ArchivedLogs:Planted Seed

Planted Seed
Dramatis Personae Jim, Melinda	2014-01-17 Pun intended...
Location <NYC> Melinda's Apartment - Lower East Side
The apartment is composed of four bedrooms, two baths, a living room and an entry space attached to the kitchen, near the door. That kitchen is covered in tile, from floor to countertop to back splash on the wall, all white, with light, thin blue stems and flowers. The cabinets are newish, with blond wood kept meticulously clean of fingerprints. It is also outfitted with an excellent coffee maker, or two, with all the accoutrement to go with it. The living room is mainly furnished by found pieces, two chairs and a couch. None of it was constructed at the same time, but it all has been reupholstered with the same cloth, the surfaces colored similarly and with a regular weave. The wood has all been refinished as well, dark and able to hide stains well. The walls are colorful, a sage green with some abstract blue and orange intermingling in different places. A cursory inspection shows that four people live in this four bedroom apartment, so it's difficult to pick out what belongs to any one person. The message that summons Jim is not one easily sent.  There were several other options before Melinda finally sends out, 'Can you come by my apartment?  It's important.' There's a short delay, before: 'Yeah' -- no punctuation. That comes thirty minutes later when the back of his fist thumps twice rapidly on the door. You can almost hear him lurking up against the entrance. Like he might press his EAR against it. Melinda approaches the door quietly enough, pulling the door open after casting a shadow in front of the peep hole.  She seems to have given up on having clothes fit and is swathed in loose layers, borrowed from her large, turtleshelled roommate.  The sleeves of her gray henley are rolled up to her elbows, while the loose slacks around her middle puddle a bit around her feet.  While the expression on her face is tired and distant, the edges of her eyelashes and rims of her eyes show signs of tears.  She nods as she lets him in, silent. The peephole for one moment is dark, until Jim withdraws from trying to look BACK in at Mel and skulks back with his hands crammed in pockets. He hasn't stopped anywhere along the way here to freshen up - his clothes are a worn hobo-esque variety, ragged tweed jacket with patched elbows, loafers so scuffed it's difficult to guess their original color, trousers a little sprung around the pockets and knees. And ass. His eyes are underslept and bloodshot but they are /sharply/ present, instantly scanning Melinda and then jumping past he shoulder to scope out her apartment, muttering, "Don't suppose I'm here just 'cause you need me t'shoot someone." Hope springs eternal. Watch out, he's trying to shoulder his way inside. Melinda lets him shoulder in, holding the door open wide and then closing it behind him. She turns back as her fingers automatically throw the lock, following him afterward.  "Nope.  Sorry.  Fresh out of responsible people."  She pads quietly to the living room, taking up residence in one of the corners of the couch, one knee bent and brought up to the cushion so she can wrap her arms around it.  "I had another doctor's appointment today. I ... didn't know how you felt about them, so I went alone.  We should probably talk, so I know how you feel about them." /Grunt./ Is Jim's response. The farthest window draws him, grim faced and striding, until either of his hands come up hard against either side of the windowframe. To just kind of... bear his weight against. Scowling down at traffic. Waiting Mel out. "I have to come to a decision," Melinda begins, frowning deeply and rubbing one hand against the side of her leg nervously.  "I thought I would have more time to do so, but apparently the doctor's initial calculations were off.  It's not her fault.  She only had one set of measurements to work off of.  But now we know more.  I have... a week.  Maybe less. Even then, they're not sure they can get away with it, given New York's laws." She takes a moment to breath, her eyes closing as she tacks on a second breath.  "It's a lot to think about.  I have several types of optimism warring inside me.  First, that I can go through a procedure of this magnitude and come out on the other end unscathed.  The longer I wait, the less optimistic I am. "The second thought... is that I can do this.  I ... can just let nature take its course and embrace it.  I have a good job.  I am surrounded by good people who will help me - an amazing community of strong people who care about me.  I have a feeling that it will be okay."  She sniffs slightly and shakes her head.  "I feel like I'm ignoring all of the difficult and painful things that are to come when I think this way.  I don't know.  Maybe that is true.  I just... want to be honest here."   She pauses once more and lifts her gaze to study Jim's posture.  "Not that I will base all of my decision on your reaction, but I do know it will be a factor."  Deep breath.  "How violently opposed to having a child - being the biological father of a child - are you?" Thmp. Goes Jim's forehead against one of his hands. It echoes hollowly up the windowframe. With his back still facing Melinda, who knows, maybe he's making /silly/ faces against his knuckles. Or gnawing on them. Just kind of /stirring/ the skin around with the bridge of his nose. "...you got a /knack/ for phrasing, Mel." He rasps, like it's not /fair/. Like he wants to lodge a complaint with her manager. He turns slowly, his hand still compressing one eye socket to scrub that entire /area/ and just... stands there for a moment. Looking long at the woman. Into her eyes. His expression is unhelpfully flat-scowling. Melinda returns the gaze for a moment, her expression braced for more, but when no more comes, her lips purse.  "I'm trying to discuss this rationally when it doesn't feel at all like a rational subject.  If I were to have this kid, I know it would be my decision.  We're not married.  We're not even really dating.  I can't expect your involvement in any of this because that's not fair -- but if you want to be involved, well, that's up to you." It's less that Jim is shaking his head and more that it's just kind of rocking around. On his neck. Like he's trying to shake loose a fly. His hand drags hard down the side of his face; it pulls his lower eyelid away from the eyeball beneath, exposing a pink bloodshot pocket. And he comes forward; his knees pop with he unceremoniously slumps into a squat in front of Melinda. Looking up into her eyes with his palm pressed over his mouth. Scrubbing there - little iron-wool scritching sounds over his graying stubble.  Then his eyes drop to Melinda's stomach. After a moment, he reaches a hand towards it. Melinda slowly lowers her knee, moving her protective leg out of the way.  She watches him quietly, her brow knit in consternation.  She wets her lips and draws in the lower one to gnaw on, before reaching out and taking his hand and guiding it forward to her abdomen. Palm flattened, fingers loose, Jim doesn't really go exploring. His hand just lies there, against Melinda's abdomen. While he furrows his brows at it.  He finally discovers his thumb. And kind of blindly rolls it a few inches over the natural curve of female stomach. And puffs up his cheeks to release his breath through his teeth in a soft hiss.  Mel releases his arm after a while, sliding her hand up to rest against the back of his hand, her expression melting slowly into something tired, but focused.  The shape of her abdomen is changing.  There is more softness, but also something under the surface changing the way her muscles lie.  The clothes that look loose on the rest of her press tight here, against the swell of what's inside.  "They say, soon, the child will kick." "Fuck." Jim scratches at an eyebrow with his free hand, teeth still a little... bared. Grr. The words don't seem to /comfort/ him, considering he pulls back his hand like he's afraid it might START. And looks down at his palm in case it left /cooties/. Aaaa. He faceplants down hard against Melinda's knee. "Christ, Mel. I can barely take care of a fucking /goldfish/." He loves that goldfish. Melinda pulls her hand away when Jim does, not wanting to force him to stay there.  She watches him, lips relaxing, her eyes taking in all of his details.  "I'm not asking you to take care of it, Jim.  I'm asking if you're going to hate that it exists."  She lets out a small breath and reaches out to touch his head, fingers moving through his hair gently. Beneath Melinda's fingers, Jim mumbles, "Christ." Yeah. That's it. He's not lifting his head. He's living down here now. Well, except he adds, "Who the fuck /hates/--."  "Plenty of people, Jim." Melinda answers quietly, a great frown in her tone.  She exhales and raises her other hand, bracing fingertips against the side of her face, her elbow resting on the back of the couch.  "This sort of happened to us, and I want to be mindful of you."  She closes her eyes.  "You can tell me how you feel now, or we can wait, but... well, you know how much time I have." "Aaaugh," Jim rolls away from Melinda's hand and stands up with a faint creak where the fiber muscles in his legs had gone slightly wood grain. You can almost hear a rustle of branches when he's up right again, "Just--!" He opens his arms out to the light coming in through the window, then drops them to his sides and turns his body to face Melinda, mouth already hanging open to pull in a breath. "--you wanna do this?" Why does he sound like he's an aggressive cross-examiner. Nodding his head at her even like 'yeah - yeah I just /see/ that you do'. "You know me.  This is what I do.  I work with people who need my help to get their feet under them.  I'm finding it hard to not do that."  Melinda's legs pull upward once more, her arms resting on her knees.  "They asked me all sorts of questions when they found out I wasn't sure about keeping it.  Had a counselor and everything, giving me options for how and why I wanted to terminate.  The one question that has stuck with me that really got under my skin was whether I wanted to get tested - to see if the child was a mutant." She breaks off, emotion just starting to creep into her still tone, forcing her to regroup.  "I guess I heard a voice in side me that said, 'if this child is a mutant, then I will love and care for it and make sure it needs nothing.  There's been so much death lately - of mutants, supposedly by mutants.  I just... I can't.  There's been too much death.  