ArchivedLogs:Scars

Scars
Dramatis Personae Peter, Jackson, Micah	2013-06-07 '
Location <NYC> 303 {Holland} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late bright coloured sealife has made its way into being painted on the wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. A-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK comes Peter's fist, rappin' on that door. The Spectacular Chitin Boy is currently clad in his red hoodie -- only now that he's in the apartment complex has he dropped the hood down! -- blue jeans, two-toed socks, and funny sandals (which can be kicked off in an instant!) along with his nylon black backpack and sleek little wrist-mounted thwippy things. He's got a thoughtful look on his face, today; eyebrows pinched, but in a 'I'm-Thinking-About-Things' sort of way -- though there /is/ a tenseness in his jaw and posture. Just a little. Probably on account of still-missing-Ivan. Jackson's apartment is CUPCAKE-laden, or at least it has been -- there were a bunch of blueberry-stuffed lemon cupcakes but their numbers have been whittled down to two. There's still a decent bunch of raspberry tiramisu cupcakes, heavily laden with amaretto; half of these have been distributed to Ryan's and Hive's apartments but some still sit on the counter. Jax is in the kitchen again, despite this cupcake surplus! The kitchen is /glowing/, heavily, a /host/ of jewel-bright dragonflies, tiny and glittering, winging their way around. Zip! Zipzipzip! The kitchen swarms with glittering colour. Jax is singing to himself, quiet but cheerful (Five Iron Frenzy's 'Every New Day'), bouncing on his toes as he puts together -- some kind of flatbread sandwiches? A lot of greens and sprouts and bell peppers and thin strips of marinated tofu together with a scallion-red pepper spread. He's summery-cheerful even past the glowing and singing, bright yellow Little Miss Sunshine shirt, light green capris. His colourful hair is /gone/, shorn all off this morning down to the skin. His scalp is /still/ colourful, though, decorated with a large tattoo of a sort of chimera; veined faintly-colourful dragonfly wings, black panther body, segmented scorpion tail, and the heads of a goat, a dragon, and an eagle. Micah comes bouncing up the stairs, humming something unidentifiable that ceases as he reaches the third floor landing. He has just made it back from work, with enough time to change from work-clothes into a pair of faded jeans and his Reading Rainbow-dash T-shirt before heading over to the Lofts. He waves at Peter as he approaches. "Hiii, Peter! You lookin' for Jax? Could be he's home and just in the middle of artin' or bakin' or somethin'. Lemme door." He digs around in a pocket for keys, all the better to /door/ with. The key click-thuds in the lock and Micah pushes his way in. "Hey, Jax! Look what followed me here!" He greets with a broad smile, gesturing to Peter. Nevermind Peter got here first. "Ohhey, Micah -- um," Peter responds, stepping back to give Micah enough room to fiddle with the lock. "Actually I wanted to, maybe, talk to you /too/," he admits -- just a hint of violet touching his face. As the door opens -- he hops, behind Micah, entering the apartment with both hands thrust /deep/ into his pockets, armed with -- a sheepish smile. Peeeeeking around the corner, in the direction of the kitchen. And sniffing at the smell of cupcakes and -- well okay when are there /not/ cupcake smells in here. "Hey, Jax," Peter begins, before glancing up to Micah, and -- "...I didn't websling here." SMILE! Like this should earn him a /cookie/. "Also I wanted to ask you, um, about maybe helping me with something? A present. For the twins." "Hiiiii," Jackson looks Kind Of Surprised by the sudden presence of /people/, probably kind of too distracted with bopping around singing-cooking-dragonflying to have noticed the KNOCKS. He slips around the counter, traipsing across the living room to greet Micah with a HUG. And then kiss. On the nose. And a hug for Peter, too! He is dispensing /all/ the hug today. "Hi! Both of you hi. Um." He rocks back a step, glancing between the other two. "You didn't? That's great! Um, do you -- want a cupcake?" It's /like/ a cookie. "I'm makin' dinner too. -- What's up?" Micah gives Peter a curious look. "Me? Sure...what's...oh, twins-stuff. Yeah, what were you thinkin' of?" Then he is distracted by a Jax! Which means Jaxhugs. Also rubbing a hand over scalp, which is pretty much /required/. "Hey, that's new. Needed to cool off?" He bunny-crinkles his nose playfully at the nose kisses. "Ooo, food! D'you need help with anythin'?" This is sort of asked of the floor as Micah tugs off his shoes to leave them by the door. Peter accepts the hug