ArchivedLogs:Parents

Parents
Dramatis Personae Shane, Micah, Rasputin
In Absentia	20 September 2013 Aftermath of Fightclub for the week. (part of fight club.)
Location <NYC> BoM Safehouse - Lower East Side
Tucked away off a little-used side street in the Lower East Side, sandwiched between a youth drop-in center and a taqueria, this narrow three-story townhouse has very little to catch the eye. Boarded-up windows, a door peeling its paint, shabby grubby brickface; from the outside it does not look like much. Inside someone has gone to great lengths to renovate the building into something more habitable. It isn't glamorous but it is comfortable, old furniture dragged in, the place generally swept clean. The first floor holds a large living room, a smaller dining room, a spacious kitchen, a half-bathroom. There are three bedrooms and a full bathroom on the second floor; the attic is just a large empty space crammed full of boxes with a window out to the large flat roof. The basement, much like the attic, consists of a lot of empty space. A bare concrete floor, no windows, occasional poles running up to the ceiling. A tiny half-bathroom down here, too. Not a whole lot else. The rest of the week the safehouse might stand empty, or near enough, a person here or there intermittently crashing. Friday nights, though, finds the house considerably more packed with its small but slowly growing crowd of mutants sparring in the basement. Though there are healers at hand to tend the worst of the injuries, Shane's innate healing factor makes /his/ somewhat less a priority, and so as he slips up from the basement into the living room of the building he /looks/ somewhat a mess. The puffy darkening beginnings of bruises splotch his arms, a wider one spread across one cheek; there's a large bandage taped up on the back of one shoulder beneath the strap of his black tank top, though its white is slowly beginning to seep red. He doesn't seem particularly /bothered/ by these injuries, just swigging from a large bottle of water as he heads for the door out to the cool evening air. Micah has turned a Shane-fetching errand into a leisurely stroll, softly singing to himself as he searches house numbers for the appropriate building. He is dressed in after-work wear of a pair of faded, patched jeans and a chocolate brown T-shirt on which a stegosaurus is cursing a T-rex's 'sudden but inevitable betrayal'. The singing fades off mid-phrase as he finds the correct number and heads bouncily up the walkway to knock on the door, mostly out of habit, before pushing it open. A tousled red head peeks in through the doorway for a moment before the rest of Micah follows somewhat uncertainly, hazel eyes scanning the entryway. "Oh, hi, Shane! You're right there. That's convenient." He presses the door closed behind him by leaning into it with one hip. "Ohgosh, honey, you look a mess. Is there anythin' I can do?" He is at Shane's side quickly, inspecting bruises and bandages. "You need a better dressin' on this one." Slowly, a small white cat begins trotting down the staircase, heading towards the front door. Rasputin waves hir tail towards some familiar faces, but stops when ze spots Micah, instead sprouting face into first a curious face, and then a smile. Rasputin meows, it quickly evolving into a voice. "Oh, hey, Micah! Did not expect to see you- well I never expect to see anyone here really. How's it been?" Ze heads towards the door, prepared to leave. Ze then looks over to Shane. "Oh, nice to meet you too! I'm Rasputin!" Rasputin purrs, as ze looks at the door helplessly. "Uh..could I have a little assistance, please?" Shane is reaching into a pocket of his dark pants, digging out a pack of cigarettes as Micah enters. He greets the older man with a swift bright smile, teeth flashing wide. "/Pfffft/, you shoulda seen the other guy," he answers cheerfully. "I didn't want to waste Joshua's time, he's got people down there that /actually/ need help. I'll be fine. Except the blood, you know, I hear it attracts sharks." He drops his hand to his side, cigarettes held in them, and leans in towards Micah to curl his other arm around him in a hug. The new voice draws his attention, eyes scanning the room in puzzlement for a moment before they drop downward instead. What comes out of his mouth next is not English, just a long string of Vietnamese that judging by its startled-harsh tone is probably all expletives. "-- /Jesus fucking Christ/," rounds it out in the end, his black eyes staring at Rasputin. "... the fuck." He frowns, and then offers, "-- We're here every damn Friday, dude." Micah returns the hug, gently, peeling a corner of the dressing on Shane's shoulder back to inspect the laceration under it. He clucks his tongue a few times. “Ain't a /little/ cut, but could get away without stitches if we get some steristrips or butterfly bandages on there right quick. They got a good kit here?” His lips quirk to one side at Shane's joke. “Har-har. You're so clever.” Then there is a sudden string of foreign curses, causing Micah to startle, posture going bolt upright as he turns to locate the cause. “Oh. That's just Rasputin, Shane. Settle down.” He shoots a small smile the cat's direction. “I have a way of turnin' up places. You just need the door opened?” His head inclines toward the front door. "Oh, uh, sorry about that. I get that animal possession can frighten people I just, have no choice," Rasputin explains. "Nice to meet you though...Shane?" Rasputin bows hir head, as ze nods to Micah. "Yeah, I'd do it myself but..yeah." Ze laughs a tiny bit, before turning to Shane. "Oh I don't, uh, live here. I have...friends who live here. I was visiting them, so, I don't think I've seen you around? Then again, I don't usually go down to the basement, so." "I'm here every damn Friday, dude." Shane repeats this again, though this time his tone is less informative than before, more the slooow patience many people get when talking with the very young or mentally challenged. He studies Rasputin a moment longer before deciding, "not the /weirdest/ mutation I've seen but probably one of the shittiest. -- You know this guy?" He looks up to Micah, now, his brows raising. "Joshua's got practically an ambulance downstairs but chill, I have had /so/ much worse and no scars to show for it. You've got crappy friends," he adds to Rasputin again, "you'd think they'd put in a cat door or -- at least leave a fucking window open. Or come let you out." “You keep leavin' yourself poorly closed lacerations an' you're gonna get yourself a nice infection one of these days. Won't take nothin' for me t'dress it once I got my hands on the supplies.” Micah pulls a face at Shane's tone. “Shane. Rude. We met at the church when I was droppin' off supplies the last time. He knows Dusk. It ain't nothin' t'open a door for a body, goodness.” He leaves off his fussing over Shane long enough to walk to the door and open it far enough for Rasputin to exit, if he chooses. Rasputin ignores Shane's attitude, and replies politely. "Well, I don't visit too often, so, I don't really worry about it. Someone would have come eventually?" Ze smiles, as ze nods to Micah. "It's fine! I take no harm to it! And also yes, super crappy mutation, I agree with you there." Ze heads for the door, nodding hir head. "Nice seeing you Micah, meeting you, Shane." Rasputin then proceeds to leave, waving hir tail at them. "'Cuz I'm usually so polite." Shane tugs his cigarettes back out of his pocket, frowning as Rasputin leaves. "I might get an infection." He sounds almost excited by this possibility. "You think it could kill me? I've never really had one. That cat really a friend of Dusk's?" /That/ sounds skeptical. He taps a cigarette out of the box, slipping it between his lips but not lighting it. "How come /you're/ here I didn't think you liked this place." Though at this his brows immediately pull into a worried frown, "-- Is Pa alright? Has he exploded?" “Have a good night, Rasputin!” Micah offers cheerfully, closing the door behind the cat once ze is well on hir way. “Don't mean I ain't gonna try t'tell y'better from time t'time.” The idea of a polite Shane actually tugs his lips into a smirk. “I don't know about friend or not; you'd have t'ask Dusk. But they know one another, at least.” He tries to push the smirk into a sternface. “Let's not /invite/ infection. C'mon. We're gonna fix you up.” Micah actually takes Shane by the hand (of the side opposite the shoulder wound) to lead him toward the first aid kit. “Jax's fine. He was just paintin' an' it came time t'fetch you. An' I zipped out the door before he had a chance t'protest overmuch. He's always got too much t'do... An' I'm not here for the /place/, I'm here for you. S'a difference.” "Bastian got the polite half of the egg." Shane scowls at Micah's fussing but doesn't /resist/ it, hand curling through Micah's as he follows along. Most of the club participants have cleared out, by now, though downstairs Joshua is still sitting with a very exhausted-looking Taylor, blood heavily staining his clothes though the deep toothmarks in his arm are fading away to nothing. "You both have always got too much to do," Shane agrees unhappily, "but he needs to slow down before he explodes himself. Or you. Why are you --" He tips his head back, looking up at Micah curiously. "I know the way home." His hand tightens around Micah as he says this, though. “Hm. Not sure it quite works that way.” Micah says with a little giggle. When they arrive downstairs, he nods in greeting to Joshua but says