ArchivedLogs:Paint and Ink

Paint and Ink
Dramatis Personae Jax, Steve
In Absentia	2016-02-24 "We were a ragtag pack of lunatics."
Location <NYC> Harbor Commons - Arts and Crafts Room - Lower East Side
The art studio of the Harbor Commons is fairly neutral in base coloration. Easy to clean linoleum tiles in soft gray run up against darker gray baseboard. Overhead is a simple ceiling, unfinished but sprayed with a protecting paint to keep moisture, dirt, and other assorted substances do not stick. There is an exhaust fan to carry heavier fumes up and out, keeping the workspace usable all year. Where they can be seen, the walls are the color of white chalk, flecked here and there with paint, but for the most part, the walls are stacked with supplies, storage, and equipment. There's a small section for wood working, places to store canvases and larger drawings, and cabinets a plenty. In the center of the room, there are work tables aplenty, three at sitting height with a third set up for standing height, next to the open space for the easels. Two deep, stainless steel sinks face off against wide tall windows that open the craft room up to the outside, allowing air and sunlight in, weather permitting. It's growing late in the afternoon -- or early in the evening, perhaps. It's quiet in the Commonhaus today, nobody on dinner duty and the residents left to fend for themselves or scrounge among the kitchen's very plentiful leftovers. As the sun grows lower in the sky outside the lights are starting to turn on around the buildings in here -- though Jax seems not to have overly noticed the gradually darkening room. He's dressed in plain jeans, a paint-flecked Cooper Union tee, perched on a stool in front of a canvas in -- what currently /appears/ to be the center of an ocean, though it certainly must still be the solid floor of the art room; the waves are lapping around the solidly unmoving legs of the worktables and stools and counters. He has a thin palette balanced almost casually on his right hand; his other holds a paintbrush flat against his palm. The picture taking shape in front of him has a young woman with long damp tangles of dark hair perched on a rock by the suggested outline of what might eventually become seawater, plump legs dangled down into the seafoam. An equally plump seal is slipping down off the rock and back into the ocean. There's music playing -- at the moment, Celtic Woman's "The Voice" piping out of his laptop on a nearby table, the room alive with a shifting flux of coloured light. Steve has been home for only a little while, knocking about the kitchen, but at length he comes up, his steps heavy and slow on the stairs. Dressed in a green and blue flannel shirt, crisp blue jeans, and combat boots, he looks like he could have just come day laboring again except that he's too clean. He pauses to stick his head into the art room, his smile spreading wide when he sees Jax at work. Doesn't speak for a moment. Leans against the doorframe and just watches. Then, finally, lifts a hand to knock on the open door. "Selkie?" His uplifted brows indicate the painting in progress. There's a very faint tension that threads though Jax's posture for a moment at the aproaching footsteps, though he doesn't look to the door or pause in his work. Even after Steve speaks he doesn't shift -- though the watery world around them does, a large grey seal bobbing up from the water near Steve's feet. Clambering out onto the hallway floor, dripping form shifting into a muscular olive-skinned young man wearing a crown of woven kelp and not much else -- insubstantial as he traces a damp hand against Steve's shoulder and then melts back down into seal form and slips back into the waves. "And I'll not go to the waves, love, lest ye come along with me --" Jax's voice is quiet through the brief snatch of song, finally lowering his brush to turn aside from his work. "You're home." His smile is bright, now, too. Steve is blushing by the time Jax turns around. "Yes. Long day -- between work and the shelter." He enters the room properly now, heedless of the illusory water. "{I don't have too many memories of my father, but he liked stories about fairies.} Selkies and pookas and merrows." Studies the painting, more impaired by the dim light than Jax. "{Mostly /terrible/ stories; I'm a bit surprised I ever slept as a small child.}" Though he's still smiling through that. "{How was your day?}" He only reaches for Jax after the brush and paints have been set aside. "{Most stories about faeries are terrible. Faeries are kind of frightening. Not that that ever stopped me loving them.} I always had a soft spot for monsters." Jax leans in against Steve, cheek pressing to the other man's broad chest with a happy sigh. "Rainy. Cold. Too dark. {How was -- work?}" There's a kind of caution in this question, head tipping up to peer up at the taller man. Steve looses a pleased sigh. Folds his arms around Jax. "I used to think I was a changeling. {Small and weak, not like my parents.}" He kisses Jax's head. "{We can get you under some sunlamps with chocolate and blankets.} I got mezze from that place Isra likes." There's a long pause before he answers. "{I've been training with my...team. Seem like nice people.}" Though he doesn't actually /say/ 'but', the word is heavily implied. "Well. They're so skilled -- more skilled than my commandos ever were -- and so.../professional/." "Oh, mezze." Jax perks slightly at this -- in tone, at least, though in posture he is just melting further against Steve. Nuzzling in against the other man, his smile softening as Steve's arms curl around him. "{Training? What's training like? What's your /team/ like?} I guess I should be real glad you got good people at your back, huh?" His tone doesn't sound exactly like unqualified enthusiasm, admittedly. There's a pause, his arms curling back around Steve in a slow squeeze, before he pulls back slightly. He studies Steve's face for a moment before asking -- a little quieter -- "... what were your commandos like?" Steve draws a deep breath. "{Some of it is learning about how weapons and tactics have changed since my time. Some of it is standard military stuff -- running, lifting, sparring, shooting. Then there's the...simulations? Combat exercises, basically.