very quickly! WRAP, squeeze. "A cupcake?" Peter asks, as if considering this a moment, nose wrinkling in indecision. Maybe because. He has /plans/, and wants to talk to Jackson and Micah about all the things, and a cupcake. Will interfere with the talking. But: "...sure." CUPCAKE WINS OUT. When Micah tugs off his shoes, Peter glances over -- and then, begins slipping out of his sandals! Squeezing those two-toed socks into the floor. "...oh, um -- actually I guess I have -- I wanted to talk to -- two things. Maybe three things. The first was, about, uh. I was --" Peter goes violet. Kind of like a mood ring. He gestures, toward his throat, as he looks toward -- up? -- to Micah. "The twins, their gills? They flutter a lot. Gives them trouble breathing. Um, sometimes it helps when I -- when, um, somebody presses the gills down, to stop them. And I was wondering. If it'd be possible to, like -- make a mold of their gills? And maybe. Create something. For when they're on land, that would -- keep pressure on their gills. Keep them shut. Something like, a harness, or, um. Something they could get in and out of really easy. I kind of, wanted to, uh. Maybe try to make it as a surprise. Or something." Jax grins, bright, head pressing up kind of catlike into the rubbing. "Yeah, s'summer, it was /time/." OK, not /really/ summer but! It's been warm at least. "Plus what's the point of having ink if I just hide it all the time? Hair is for winter." He trots off towards the kitchen, setting a lemon-blueberry cupcake neatly down in the center of a small plate. "Y'all want drinks? Lemonade? Tea? Juice?" He is halfway back to delivering the cupcake when he stops, head tilting slightly as Peter speaks. "That's --" He hesitates, only at a delay remembering to step forward and offer the plate. "... that's real sweet." He sounds oddly surprised. "S'even hard for them to sleep on land cuz they keep -- tryin' to open and breathe that way. Wakes 'em up every half hour, ain't no good for restin'." A hint of pink traces across the bridge of Micah's nose, for /no apparent reason/. Sympathetic blushing...at least it isn't very strong! "Wouldn't need to mould nothin' t'just get some pressure over a broad area. Could do a simple compression garment. Don and doff easy, just a zipper usually. Make 'em for kids with low tone or sensory issues all the time. Wouldn't take nothin' but a handful of measurements. Uh... Be hard to make it a /surprise/ though. Gettin' all tape-measurey on a body usually requires some /explanation/ first. Unless y'can think of a good not-creepy excuse for me t'be measurin' people without givin' up the game?" Emphasis on /not-creepy/. "Y'gotta point," Micah says to Jax with a nod, about the hair and ink situation. "I didn't even know that was under there. Ohgosh, you got lemonade?" "I'm okay," Peter says, in response to -- offers of /juice/. Then, he reaches forward for that muffin, and... ROWMRPF whoadon'tforgettochew. There are, /maybe/ some crumbs left on his chin. Just a few flecks, lingering there. A lot of things have changed about Peter, but his ability to eat food lightning-fast isn't among them. "Nnrmph," he responds to Jackson, then -- he swallows, and: "Yeah I know, it's really sucky, back when we were in--um, back when we were in, y'know. They couldn't -- sleep well." "--compression garment?" Peter asks, looking back to Micah -- already moving to sit on, well, /something/. A chair, maybe. Hop, hop, flump. Kind of crouched on it; always ready to /spring away/ if necessary. Peter doesn't usually do 'relaxed'. "That could work but they got 'em on their neck, too," he says, tracing his own throat, as if to demonstrate. "Maybe a collar or something? They both have the same measurements, anyway. I'm sure I could get Shane's--" Violet swims right back into his face. "--I mean, um. I could ask him. Or, uh." "Got lemonade nice an' fresh!" Jackson /darts/ back to the kitchen. A swarm of dragonflies scatter when he arrives, though by the time they wing their way out of the kitchen they have transformed from dragonflies to less realistic creatures, tiny and cartoony, colourful and round with giant eyes and still kind of dragonfly-ish wings. "-- could take some measurements," he muses as he opens the fridge to get a pitcher of lemonade. "They burned through a lotta clothes lately," which he says with a /distinctly/ unhappy slant to his voice, "gonna hafta rummage up some new ones for 'em soon enough anyway." He stretches up onto his toes to get a glass from the cabinet, his back to the others and expression not visible as he says, more thoughtful, "-- a collar'd probably work good, I don't expect Shane'd mind much if you --" He cuts this off here; his cheeks are /deep/ red as he turns to set the glass down and pour it full of lemonade. "Yeah, it's like...really tight, stretchy material. For their purposes, it'd be like a tank top kind of thing. Necks are tough, though. Y'don't wanna compress airways or arteries or...there's lotsa important stuff up there. I s'pose it would depend how /much/ pressure y'need for those. Might have to experiment with different things. Could maybe use some Kinesiotape for the neck part? It's pretty elastic and could go /just/ over the spot y'need, too. I mean, they put that on /baby/ skin at some of the hospitals I work at, so it's fine for sensitive skin an' all. An' it can stay on for days. Just would have to replace it every time they take it off to go breathe water." Micah plunks himself in a chair, as well. "S'a lot of measurements. Like, worse than gettin' a nice custom suit." Aaaand, now his blushing is worse, too. So much for hint-of-pink, thanks Jax. Peter watches the dragonflies with obvious, sudden interest; as they zip and zoom through the room, his eyes flicker after them. When they become a bit more cartoonish, his intent interest flickers into something more wistfully amused. "Ohyeah, Shane's -- man I was wondering where the heck he gets clothes like that, he's /hella/ dapper." Hella. It's one of Peter's new--okay no nevermind. When Jackson mentions Shane and collar, though -- Peter goes from violet to /dark/ indigo. Eyebrows shooting up, tensing sharply in that chair -- like he's just been caught red-handed. "...y-yeah, uh." He flicks his attention BACK TO MICAH. "...their gills can cut, too, if pressure isn't -- in the right direction. S'why I thought a mold, maybe? Um." Still indigo, Peter twists and wriggles a bit in that chair. "...but umyeahmaybeyoucould. Measurements. Yeah. Um. There was -- something else I wanted to talk to -- you about," he says, eyes sloooowly slinging back over to Jax. "What's a Kinesiotape?" Jax slips back out to the living room, offering the lemonade to Micah but not returning to the kitchen afterwards. He settles down on the floor by Micah's chair, dropping his head back to rest against Micah's knees. "Gills are kinda like razors one direction. Safe the other, though, they really /like/ being -- uh," Jackson wiggles his fingers towards the CAT, curled up in a beanbag by the window. "Pet." Like they are kittens, too. "-- actually, um, I'm handy/ish/ with a sewing machine but not -- /excellent/ most all their clothes came from -- my last -- partner, he --" He trails off, shrugging a shoulder. "To me?" His eyebrows lift, eye shifting back towards Peter. "What's up?" "The sharp shouldn't be a problem. I mean, they only oughtta cut if something rubs /and/ rubs in the wrong direction. Whole point of compression garments is," Micah interlaces his fingers quckly, "compression. Won't shift. Especially since I'd be makin' 'em custom. An' tape's tape. Goes on the direction you put it on an' /stays/." He unlocks his fingers to accept lemonade with one hand. The other one goes rubby-spider-fingertips on Jax's head when it rests against his leg. Speaking of petting kittens! "It's an elastic therapeutic tape that's used to either facilitate or inhibit muscles or reduce pain and inflammation. The past couple of Olympics there's been pictures of all kinds of athletes lookin' like they had wild stripy tattoos in pink and blue and black? That's the thing." He sips at his lemonade before depositing it on a coaster. "I'm extremely handy with a sewing machine, but way less so with /fashion/...stuff." At the mention of the twins liking having their gills pet, Peter brightens, straightening a bit. "Ohyeah, I noticed that--" The indigo had faded, /just/ a bit; now it /slams/ back into place. Peter's posture hunches back down, eyes slinging their way toward a window, looking. A smidge embarassed. "--yeah. Um. But if you could, um. I mean, I could help, maybe, with." With what? Peter's not sure. "--m'gonna get a summer job, I think? Kris at school mentioned I could work for her dad maybe and, could. Maybe pay." SHIFTY eyes, again. Then, slowly, back to Jax, as he asks what's up. Peter frowns a little tensely, toes and feet fidgeting. "Um, at school, when I got hurt? After, y'know. The, um. Cage thing. There was this girl who helped heal me up. I dunno if you know her -- anyway, when she did it, it got rid of all my wicked cool scars, which I guess, I mean, I /liked/ them, but -- s'okay, 'cuz I wouldn't have been able to really /walk/ when we were in Georgia, and I wanted to, with the others, and Shane, and, uh--" Violet and indigo wage a bitter war for Peter's face. "...anyway, the point is," Peter adds, "I talked with her the other day, and. Um, if you /wanted/, she'd be