nothing to avoid distracting him. He simply leads Shane over to a seat near the supplies. “S'good t'be busy. Keeps you from gettin' bored.” Gently, he peels the tape away from the edges of the shoulder dressing. “Did you at least get this cleaned up already, or should we do that, too?” He chews at his lip a moment before answering Shane's question rather frankly. “'Cause you always come out lookin' like you've been beaten after these things. It's... Enough trouble finds you on the street without you walkin' around /alone/ at night, lookin' like you'd be an easy target 'cause you're already hurt.” "Totally does. He got the brainy half, too. Pretty much just the overall /better/ half." Shane bares his teeth in a fierce smile to Taylor, though he moves aside with Micah to sit down. "It's been cleaned. Really, it'll be /fine/ do you know," he tells Micah cheerfully, "that one time I had my entire --" He breaks off, though, smile fading and the cheer ebbing from his tone. "Walking with me'll just find you trouble, too." With Micah dealing with his dressing his freed hands fold in his lap, fidgeting there restlessly. He lifts one after a short pause, clawed fingers raking fussily at Micah's hair, smoothing tousled locks into place. "And you /actually/ get hurt, I'm basically. Rubber." "Stoppit, you're wonderful. Just a different wonderful from 'Bastian 'cause you're different people." Micah finds a small spot of unbruised cheek on Shane's face to sneak a little peck there, chuckling as Shane fusses at his hair. Once he has collected his supplies and his hands are cleaned, he slips them into a pair of gloves to start working at the wound itself. "Most bully-types are just cowards. Less likely to mess with two people than with one. An' I have the benefit of lookin' delightfully /boring/." He hms to himself for a second before warning, "This might hurt just a bit." Which is likely a good warning to give before using one's fingers to pull the edges of an open wound together for securing with a series of little white butterfly bandages. "We're actually the same person. Just. Got split in two." Shane's hand keeps fussing at Micah's hair. Beneath the thin fabric of his tank top, Shane's gills quiver at the kiss. "You don't look boring. You're gorgeous." Though after this, his teeth just /clench/, muscles tensing sharply as Micah bandages the gash. "They mess with me and B even if we're together. But we're both -- kind of small." His hand falls from Micah's head back to his lap. "You're /kind of/ a freak too, though, you know. I bet lots of people mess with you. Maybe, um, maybe not now that you grew up all perfect. But before." "Fine. I can be.../pretty/ boring. Y'know what I mean." The tip of Micah's tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth, a little pink triangle of concentration, until the last bandage is placed. "Both kinda small an' kind of /visible/. An' yeah, but I'm the kinda freak usually needs more /attention/ t'figure out. Or, y'know. Somethin' like holdin' hands with boys in public." He swabs antibiotic ointment over the bandaged laceration before proceeding to cover the whole thing with a fresh dressing, more carefully applied this time around. "Used t'get more trouble when I was younger'n smaller'n more usin' wheelchairs an' crutches, yeah. But--" He interrupts himself with a little snort at the word 'perfect'. "Now you're just bein' silly." "/Sexy/ boring -- isn't grammatically correct I guess. Wait, holding hands with /boys/?" Shane's eyes widen in mock horror. "I mean no wonder, /I'd/ jump you for that, too." His head tips forward, resting in the cupped palm of his hand, his other hand hanging loose at his side as Micah tends its shoulder. His tongue wiggles at the unlit cigarette between his lips. "Maybe I'm in a silly mood. It's the weekend it's totally allowed. /You're/ pretty much silly all the time so maybe I'm just learning by example. Hasn't anyone told you kids are impressionable?" “Hm,” serves as Micah's only reply for a moment as he inspects his handiwork, then gives Shane a pat on the arm. “Just 'cause I pointed it out doesn't mean it's a thing I disapprove of.” He smiles back at the teen as he tidies away all the packaging and pulls off his gloves to clean his hands again. When he returns, it is with another bottle of water that he holds out to Shane. “Always a good idea. You ready t'head home?” Shane takes the water, uncapping it and lifting up his shirt instead of drinking to splash some onto his (also slightly torn-up) gills, with a wince. He pulls his shirt back down into place, getting to his feet and taking a gulp of the water, now. “No, I’m pretty much starving. Was all I could do not to eat /Taylor/ while you were grabbing that water.” It’s hard to tell if that is a