ArchivedLogs:Party Line

Party Line
Dramatis Personae Hive, Jax, Steve
In Absentia	2016-06-27 << (dreaming/not dreaming?) >>
Location Hivemind
It's eveningtime -- not so long after dinner has been cleaned up downstairs; the Commonhaus has yet to really empty of people, a handful lingering in the dining room over coffee, some of the kids in the game room playing Nuns on the Run. The television is on in the media room -- albeit somewhat quietly, an early episode of /Shadowhunters/ playing onscreen that Hive is only half paying attention to. Possibly his attention is on the laptop in front of him -- though just as likely not, only one hand on the keyboard and the other draped loosely over Flicker's shoulders where the other man lies sprawled across the couch, head pillowed on Hive's lap, paying more attention to the show than the telepath currently seems to be. He's still looking mostly at the screen(s) when there's a stirring -- nudging, pressing in uncomfortable squeeze up against Steve's mind far more overtly (and far more overtly painful) than his presence /used/ to feel. Poke. Poooke? There's a questioning undertone to the heavy mental pressure. Not far from Hive and Flicker, in an armchair by the window, Steve has been reading. He's wearing one of his numerous Cap shield t-shirts, this one featuring the red, white, and blue emblem on a light heather blue background, and his oldest surviving blue jeans. Zenobia lies at his feet, contentedly chewing on an immense cow femur that looks almost dainty nestled between her massive paws. With the unpleasant telepathic he pauses in the act of lifting his mug of lemonade, but gives not other outward indication of pain or alarm. << Are you...knocking? You needn't, but that does feel /odd./ >> He glances over at the couch, brows furrowing slightly, his concern quietly and unconsciously reaching for the telepath. << Come...in...? >> << Knock knock, >> comes the confirming reply. The touch knifes sharp and stabbing-painful into Steve's mind, though Hive's voice in contrast sounds hesitant, uncertain. << Supposed to -- ask first? >> The pressure grows, digging squeezing-hard against Steve's mind. Curling mental fingers in tight until they've sunk their grip in firm and deep. Once the pressure eases it comes with a new rush of feeling -- both louder and quieter than Hive's vast network had once been in Steve's mind. This time, only one presence, clear and distinct, shines (rather painfully bright) along the mental link. Tucked at a desk in the process of writing a letter (or, more accurately, adding a very elaborate doodle of the New York skyline crawling with giant monstrous bugs, pencil wielded deftly in glittery-nailed hand.) The feelings that seep through the connection are fierce, powerful -- and, at the moment, intensely, achingly lonely. << I appreciate it, especially considering -- this. >> Steve takes one hand off of the open book in his lap and grips the armrest of the chair as the pain grows worse. Zenobia lifts her head and stares at him for a moment before returning to her bone. There's no fear in him, only an abstract wondering at why this feels so much more intense than his previous experiences of being hived. He's just beginning to let out the breath he had been holding when he recognizes the other mind with him. He sets his jaw firmly, his eyes losing focus on the pages in front of him. Not all at once but in very rapid succession, raw emotions well up out of him and into Hive: longing and concern and anger; pain, but joy, also; to a lesser degree, confusion. << Jax! >> << He's been wanting to talk to you. >> Hive's voice is quiet, much gentler now that it surfaces as a background thought somewhere in Steve's mind rather than being /inflicted/ upon him. << Missing -- you. I can feel -- can feel -- >> There's a pause, a faint emphasizing focus on the keen painful ache in Jax's mind. << Not that you don't talk now but it's not. The same. I thought -- maybe if I -- maybe you'd want to... >> This trails off, uncertain, a cautious hesitant suggestion of -- offering? Quiet in Hive's mind. Not words so much as a vague fluttering feeling << (maybehelp?) >> << It's not the same, >> the thought echoes in Steve's mind. He turns it over and over. << Not the same, no. >> The torrent of feelings had begun to slacken, but resumes at full tilt now. << I don't know...maybe. Help. >> Something else stirs in him -- an unease, something almost like helplessness. << {Thank you.