willing to try -- to..." Peter gestures, then. To Jax's eye. "...I mean, it'd -- she can't /control/ what it fixes. So you'd probably, lose -- um, all your scars. I dunno if you want that. Your tattoos, too, maybe, but we could -- get Shelby to store 'em somewhere? Keep 'em safe until she's done trying, then put them right back? But..." Peter looks down at Jackson's feet. And shrugs. "Oh! Oh, that stuff. I bet if you taped it on right you could tan yourself in /real/ awesome patterns." Because yes clearly the most important use of therapeutic tape is aesthetics. "Wait, you are?" Jackson tilts his head back, more brightly eager when Micah mentions handiness with a sewing machine. "Cuz /I'm/ good at fashion an' the twins -- um, sorry," He blushes, rerouting his attention back to Peter. The once-dragonflies are very distinctly cartoonlike, now, plump colourful sprites that seem to be replicating themselves. There are at least twice as many now as the original swarm. "Which girl? Eloise? Kira?" Jackson asks this kind of absently at the mention of healing, glancing over Peter with interest -- but then abruptly freezing when he continues on to gesture to Jax's eye. There is silence. A long silence. His hand lifts to touch fingertips lightly to the eyepatch, and then falls back to his knees. His toes (their nails had been shiny metallic green but have abruptly faded back to unpainted) curl against the floor. "Oh --" is what he says, quiet, and then, even quieter, "Oh." "Oh, y'definitely could. I've seen people /accidentally/ end up with pretty spectacular patterns that way," Micah rolls right along, as if Jax's suggestion isn't the least bit odd. "Yessir, how y'think I'm makin' all this custom garment stuff? I work in a lot of stitched neoprene an' the like for splints, too. Can get pretty complicated." He /eyes/ the increasingly cartoonish and replicating bug-things. "Uh...Jax. You breedin' parasprites? 'Cause...tribbles with wings." Micah rests a hand on each of Jax's shoulders, kneading idly as he goes all quiet. "Kira," Peter responds, a little more quietly; his eyes lift up from Jackson's feet back up to his face; he seems more guarded, now. His posture shifts again -- moving from his crouch to bring his knees up over his chest, an arm slumped 'round them, leaning back into the chair. "I mean, I dunno if you -- maybe you don't /want/ it back. S'kinda cool, being all piratey. But -- I heard you have, like. A lot of other scars, too, and. I dunno after she healed me I just thought -- maybe, um. Maybe somebody should... ask you." "It might not even /work/," Peter adds, in a sudden rush, his arm slipping off his knees as he drops them -- leaning forward, fists dropping to the chair to balance himself. "She's never tried to, like, bring back a whole missing /organ/. But. Maybe it would? She's willing to try. But like, I mean, I'd understand if -- I dunno." Peter just, well. Shrugs. Turning to watch the spreading pattern of cartoonish sprites that are now filling the room. Jackson's hand shifts over to his arm, slowly rubbing against skin that -- well it /looks/ whole and healthy, the tattoos on it bright and unmarred, though Micah at least would be well enough familiar with the extensive wealth of scars hiding beneath. He is still quiet, leaning slightly back into the touch as Micah starts kneading. Beneath Micah's fingers his shoulders are warm -- he's spent most of the afternoon sunning, until the sun started to set! -- but they're slowly creeping towards warm/er/. The parasprites are still multiplying. Splitting apart into even more parasprites, lurking in clusters of cheerful colour around the edges of the room. Perching on the counter. The beanbags. Hovering around the ceiling. "I have --" This is as far as Jax gets before he lapses back into silence. His gaze is fixed somewhere past Peter, out on the window. "... doubt it'd even be possible," he says eventually, "s'been long since healed years back." "That would be...an extremely powerful ability, if she could do that," Micah muses in a murmuring tone. He presses harder at Jax's shoulders when that concerning warm-feeling creeps through them. His brow furrows as he regards the ongoing parasprite invasion. "Jax-honey, are you okay?" Micah whispers into his ear, leaning down close. "You're goin' all warm an' takin' over the room with parasprites." "Maybe," Peter agrees -- his eyes snapping away from one of those parasprites, flicking back to Jackson. "But, um." Peter's knees slip down to the floor; he's sitting, now, like a proper adult might. "I lost /all/ my scars. Even the one I got from quill-dude, way back. I know you lost your eye -- way before that. But, if she can make scars go away..." He drifts