joke, really. The other teen is very /noticeably/ missing two tentacles, torn stumps where they should be. “Do you want to buy me like, a giant mountain of tacos? I have cash. Most of the places that’ll serve /me/ between here and home are closed already though. -- Bastian’ll probably want, too, when he and Peter are done mad sciencing.” Micah winces as well, slightly before Shane, over the sight of more damage to his person. “I don't know how y'all can handle doin' this to each other /every week/.” His lips press thin as his eyes pass over Shane, Taylor, and the other stragglers in the room. “Oh, right, you prob'ly need all the protein. Not exactly gonna cut it with the stuff we got at home. Y'know what places /are/ open? We can hit one up.” He offers a hand to help Shane to his feet. Shane looks upward, his own lips pressing together slightly with Micah’s wince. “I think -- we’ve all just --” He frowns, getting up first and /then/ taking Micah’s hand, tugging the older man away from the blood-spattered room and towards the door. “Sorry. You probably shouldn’t -- be.” His hand squeezes Micah’s harder as he heads back for the stairs. “There’s a good taqueria up on Orchard.” His tone shifts lighter, here, a determined levity to it. “And they give like -- giant barrels full of horchata. Or fresh tamarind soda, it’s pretty much the greatest thing on earth.” Micah watches his hand through this process with a little shake of his head. “I shouldn't /be/? That's kinda somethin' I'm not lookin' t'correct any time soon.” A somewhat deliberate smile appears with the weak joke. His grip on Shane's hand tightens at that squeeze. “Ooo, tamarind. We should pick up a few of those, too. Bring /at least/ one home for Jax. S'all tamarind an' sugar. Then /maybe/ he'll make less of a pouty face at me for sneakin' out t'get you an' leavin' 'im home.” “Shouldn’t be /here/,” Shane finishes, apologetically, “it’s not -- a great place. I definitely still want you to /be/. For a really long time.” He heads towards the front door, pulling it open with a small wince and holding it for Micah. “I think he’ll forgive you. He’s been buried in homework and besides,” his teeth flash in a small smile at Micah, “I don’t think he’s really capable of being upset at you for long. -- Though I don’t know if, uh, /anyone’s/ really capable of being upset at you for long.” “Oh. It's...fine. I've prob'ly seen worse before. I'll get over it.” Micah moves to take over the door holding from Shane, waving him forward. “Okay, Captain Wincey. How 'bout you let me handle the holdin' an' carryin' of things for the night? You're still all bruisey an' bleedy.” Shane's assertions earn a chuckle. “Ain't even that he's /upset/, usually. He just gets kinda sadface over that kinda thing sometimes.” “OK, but ‘probably seen worse before’ doesn’t mean that you /should/ have to deal with it more now. This is --” Shane ducks out the door, but lingers on the doorstep to glance back inside. “-- not what life should be like. I’m sorry.” He digs a lighter out of his pocket, finally lighting the cigarette in his mouth. “He always thinks he should be able to do everything. Maybe sometimes he /does/ do everything,” he admits, his smile crooked. “But I’m glad he doesn’t /have/ to.” “If we all got t'do just what we /should/, it would be a different kinda universe we're livin' in.” Micah steps through the threshold, pushing the door closed behind him softly. “Why are you apologizin'? In what way are you /possibly/ responsible for any of this?” Waiting just long enough for Shane to light the cigarette, then manoeuvring is such a way as to avoid the lit end, he pulls the teen into a (gentle! avoiding injuries!) hug. “An', yeah. He does try t'do too much. I've actually had to /re-issue/ sleepin' orders so many times. Just for him t'get a few hours every other day. It's...I try.” Shane leans into the hug, eyes closing. He tugs his cigarette out of his mouth, one hand dropping to his side as the other curls around Micah. “Be a nice universe, though, wouldn’t it?” His non-injured shoulder lifts in a small shrug. “I did kind of start this whole -- fight. Thing.” It takes a while, but he pulls back reluctantly so that he can take a long drag of his cigarette. “Think you do more than try. It’s -- better. Happier.” His lips twitch upwards into a small crooked smile. “You could try issuing orders to the world,” he suggests. “Maaaybe not sleeping orders that’d get boring. Stop-being-crazy orders, maybe.” Micah pets a hand fondly over Shane's prickly spike-hair in a way that suggests he would be mussing it if it were mussable. “Yeah, it would. An' you didn't, really. This is all just...the reaction t'what happened to y'all. If /you/ hand't been put through /that/. Prob'ly wouldn't need this so much. It's all