} >> When he does reaches for Jax, he reaches clumsy with eagerness, unsure how to navigate the psychic landscape of Hive's network. From Hive there is only a wash of something akin to relief, at Steve's thanks. A faint mental shift -- and now, in the pseudo-prison room four miles across the city, a feeling awakens in Jax's mind as well. Strong and deep and grounded, it comes with its own flood of sensation. The longing and anger, the joy and pain. A flutter of awareness stirring in Jax's mind -- << (can-talk?) >> that soon fades into the background, leaving only Steve's presence in focus. Jax's fingers clench tight around his pencil, the ache within him flaring brighter for a moment. His mind leans hungrily back into the presence Hive brings with him, pressing back with a sharp pang of longing. It comes with vivid mental imagery -- curled up on the couch in Birdhaus's living room, Jax tucked up against Steve's side. The image comes with its own wash of questioning -- wordless, too. Hopeful. << (dreaming/not dreaming?) >> Steve focuses in on the tactile aspect of the image -- the cushions beneath him, his arm curling tighter around the other man's shoulders, his calloused fingers tracing the pencils inked into Jax's forearm. << Not a dream. Hive... >> He turns, buries his face into brightly colored hair. << This /is/ Hive. >> Out in the media room, he presses his hand to his mouth just to ensure he is not speaking these words aloud /there/. << -- Hive -- >> There's a surge of love -- and gratitude, and fierce worry, that brightens in Jax's mind at this. Internally he just shakes his head, tilts it slightly to study Steve intently. << This is /you/. Steve, honey-honey, I -- >> << Yes. >> Steve's fingers trail up Jax's arm. The motion /looks/ casual, even absent, but there is a kind of intensity in his focus, hyper-aware of their bodies where they touch. << It's you, too. It's us. >> His fingers circle Jax's shoulder, crosses his chest and flutter up his neck, coming to rest under his chin. << I love you, and -- and I've missed you so! >> He laughs, humorless. << Even though I see you nearly every day. >> Jax's laugh comes in soft echo of Steve's -- /sounds/ like his laugh, feels like it where his shoulders shake against the other man's side, but around them the room darkens in heavy swirls of shadow. For a moment the landscape /changes/ around them -- no longer home but the lunchroom at S.H.I.E.L.D. -- and now the small conference room that has been Jax and Ryan's visitor room. Both places come with a very intense /feel/ of being watched, heavy and oppressive, before things shift and change back to the quiet comfort of Birdhaus. << Yeah. See you a lot, but. >> Jax's head shakes, and then tucks in snug against Steve's shoulder. << I've missed you. >> Steve nods his mute agreement and presses a kiss to Jax's forehead. His fingers trace the other man's jawline and finally curl around the back of his neck. << I want so badly to take you away from that place. Or at least to hold you and -- >> He draws a deep, shaky breath, his fingers digging in, his need sharp-edged and painful. A vague worry rises from the back of his mind, too: an awareness of Hive's presence, and a fear of hurting him. Shakes his head, as if to clear it. << Must be so much worse for you. >> Jax's soft whimper can be felt more than heard -- a mental trembling, a flutter of shadow around them as he turns in to Steve's touch. << I want -- >> is echoed, immediate and deep and powerful, by a strong surge: << (I /want/.) >> The desire that rises in him does not quite take shape. Holding on to the feel of Steve's fingers on his skin, Steve's kiss pressed to his forehead, Steve's arm warm and safe around him. His own concurrent awareness of his room with its everpresent guards feels distant in comparison to the more immediate need. << Ain't easy. But it's hard both ways. You're fighting a hard fight out there, too. >> Steve sighs, relaxing into the sense of Jax's presence. His fingers knead at the back of the other man's neck, firm and careful and slow. << It's...not the kind of battle I'm gifted in fighting. So yes, it's hard, but at the end of the day I can go /home/. >> He squeezes Jax tighter. << I can speak to and touch my loved ones...somewhat freely. You -- >> His head shakes, a tightly controlled fury welling up in him. << I've knowed a long time where my road was likely t'lead. >> Jax's head tips forward, the shadows pressing back in favour of a softer warmer light welling up from him at Steve's kneading. It shivers a moment later, though, flickers unsteadily in time with a wash of guilt -- fear, uncertainty. << But I never meant to drag you along here. >> << You forget that I volunteered. >> Steve's hands stop moving for a moment, then continue. << Not just for the experiment or the war. For the show, too. >> His fear and uncertainty mirror Jax's, though not the guilt. << I never had any illusions this was going to be easy. Not the fight, and not us. >> Jax's head shakes, hard. << No. No, maybe -- maybe not. I know you know it was gonna be hard when we set out to -- >> The tangle of emotions deepens, the world around them briefly fuzzing through a rapidfire mix of thought from Jax too fast to easily track. Once he settles back into Steve's arms solidly he settles, too, on: << But you volunteered for /us/. Not for -- this. Whatever this is. We ain't