Why can't we have some life?" "Hff. Talking about it like it's some charity case." This first is a reflexive scoff, Jim rolling up his eyes and turning away to look out the window. He stands silently like this for a long moment, breathing in and out, the hand at his side clenching gradually tighter, then gradually milder in rhythm. He makes a second 'hff', softer, like a sigh. "Yeah." Aughlgh, he dips his head to scrub at his face again, /briskly/, like he's trying to wake himself up. "S'been a lot of death."  He tips up his eyes to try and scope out what few stars might exist in the New York sky. And rasps, "...didn't even know they offered tests like that. Makes you fucking wonder." "I didn't think about it until they offered it to me - but it makes sense once you think about it.  Mutants are scary enough in the streets.  Even developmentally disabled children are easier to handle and they screen for that."  Mel's knees slide off to one side, bracing against the back of the couch as her hips move in the other direction, giving her a chance to cradle her head on the cushion behind and beside her.  "I didn't do it.  It was a lot more money - I'm already pretty sure this kid is one." "There some study about the percentage of freak parents begetting freak kids?" Jim remains looking out the window, though he's restlessly going through his lower pockets without seeming to notice. His tone is openly /bitter/ in growling that, shaking his head and abruptly wandering off towards the kitchen. "Y'know s'weird. Never really seemed a big part of my life. Had other shit on my plate - By the time I started getting leafy, already was a damn drunk heading fast into my first divorce. Just kinda seemed like god was already taking a shit on my parade, what's a few more turds, right?" He's grabbing a random cup from a cupboard, to fill with water. "I... was just taking it as a twenty five percent chance, using that square thing from biology class and a feeling.  I'm probably wrong.  I ... I guess there's a study on it, though, I don't know how in depth it could be with most mutants not being open about it.  Hell, they could have asked about the testing just to /do/ the study in question"  Melinda cringes, fingers rubbing at her forehead and sliding to her temples.  She exhales and closes her eyes, listening as Jim moves on to an adjacent topic.  She remains quiet when he finishes. "Wasn't until I met Hivey 'n the others..." Jim emerges from the kitchen shaking his head, frowning some complicated shape of internalized disgruntlement and something else. Something that is tight in the craggy creases around his eyes. His eyes land on Melinda and he chuffs through his nose. And, after a moment of seeming like he's going to meander right /past/ the couch, he segues off to grab a throw pillow or whatever might look reasonable and tosses it at Melinda's hip. Here. PILLOW. That position she's in makes HIS neck hurt. "Listen. Do what you gotta do, huh?" Melinda takes the pillow and hugs it to her chest, slowly curling into a ball around it.  "Do what I have to do, eh?"  her voice sounds hollow.  "Sorry.  Makes me think you're advocating getting rid of it rather than leaving the decision in my corner."  She straightens into a more comfortable position after a moment, stuffing the pillow behind her lower back to brace it.  "Do you still want to take me to doctor appointments?" "Oh, for crying out -- What, you want me to try and convince you not to?" Jim's hands raise, palms facing outward like he's warding a whole new shitstorm off /ahead/ of time, "This is /your/ call, Mel. Your fuckin' body. You're looking for some kind of subtext, some -- fucking petitio principii, I'm not giving you one." He sniffs hard through one nostril and turns towards the door. But pauses. Looks at Melinda, over a shoulder, "...yeah. I'll still take ya." There's a longer pause, where he shifts weight from left foot to right foot.  "--you know I got your back, right?" "Yeah, Jim.   I know you've got my back."  Melinda rests her arms on the back of the couch and her chin on those arms moments later, watching him bluster around the apartment.  "Thanks." "But uh." Jim shifts feet again, kind of drifting towards the door but casting /glances/ over his shoulder at Mel as he goes. "We're not /dating/." Just plunges on in and PUTS THAT OUT THERE. "Y'know. 'Cause." /'Cause/. Melinda's eyes grow wider when Jim makes this proclamation.  "Dude.  Just because you're my babydaddy doesn't make you my affection partner.  Hell.  Dating requires dates.  Doctor's appointments do //not// count as dates no matter how many times my pants come off." "Oh. - /yeah/." Jim's hands throw out again, walking backwards, smiling! "Good. Great. Just uh." His hip bumps against the doorknob, and he kind of blindly paws at the locks to unfasten it. "Making sure. Okay. Guess you'll uh. Text me, huh?" "Of course.  You know, Jim.  As the father, you could actually attend some of these appointments."  There may be a mischievous look on her face.  "Come in.  Ask questions yourself." "Augh." Jim makes a sound like he's vaguely disgusted, getting the door open. "You don't wanna invite a PI to ask questions, Mel. Take me on that." Then he's heading out in a god-awful mess. "I'll uh. See ya." He kind of rushes to get the door closed. Melinda gives a hiccup of a laugh as she mutters to herself, "You know, in this, I kind of do." Finally she tilts her head to one side so she can lift a hand and wave. "See you soon."