off, for a moment -- before adding, with a bit more force to it: "The thing about these powers is -- y'know, a lot of them don't even make any sense?" Peter says, and there's maybe -- a hint of frustration there. But also, /excitement/. "Shelby's power -- she can move images, right? She says only 2 dimensional stuff, but most of the stuff she moves isn't actually 2D. Tattoos are 3D; ink has thickness. She's actually /moving/ the ink. But then she can move TV pictures, too -- but -- those images /are/ two dimensional. When she does that, she's not moving anything; she's just -- bending light." Peter leans forward further, hands gripping the armrests. "And Ivan, with the bugs. Why /just/ bugs? If something isn't 'classified' as a bug, can he not communicate with it? What if it's really close to a bug? I mean, so many different bugs -- they're so /different/. What makes all of them special? And--" Peter pauses here, suddenly frowning. Pushing himself back into that chair. "...um, sorry. S'just. Powers are weird. Maybe it wouldn't work. Maybe it would. I dunno. I just, um. If it's something you actually /want/," he finishes, reaching back to scratch at the back of his head, "...maybe you should try." "Oh -- sorry," is reflexive, coming with a faint blush. The sprites all vanish, disappearing into a haze of muddled colourful glow until that vanishes, too. The heat coming off of him does not vanish, though. Jax still stays focused out towards the window, attention locked that direction. "... no, a lot of them don't -- make sense," he agrees, a little distracted, "or maybe they do and we just don't understand yet how --" This trails off. His shoulders are tensing further beneath Micah's fingers. "It's -- probably somethin' I should want, ain't it?" He doesn't, admittedly, sound very sure. Micah listens quietly through the powers-discussion, at most nodding here and there. His hands continue their work trying to be a comfort to Jax, alternating between kneading and almost petting. "Ain't no /should/ about it, hon," he says softly, but no longer whispering. "It's...about /you/. An' there's no /right/ way t'feel about it." "Dude, I dunno," Peter says, at Jackson's final comment; apparently, Jackson is a /dude/, now. Peter deflates into his chair, peering back at Jackson's feet, listening to Micah as he speaks. When he's finished, he adds: "When she healed me she was asking about -- like, my skin?" He gestures at his face. "--like she could, reverse it? She couldn't, but even if she could -- I kinda -- dunno. If I'd /want/ that. I kinda do? I kinda -- don't. It's, um. Started to grow on me," he admits, looking up with a tiny smile. "So, like, if she /could/ do it, I'd -- have to think about it. For a while. Maybe, um, all your scars have kinda grown on you?" "Reverse -- your /skin/?" This makes Jax look, finally, back at Peter. For a second. A moment later his gaze slips away, to the door of the twins' room. And then back to Peter. "But that's -- not -- a -- /problem/ that's -- /you/ --" He sounds juuust a little bit horrified by this suggestion. His palm scrubs against his good eye. "I -- I don't know," he admits, in a smaller voice. I don't --" His hand returns to his arm, tracing slowly against it. But then his posture shifts, turning slightly sideways, cheek pressing to Micah's leg, now. His hand shifts up, fingers hooking around cyborg-knee to curl against it. "It --" His voice is dropping smaller still, "-- it feels like forgetting." Micah releases Jax's shoulders to allow him to shift unimpeded, returning a hand to just...rest on his head once he is settled. "It ain't a thing you need to decide quick. Got as long as y'need t'think on it. Prob'ly should...think on it for a good while." He leans down again, placing a gentle kiss between where his fingertips end and Jax's forehead begins. "Don't think you're like to ever actually /forget/, but...I get what y'mean." "Man it's /gonna/ be a problem," Peter says, eyebrows crumpling. "I mean, if all this--" His hand waves, toward the window, as if to implicate -- THE WORLD -- "stuff blows up, it'd be. Kind of cool, to, y'know. Be able to -- um." He looks back to Jax, now, his expression -- mixed. "...hide? But, I don't. I mean. /Shane/ probably wouldn't, and, I wouldn't want to--" He turns violet again, shifting and squirming in his chair. At the comment about forgetting, Peter straightens; his head quirks to the side, /peering/ at Jax. There's something -- harder in Peter's next words. They come out in a rush, fast and sudden, like he's trying to swing them in while he still can manage: "Dude I'm /alive/ because of -- Shane, Sebastian -- I mean -- your body isn't a frigging /mausoleum/ you deserve to be happy all the