even got a chance at a difficult /us/ now because /we/ ain't -- anything. >> Hurt lances through Steve, sharp and raw. << We are lovers, even if circumstances -- the /mission/ needs us to pretend otherwise. >> He whimpers softly. << And you deserve better, and I /want/ more, but... >> The pain returns, even worse than before, a jagged sort of rending. But then, defiant, << ...that doesn't make us /nothing./ I've done this before. >> Hot tears soak into Jax's hair. << With Howard... >> Somewhere across the room (somewhere across the city), there's a quiet creak. Crrrk. A tensing of jaw, a clench-grind of teeth. Hive nestles further back into the couch, breathing just a little faster than before. Jax swallows, turns, arms curling tight around Steve. Some other part of his mind reaches out -- warm and protective at the feeling of Hive's tension. His own jaw clenches unthinkingly along with Hive's, eye closing as he rests his forehead against Steve's. << I didn't mean -- >> The hurt roiling in him is a turblent echo of Steve's. << This just isn't fair to you. Juggling all this when we can't even talk right or see each other or -- what kinda life is this? The world's watching you and you gotta step all the more careful just -- just because of me when we can't even... >> In his own body, Steve turns slightly toward Hive, as if he would go to comfort him. But he does not rise. Without visual illustration, without contradiction with the scene in Birdhaus, his mind presses up against Hive's. Zenobia stirs at his feet, grumbles, and settles again, napping. In Jax's arms he's sobbing quietly. << I don't need the world to be fair to me, so long as I'm fighting for what's right. It's the only kind of life I know how to live. >> His fingers twine in Jax's hair. << Maybe I'm a fool for it, but I don't -- give up. Eventually, my usefulness will surely pass, or change enough that I can -- that we can -- >> His eyes slide shut, his breathing eases. << I still have hope that someday we can love openly, and proud. If that hope isn't enough for you -- then. Tell me what you need. >> << But there are so many people who love you here. So many. You could... >> Jax's words are steady but the room around them is not, encroaching shadows filled with half-formed images dancing at the edges of their perception. The question of /need/ pulls a keener note of longing to the forefront of his mind, some of that imagery (Steve's head bowed intently over a sketchbook as he works in quiet) (his face slightly flushed, eyes half-closed, illuminated in soft glowing lights that glitter off of walls of ice around him) (laughing together with Spencer over an episode of Steven Universe) brightening into distinction before fading away. << ... eventually. Maybe. >> The sharp hurt in Jackson is growing, clearly felt along the mental link between them, but inwardly his arms are strong and steady, cheek dry as he rests his head against Steve's hair. << But until then I'm just holding you back. You already /had/ one life stole, Steve. I don't want to steal a second from you. >> << It's not as if you're stopping me from taking any number of lovers. >> Steve basks in Jax's images for a moment, all of his senses knowing them and living them even as they bloom and brighten and die. He does not answer at once, just holds the other man close. << You do not know the strength that your love gives me, and... >> The shake of his head is minute, might be imperceptible if their heads weren't touching. There is a kind of weary, budding anguish in him. << ...you're not stealing anything from me. I give it freely. >> << No, I ain't. >> This acknowledgment is heavy; Jax just clings tighter to Steve. << I'm just stopping you from living /life/ freely. What are you going to /do/ when the press finds out about us, honey-honey? >> Not 'if'; there's an unhappy fatalism in Jax's mind. << How do you think your ability to stay in this fight's going to hold up to that? You just said yourself this is the only kinda life you know how to live. But if this came out you /couldn't/. If I -- >> The pause here is jumbled -- fragmented, the mental imagery momentarily shattering apart. Dissolving into murky darkness and a flare of pain; reforming again into clarity once Jax has marshalled himself into something more coherent. << ... If I weren't in the picture, >> continues quieter, layered over an undercurrent of raw hurt, << you'd have the space to figure out. What kind of direction /your/ fight's going to -- to go. >> << When that happens, I'll fight some other way. >> The pain and the sadness haven't bled from Steve, though they seem to recede before his anger, slow and smouldering. << I'll have to sooner or later, in any case, considering S.H.I.E.L.D. If you're not -- /in the picture,/ I'll just be fighting without you and poorer for it. >> His tears have dried up, his anger spent for the moment. His mental voice has gone very still despite