}" He shrugs. "{As much time as I've been spending with them, I don't feel like I /know/ my team.} They're /competent/, but I don't know if I can really count on them when push comes to shove." He lets Jax go somewhat reluctantly, leaning back against a table. "The Howling Commandos...you've seen the drawings, right? We were friends -- brothers. We were /good/ at what we did." His grin is bright and proud. "And we were a ragtag pack of lunatics." The smile fades a little, though, as he fishes his cell phone (in an iridescent pink case) from a pocket and pulls up an image to show Jax: a black winged wolf biting through a heavy chain. "{This was our...unit mascot, I guess.}" "{That -- sound a much like what I'll be putting my team through again soon.}" Jax's pierced brows briefly furrow, eye dipping momentarily but then lifting again to Steve. The corner of his mouth hitches up in a crooked smile as the other man speaks. "Oh. Oh. /That/ sounds... familiar too." He rubs a hand against the back of his neck, leg bouncing restlessly against the rung of his stool. He leans forward to look at the drawing, brows hitching up. Smile widening, amused. "Oh gosh. {Who came up with /that/?}" "The X-Men, or --" Steve cuts himself off quite deliberately. Shakes his head. "I /do/ know I can count on them watching and listening. To the both of us." He turns the phone and looks at the ridiculous cartoon wolf. "Gabe Jones drew this -- he was our language specialist. {We joked about getting tattoos of it, after the war was over.}" His smile returns, softer and a little wistful. "{Everyone else did, except me and...}" He freezes for just a fraction of a second. "Well. /I/ still can." Jax shakes his head, too, his fingers tensing for a moment against his knee. "So now your team is spying on you -- us? -- this place? -- all the time too and not just -- bugging the place? That's, uh. Nice and -- intimate." He slides off his stool, moving to Steve's side. "{You and --}" comes kind of reflexively as he studies the wolf again. Then Steve's expression. Then the wolf. His teeth wiggle at a lip ring, clicking against them for a moment. "You still can," he agrees softly, shoulder bumping lightly against Steve's. "{I don't know if it's /my/ team -- probably not -- and I don't know just /how much/ monitoring they do.}" Steve drapes an arm around Jax wearily. "But I have to assume it's a lot." His eyes are still fixed on the drawing of the wolf, but they look like they're seeing something else. "Me and Bucky. We grew up together. We...he --" He shakes his head again, sharp and quick, his hand clenching tight on Jax's shoulder. "He died." His voice is unnaturally steady, his posture stiff and tense although he visibly tries to relax. "{I want to --}" Nodding at the drawing of the wolf. "Would you consider...doing this? I know it's not your style..." "Grew up together? So he was with you before /an'/ after you were..." Jax straightens slightly, shoulder squaring just a little more solidly as Steve's hand clamps down against it. "{Sorry. You don't have to talk about -- if you don't want to. I just... you spend a lot of time. Not talking. And you don't have to do that either. If you want.}" His arm slips around the other man's waist, curling there snugly. "It's important t'you. Of course I'll do it." Steve nods mechanically. "We were inseparable. He was always -- standing up for me and standing up /with/ me. After ma died..." His breath hitches in his throat, and finally struggles out of him in a soft sob. "{I'm sorry. I really didn't mean to...}" His hand squeezes down harder before he catches himself and eases up the grip. "But I need to. I think. Talk." He turns and presses his forehead to Jax's. His voice is hoarse and near to breaking when he speaks again. "The ink...is important to me, yeah." "{You don't have to apologize.}" Jax's shoulder is tense, a little shaky before Steve's grip relaxes, but despite the faint quickening of his breath he doesn't pull away. His hand rubs gently against the other man's back. "That was a whole -- /life/. /Your/ life. And you don't have to pretend that it never happened." He tips his head up, pressing a tiny soft kiss to the corner of Steve's mouth. "You want to talk, I'm always gonna be here to listen." "I don't want to pretend it didn't happen." Steve's hand kneads at Jax's shoulder. "It's just...difficult. To even think about. Him being gone." He breathes, deep and slow and deliberate. "I thought...we'd always be there for each other." There's a brightness to his eyes, but he does not cry. Some of the tension in his back eases at the kiss, or maybe the promise. "{Thank you.} I'm not...good. At talking." Jax nods, leaning in gently against Steve, both arms curled now around the taller man. "{He died -- before you did, then?}" His fingers rub in slow firm circles at the muscles of Steve's back. "You don't have to be good at it. Ain't gotta say everything all at once, either. Whatever you're ready to." He dots another kiss to Steve's jaw, squeezing the other man gently and then pulling back to look him in the eye. "Maybe over mezze?" Steve holds Jax to him tightly. "{Less than four months before...before me.}" He draws a sudden breath, tensing all at once as if physically struck. "Worst Christmas of my life," he adds, "but I got a much better one before a year was out, from my perspective anyway." Blinking away unshed tears, he nods. "Oh. Right, mezze. Yeah..." He ducks his head, snickers softly. "I'm /starving./" "Steve, that's -- {less than four months before --}" Jax's brows crease deeply. "I mean, for /you/ from there to here -- no time passed between -- I mean there's just so /much/ that you -- ain't really had no /time/ to even think through before being dumped into --" He breaks off, just rocking forward onto his toes to hug Steve again. Tight. Fierce. "... yeah," his voice is quiet, hand slipping into Steve's as he starts to lead him toward the door, "I'll bet you are."