reaction. The people who should be apologizin' ain't gonna do it.” He finds that little space of unbruised cheek for another tinykiss. “Thanks. I'm glad y'feel that way.” His own smile is an echo of the teen's. “Rest of the world ain't quite so inclined t'be fallin' in line with what I tell 'em t'do.” “Who should be apologizing?” Shane smiles warmer at the kiss, his eyes briefly fluttering closed. “I mean. Yeah. Reaction. But preparation, too. I mean, the kind of things that -- it’s just harder to do that if everyone can fight /back/.” He takes another puff of cigarette, and shoves his other hand into his pocket as he turns to start down the street. “Rest of the world can go fuck itself, then. -- How old are you?” He stops with this abrupt question, turning his head to look up at Micah. “The people hurtin' an' killin' folks for fun an' profit? Tryin' t'convince everybody else as people /aren't/ people? Think they owe /everybody/ an apology, at /least/.” Micah nods again. “But, yeah. Wouldn't need t'be /preparin'/ for things if things weren't...what they've been, neither.” He turns to follow Shane down the road, but pulls up short when he stops, as well, looking a little surprised at the rapid change in conversation direction. “Twenty-six. For another coupla months, anyhow.” “Yeah. But. The problem is those people are most of the world.” Shane’s brow furrows at Micah’s answer. He turns his head back, blowing a stream of smoke up towards the sky. “Huh. Younger than the last one.” His thumb moves, jittery, tapping rapidly against the base of the cigarette. “Just -- it’s kind of worrying, I don’t really expect you to live to thirty.” There’s a bland matter-of-fact note to his tone. “I mean. Not just you. Any of us. But it’s really tempting sometimes to believe like if we just --” He waves his hand towards the house, ashes fluttering down from the end of his cigarette. “Practice enough. Get strong enough. Maybe you can.” He shrugs, stiffly. “Sometimes things are really happy. Don’t really know how to keep them that way.” “I don't think they are, is the thing. They're just the loud ones. I think everybody else is just a mixed-up combination of scared'n ignorant. An' those other ones...just manipulate that.” One of Micah's eyebrows quirks upward at that pronouncement. “Younger'n the last what? An' why does that sound kinda ominous?” He rests a hand on the back of Shane's uninjured shoulder, gently guiding him on down the road. “Can't even think that way. S'too defeatist. There's a lotta things gonna happen. An' some of 'em are gonna have t'be really big things. Ain't no real way of tellin' what it's gonna be. Just...do what y'can t'influence things in a more positive direction. S'all anybody can really do.” The hand pats at Shane's shoulder. “An' y'let happy happen, even if the overarchin' stretch of life is rough. Find the bright spots y'can an' just let 'em /have/ you while they exist. Make some of your own when they seem t'be lackin'.” “I don’t know. I don’t really know how to -- I mean. People like you and Pa --” Shane exhales a sharp snort. “Influence things in a more positive direction. /I/ don’t, uh, exactly do a whole lot for our image.” He gets out his pack of cigarettes again, sliding out a second and returning the pack to his pocket. “Nah. Not ominous I just meant his last -- partner. Master. Our --” He shrugs again. “Those bright spots just never really last, you know.” He lights the second cigarette off the butt of the first, starting along again with Micah down the street. “It might be defeatist but I think it’s kind of -- true.” “You're still pretty young there, kiddo. Which means you're still learnin' where y'fit an' what y'can do. An' ain't nobody makin' it /easy/ for you t'do it, either.” Micah's lips pull into a genuine smile. “I think y'do plenty t'help, honestly. Even if y'might be a little rough around the edges. You're a good an' honest an' decent an' lovin' person who cares enough t'ask these kinda questions. So if people think you /look/ scary, that just proves y'can't judge on that, then, don't it?” He gives his shoulder a playful nudge. “Do smoke too much, though.” “Oh, I don't know...really /anythin'/ about that. It ain't somethin' I've pushed at 'cause I figured maybe it's a sore topic? People don't really...talk about 'im.” Micah's free hand rakes through his hair, leaving it sticking up in different directions. “An' just 'cause somethin' is temporary, don't mean it ain't worth havin'. Nobody I've ever known gets t'have all happy all the time, anyway. Y'can't /know/ how much time anybody's got, either. So y'gotta live knowin' it might not be long an' /plan/ like it might well be quite some time. S'a tough balance. Nobody I've ever known's got that all figured out, either. S'a part of the