, an' our kids are safe, an' our family's together." << (I'm/we're) >> more of a concept than a word, a muddled feeling of identity that often gets complicated, with Hive. Many-him, many-us; << not going to let that happen. >> A little dryer: << And you're all crazy. Always have been. >> “Not like that. Not like /that/. Ze was...gone. Just all hate an' anger an'...gone.” Micah shudders again. “Right. Right. We ain't gonna let that happen. We gotta talk to Xavier. For Strange. He needs...telepaths. Or a...device. Thing. Cerebro. One of them. Gotta talk to the future, make sure it never happens.” "Cerebro? Is /Strange/ a telepath, because you can't use Cerebro unless you got a /whole/ lot of --" Jax cuts himself off, here, returning his focus to his distraught-husband rather than the details of esoteric psionic equipment. "Right. Talk to Xavier. It'll be okay, honey-honey. Y'/found/ Strange. He's workin' with y'all. It's --" He presses another kiss to Micah's forehead. "We're gonna figure this out. An' those nightmares is gonna jus' stay dreams. An' B -- d'you think we should check on hir?" Something ripples, faint and uncomfortable in mental space, and then goes silent. "I think he is. I think...some kinda. Clairvoyant. Or somethin'. I dunno what a Cerebro is. He said he needed it. Or Xavier. Or a bunch of telepaths. T'talk t'the future." Sleepy Micah-brain apparently does its communication in fragments. He finally nuzzles against Jax's shoulder, muscles slowly easing some of their wickedly-alert tension. "I dunno. Hive was kinda...checkin'. Ze was with Shane an' Dai. I dunno...how much ze might wanna see /me/ just now. After /that/." "It's a -- it's kinda like a psionic -- amplifier. Can extend the power an' range of a telepath a lot but it's -- takes a /real/ powerful telepath t'use it, it's. It's /mad/ dangerous for anyone else, so it's --" Jax shrugs a shoulder, teeth scraping over his lip. "Mmnh. Yeah, I -- I guess if. If this dream was -- /particular/ stressful about -- about bad things with B maybe s'best t'leave some time t'decompress. Should check in on her later on, though. After she's -- had a bit." A shiver passes through him, arms curling tighter around Micah. “Oh. Oh, maybe Xavier'd use it /for/ 'im or somethin', then. I dunno how all this works.” Micah leans heavier into Jax's arms. “Prob'ly they got hir right now, without the...baggage. It'd be more polite t'visit /not/ in the middle of the night, too.” "... maybe," Jax answers, slow and uncertain; somewhere in the back of his mind he is fretting over this question. Over 'bunch of telepaths'. Over the uncomfortable rippling. His fingers knead at Micah's back. "... yeah. Shane an' -- Dai are. Are there, they'll. Take care of her, I just. She's always got it so much -- rougher. Than the others, an' -- I. Fret. She's." He blushes, burying his face against Micah's hair. "Sensitive. Right. Maybe I'll make her a nice lunch. Bring it later." Micah doesn't really know enough about the request to properly fret on it, well enough stuck fretting on the dreams and the dead people and B. “Yes. That sounds nice. Think she'd appreciate a nice lunch. An'...maybe y'can go an' just. Let me know. When it's okay for me.” "'kay." Jax nods, cheek moving against his husband's hair. "Love you, honey-honey. We're gonna work this out." “Gonna...figure alla it.” Micah presses in tighter against Jax. “Love you, honey. Love you /all/. Don't want any of it happenin'.”