the wrenching pain in him. << Now, if you want to end it, then end it. But don't tell me it's what I need. >> << I want -- >> Jax's constructed mental image is still very composed, settling slightly back with hands curled against Steve's shoulders and eye meeting the other man's gaze steadily. It contradicts sharply with the awareness of himself that bleeds through the hivemind link -- in a distant room somewhere, Steve can feel the shake of his shoulders, the raggedness of his breath, face buried on folded arms on his desk, the hot spill of tears on his cheek. << I want -- >> The flood of images from him grows brighter, more vivid, a deluge of technicolor /need/ that batters at Steve's mind. Steve -- -- smile quick and bright in a patch of sunlight, looking up from a garden bed with hoe in hand -- -- in crisp pinstriped dress shirt and slacks, kneeling in a pew, hands folded and head bowing during the consecration -- -- seated still atop the guardrail at the Commons roof, head slightly tipped, a small half-smile on his face and Horus perched on his shoulder, carefully grooming his hair -- -- expression reverent, sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, skin glistening under the glow shining off of Jax's body -- -- jacket crusted in snow, Dusk's wing pinning him down on his back in the courtyard, one arm raised to hurl a snowball back at the vampire's face -- -- backlit by the glow of dueling lightsabers, grin broad and boyish and delighted as the choreographed battle takes place -- Jax's head tips forward, resting his forehead against the other man's. The churn of emotions in him is stormy -- longing, desire, love, anguish, grief, guilt, anger -- surging raw and chaotic. << I want you. I want you. I love you, I need you, I /want/ you. I want to build a /life/ with you, Steve. >> Somewhere else in the city the ragged gasps of his breath are growing harsher; Steve can feel the erratic flux of energy of the fluttering light around him. << I /want/ that. But you're there an' I'm here and this /hurts/. Never getting to talk to you and stressing about how our relationship interferes with the work we're doing and always having to pretend and -- an' having to dance around the questions reporters ask like I'm just this pathetic -- >> This stalls into a flutter of hurt, of guilt. << {I'm sorry. I love you so much.} Maybe you're strong enough for this but I -- I can't. >> Steve's physical form in the media room looks far more composed than the image of himself in the telepathic link. He weathers the barrage of what Jax wants, in pictures and in words, with only a soft sob and a few shakes of his head, but what follows cuts him deep, great torrents of pain and guilt welling up out of him. << I just want to tell the world, and damn the consequences, but -- >> Very abruptly, he rises from his chair by the window, startling Zenobia awake. Abandoning both mug and book, he flees the room for the roof without making eye contact with anyone. His dog follows at his heels, scrambling the first few steps to catch up. Out in the cool night, something in him settles, just a touch. He closes his eyes. Inwardly, he's just slumped into Jax's arms, tears flowing freely but silently. << But we have a war to fight. >> The pain is dull and distant now, thrumming through him in time to the slow, powerful thud of his heart. << I don't know how to stop loving you, and I don't want to, but I never meant to make you suffer. So...I guess this is it. >> There's a ripple in their mental link -- a shiver of love, of concern, that ripples up to curl strong and warm and wordless around both the other two. It makes Jax's tears fall faster, grateful though he may be. His arms wrap tighter around Steve -- then slowly relax, reluctant. << I ain't gonna stop loving you. I just -- >> His head bows as he stands, takes a step back in the shadow-filled murk of the room. Steve's words -- << (have a war to fight) >> -- are echoing through his mind, his shoulders slumping -- then squaring, again. << Guess it's the only kind of life I know how to live, too. >> Steve returns the embrace, tight and trembling. When he lets go it feels less like an intentional movement and more as though his strength has finally failed him. << I love you. I'll...see you soon. >> He turns away from Jax, then. Turns from the telepathic construct of Birdhaus. Buries himself into Hive's formless presence, hating the stream of hurt that bleeds from him unchecked. Out on the rooftop he only leans on the railing, shoulders slumped, eyes staring past the glittering expanse of river. Drops one hand to pet at Zenobia's broad, flat head. << Thank you, >> the thought rings flat and dull. Hive's presence curls in -- closer and warmer around the others. The deluge of feelings shared between the other two men slowly tapers off as the house fades out of mind, leaving behind only their own thoughts, gathered close into his worried embrace.