process.” Shane drops his first cigarette on the ground, crushing it under the toe of his sneaker. There is a stretch of silence as he draws a long pull from the new cigarette, black eyes focused on Micah thoughtfully. "It did end kinda messy," he allows after a pause, "but it was good. For a while. With him. He's, uh -- kinda this. Bigshot. Fashion designer. Made most of our clothes," he adds with a lopsided smile, "can be kind of a pain finding shit our size. Daiki still works for him. He was the one who --" Shane's words are interrupted by another drag of smoke. "-- wanted us. Pa didn't. I mean," he holds up a hand to forestall any protest, "he /loves/ us don't get me wrong but he was just out of high school. Kids -- not really his idea." He pulls his other hand from his pocket, lifting it to brush his fingers lightly back through Micah's hair, putting its disarray back into a semblance of order and then just absently patting at Micah's hair. Petpetpatpat. "S'worth having," he agrees with a sharp smile. "I mean --" He rolls his injured shoulder, a small wince accompanying the stretch. "Nobody'd bother fighting if it wasn't." “No, I get that. He's...young enough for it /now/. Would've been a kid himself back then. But...I didn't know any of that. D'you guys still get t'see 'im or talk to 'im at all? Seems like a...sharp break for you otherwise.” The hand over Shane's shoulder blade rubs at it again. “You might wanna just rest that shoulder for a little bit. A couple of hours at least. Wanna let it start t'knit back together.” He worries his lower lip between his teeth. “It's okay if y'don't wanna talk about that too much. But. I appreciate it. Helps me t'understand where y'all are comin' from. 'Specially considerin' if--” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. "It's been sorta rough since, you know? For him, I mean -- not that breakups are easy ever I guess. But Eli was -- well, rich. And Pa reeeeally isn't, so three kids he hadn't planned for when he's still trying to finish school --" Shane grimaces. "He doesn't like us to worry but I always wish he'd let us help out more." He smoothes at Micah's hair again, then drops his hands back down. "Eh, I don't mind talking about it." His shoulder tenses beneath Micah's hand before giving a small shrug. "I think B's a lot more upset over it than I am. I -- haven't talked to him in a. Not since he and Pa split, he kind of vanished for a while. And you /should/ know, I mean you're --" His eyes narrow up at Micah. "'Specially considering what?" “Makes sense. An'...prob'ly y'all would worry less if y'got t'help more, I kinda...get that. It's only fair t'let y'all make your own decisions on what t'do with your own resources, honestly.” Micah's walking pace slows slightly as he thinks. “I actually have an idea on that. If y'all wanted t'say...make donations toward buyin' things for the folks we been helpin' in Harlem or the Morlocks or some such? Y'could do that. Then not as much of that would be comin' from Jax or me. An'...Jax really couldn't feel guilty about it bein' somethin' t'help /him/, because it only is indirectly. Right?” His shoulders shrug at that. “I'm not entirely sure I get the hang-up there. Kids usually help out workin' farms an' such. Watchin' younger siblings, doin' chores... I used t'work at m'dad's shop back home an' didn't take money for it ever--not like a real /job/ kinda pay. Comes out t'the same thing. He's just crazy-stubborn sometimes.” “An' he doesn't try t'call y'all ever? Is it just...he's afraid of upsettin' Jax or somethin'? 'Cause broken up couples work out ways t'deal for the sake of kids all the time.” Micah sighs, stopping himself again. “Ugh. I'm not tryin' t'meddle. It's just that y'all only got so much in the way of family. An' it sounds like...y'had somethin' there for awhile.” His cheeks tint pink as Shane calls him out on the incomplete sentence, expression turning sheepish. “I can't...actually say just yet. Sorry.” “We could totally do that. I mean. Without the summer apartment we don’t exactly have a lot of expenses anyway. And I don’t --” Shane scrunches up one eye, shaking his head as he trails along at Micah’s side. “I mean, /Pa’s/ a farm kid, /he/ started working pretty much as soon as he /could/. I think he just. Feels like -- we -- didn’t ever get a chance to --” He grimaces. “S’fucking stupid, you know. Think it’s a little too late for us to be kids. You know, /he/ started going after these labs when he was still a teenager. Flicker and Ian were -- our age. And he still acts like we live in some /sane/ kind of world.” He flicks at his cigarette, taking another deep breath. “He doesn’t call, it’s not. It was sort of --” He shrugs uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t really want to talk to him anyway. At least not most days. Pa left him because he -- hurt /me/, not hurt Pa. And then Pa didn’t want --” He exhales a stream of grey smoke, eying the end of his cigarette and then digging in his pocket for the pack again. “Having us kind of ruined it for him. They’d probably still be --” Another quick shrug. “What’s /your/ family like? I mean. Do you tell them about all -- this?” His brows hike upwards at the sheepish expression, a crooked smile on his face. “Man that’s such a tease. /And/ you’re blushing. Do I get a hint?” “I get that, too. Wantin' y'all t'have as much of a childhood as y'can, just... I mean, you're already workin' anyway. Might as well let y'do what y'want with what you're workin' for.” Micah shrugs again. “I'm willin' t'help y'do that, if y'want. No formal commitments, just whatever y'wanna do.” His jaw clenches, tight and quiet, at Shane's revelation. It takes some time before he speaks again. “Hurt? Oh, honey. I'm sorry. I didn't know. But you need t'stop blamin' yourself for /everythin'/, hon. Bad things happen an' they're not all your fault.” His arm snakes carefully around Shane, gingerly squeezing in a little hug. “Um...my family's. Small. No siblings. Just m'mom an' pop, mostly. I mean...I got cousins an' grandparents an' all? But most of 'em don't really talk t'me so much anymore. Not much approvin' of my 'life choices'. Pops is...a lot like Jax's dad. Same stern Southern man factory, I think. Slightly younger model. I don't...tell 'im about alla this, no. He wouldn't wanna hear it, so I just don't. But momma's sweet. I tell her a lot of it. Just not the...really worrisome parts where I been gettin' m'self in trouble lately. She'd just fret herself sick an' it wouldn't help nothin'.” He shakes his head at the hint request. “Ohgosh, I didn't mean t'say anythin'. I'm just so bad at not runnin' my mouth. I...oh, when am I /not/ blushin'?” His cheeks take on a deeper red. “Gah, no. You've...gotta talk t'Jax. Sorry.” He hides his face in his hands to stop himself talking more. “Yeah. But. What we want is to help this family out, you guys -- work /really/ hard. And it’s stupid, you know --” Shane drops his hand, pack of cigarettes still held in it as he leans into the hug. “Bastian makes more at his job than -- well. Not /all/ of Pa’s jobs together but definitely more than Pa makes at any one of them. And with the bonus Io gave him --” He shakes his head. “We have more than enough to help out with things. Could go do the shopping for the tunnels and the church and take off some of that strain.” He doesn’t move away, lighting a third cigarette and dropping the butt of the second to the ground. His arm snakes around Micah, curling there tightly. “-- Wait. Life choices -- that’s fucking ridiculous your family doesn’t talk to /you/ you -- probably eclipsed Pa for the Nicest Person I Know spot. At least your parents sound less stupid about it?” He turns his head to avoid blowing smoke onto Micah, dropping it back afterwards to rest his cheek against Micah’s shirt. “Does she fret as good as you do?” There’s amusement in his voice after this. “... pretty much never not blushing. It’s cute. I’ll ask Pa.” “Yeah, you guys should... Y'know what? Family meeting. Official. You guys need a chance t'express your views on this an' I can get Jax t'sit an' /not/ talk until you're finished. Then discuss after. Deal?” Micah nods firmly with this. “Um...yeah, it's just. Not like they /hate/ me. Just. It's always awkward an' then it kept gettin' more awkward as I got older an' once I stopped livin' with m'parents mostly it became...not worth it anymore? So we just don't. But, pretty sure momma'd still be in my corner if I were convicted of mass murder or somethin'. Pops's confounded by me more often than not, but. He deals. Sort of. Leaves the room a lot.” Micah shrugs yet again. “Mmn, if anythin', I think she frets harder. She's got...regular fret plus schoolteacher fret plus mom fret. Gets to the point where she just can't /function/ anymore if it's too much. So. Things not t'tell.” He starts walking again. “Mmhmm. His decision when to talk about what in this instance.” “That sounds pretty excellent. I’m just, fuck, uh. You and B might need to give me a hand on --” Shane’s grin is crooked. “If you haven’t noticed I’m not great at /tact/ I don’t want to make him feel like. All shitty and self-conscious but I’ll probably end up telling him he’s being fucking stupid because well he’s being fucking stupid.” He rests his head against Micah a bit longer, then straightens with another long pull from his cigarette. “She as sweet as you, too?” His eyes flick over Micah as he starts walking again. “Jesus, Southern and teacher and mom that’s a trifecta -- wait. Oh god. You’re dating your mom.” “Right, uh. Y'might wanna choose 'Bastian as the spokesperson in that case. To actually lay out an argument instead of. Snarkin'.” Micah snickers suddenly with that. “Sorry. Shark snark. I...mmn.” He waves a hand dismissively at his own distractibility. “More. She's prob'ly the nicest person I've ever--I am /not/.” His face flushes a sudden furious scarlet. “S'only when you...oversimplify it like that, ohgosh, that sounds horrible.” And there he goes burying his face in his hands again. “What if I lay out a /sharky/ argument?” Shane asks brightly. “-- er. Snarky. /Snarky/ -- hah.” His own snicker comes accompanied by a plume of smoke. “So your nice is genetic? -- why does that sound horrible?” He tugs one of Micah’s hands away from his face. “I mean your mom sounds great.” “Well, I s'pose a sharky argument would be better'n a snarky one. Provided it didn't involve /too/ much bitin'.” Micah peeks out from behind his removed face-barrier. “Not so much genetic as learned, but I'd say so. Definitely m'momma's son. So m'pops likes t'say, anyhow.” His now-freed hand finds its way up to fuss at his hair again. “It's...uh. I'm actually genetically related t'my mom? An' I was raised by her. An'...it's kinda. I dunno. That's just sorta creepy.” “He /likes/ biting,” Shane protests, “a sharky argument would totally be better. S’pretty much how me and B solve arguments.” He bares his teeth demonstratively, /just/ in case Micah has forgotten /just/ how bitey they are. Also gives one tinychomp at the air -- or, less fortunately, at the cigarette still in his mouth which stands little chance against sharpteeth. He scowls as he spits the severed filter out, but the scowl soon melts into sheepish laughter. “... whoops.” He drops the rest of the cigarette onto the sidewalk to snuff it out with his toe, hand moving to his pocket afterwards. “... creepy,” he echoes, quieter and more thoughtful, brows pulling down into an uncomfortable frown. “Oh, y'better bet I know that,” Micah reassures, clicking his own teeth together in an admittedly less impressive demonstration. “I said not /too/ much bitin'. S'distractin' when you're tryin' t'have a serious conversation.” He laughs outright at the sudden cigarette-guillotine manoeuvre. “See? All distractin' with the toothiness. Think this case was for the best, though. How many of those things are you smokin' a day, anyhow? This ain't been that long a walk...” His smile grows somewhat less bright as Shane's expression falls. “Hey, no. No frowny-face over that. It's just. A thing. You likin' Jax isn't the same 'cause you aren't genetically related an' he didn't raise you, either. So...it's unusual. But not the same on creepiness.” Shane’s smile returns at the teeth-clicking. “I know /you/ know that. He only bothers to hide bruises when he’s at /work/.” This is lighter, more amused again, though he wrinkles his nose at the question of the cigarettes. “-- More than I smoked in spring,” he admits with a small hitch of shrug. “So it’s -- creepy if you’re related?” This draws a pensive look from him again, though it fades as they approach a small taqueria. He digs his wallet out of his pocket to offer a pair of twenties to Micah. “-- I need about /seven million/ tacos and a gallon of horchata,” he requests, hanging back a good ways away from its door, “though if they balk at seven million for some reason, two dozen’ll do me and Bastian. Half steak, half chorizo? Um --” He considers this order and adds another ten to the bills he is offering. “And whatever you want and tamarind soda for Pa er sorry you might need extra arms.” He stretches up onto his toes to peck Micah lightly on the cheek along with his bright, “Thanks!” Micah is back to blushing a darker red at the mention of bruises, though his smile hasn't faded any. “There's a psychological theory about some kind of imprintin' durin' certain formative ages that gives people the creepies at the idea of bein' involved with relatives, yeah.” He chuckles at the order. “It's ridiculous that you can't go in here...but. It's close t'closin' time, so I won't risk not gettin' your food t'press the issue. Dozen steak, dozen chorizo, lots of horchata, a few tamarind sodas...I'll see if they have bags with handles.” He grins and pats Shane on the head at the kiss. “You're welcome, hon. S'the least I could do.” “Lotta things are ridiculous,” Shane agrees easily, “but their food’s /delicious/ and I’m hungry as fuck I am /so/ okay with hiding behind your pretty face for the sake of tacos.” He leans back against a neighboring building to wait, starting to reach for his pocket again but then stopping. He digs into the /opposite/ pocket instead, grabbing his phone to flick it on. Micah gets a grin in return, before he turns his attention to the Very Important Business of texting his brother.