people you've helped and saved /they'll/ remember, /that's/ your legacy--" Peter goes indigo after that; he just stares at his feet a while. "...I mean, um. You don't have to -- I just think, if it's something -- you /want/. Then you should have it." "Maybe not forget. I don't forget, I can't -- /forget/," Jackson agrees, "every time I close my eyes I --" His head shakes slightly; his cheek turns a little bit more, pressing against Micah's pants. "... oh." Quiet, and for a while after there is just quiet, too. Jackson's breathing is just a little shaky, and there is a slow dampness trickling in against Micah's thigh that does not show on his face. "... other people forget, though," he says at length, slow, his voice very carefully even. "It gets so easy for them to pretend that things aren't -- that bad." He swallows heavily, and draws a slow breath, his hand curling tighter against Micah's leg. "Yeah," he lapses back to answering the /first/ part of Peter's statement, now, "it for-sure ain't gonna make your life no easier. But how you feel about it an' how Shane feels 'bout it might be pretty different, and y'don't gotta -- there ain't no right or wrong about that." Micah sighs heavily, one hand raking through his mess of hair while the other pets at Jax's...lack-of-hair soothingly. "It's more complicated'n that, Peter. People's bodies get tied up with their identities. It's hard to decide that y'feel like somethin' about that is /wrong/. Even more so t'go about thinkin' it needs t'be /fixed/ or...lost. Any change like that, it feels like losin' somethin', even if it looks to all the rest of the world like it's /addin'/, physically. It's...difficult. An' it needs a lot of time an' care t'process." Jackson might be an illusionist -- and Peter /might/ not have a sadness-sense -- but the tone of Jackson's voice -- the way he presses his face to Micah's leg -- and the content of his words -- are enough to clue him in. He frowns, ever-so deeply; he listens, first to Jackson, then to Micah -- peering down at one of his hands when Micah moves to start stroking Jackson's head, fingers tensing, shoulders clenched. "...oh, man. I'm sorry, I just," Peter begins, before reaching up to rub at his own hair, propping his head up by his elbows, kind of -- /hunching/ down. "I dunno I just, if you didn't -- want this, I could understand -- I mean, for /whatever/ reason -- I just -- I'm scared -- you're gonna maybe run out of body parts." Jackson's fingers stay curled against Micah's knee. For a while. Slowly tapping. "... would you?" he asks, at length, softly, tipping his head back to look up at Micah. "If -- it was possible." "Don't -- you don't gotta be sorry, Peter, it's -- not. Bad. That you asked. It was -- real thoughtful actually, I ain't used to --" His other hand lifts, rubbing knuckles against his eye. Peter's words startle a laugh out of him; it's quiet and a little hitchy, but for a moment he smiles. "-- Oh. Oh gosh. It's aright, if I did Micah could just replace 'em for me." "No, Peter, it's...it's a fine thing to wanna help. Y'just...gotta give it time an' not push. That's all." Micah swallows hard at that question...or would, but finds his mouth dry. He fills a moment with recovering the glass of lemonade and drinking from it. "Honestly, I think...maybe. It's somethin' that...it's the kinda thing that you end up talkin' about with other...with my old friends. I don't think I could be sure until right up when it would actually be /happenin'/. But I think probably, because...there are more things I might be able to help that way, maybe, than this. But then y'get to talkin' about what if y'could change how it's always been, folks who were born with it? An'...that, I know I wouldn't. So I get a little less sure about the idea of changin' it /now/, if I wouldn't /then/." He smiles, a wry little half-smile. "People who haven't been there usually look at you like you're crazy for not just jumpin' at the idea." Peter is still hunkered down, still rubbing at his head. When Jackson mentions Micah replacing limbs, Peter immediately replies: "I dunno if the world is ready for Cyber-Jax." But then, his head is swinging up, peeking at Micah; some of the tenseness is slipping out of him, now. He smiles! Just a little. "Man I dunno, having a robot leg seems pretty cool to me. I mean -- uh, I could see, not wanting to, maybe -- I just. I think it's better to have that choice, I guess? One way or another. But," Peter's eyes skim briefly to Jax, then back to Micah, that smile -- straightening out into a line: "You shouldn't say no just 'cuz -- you think other people deserve it more. You deserve -- nice things. Um." He goes violet again, eyebrows crumpling together, as if -- trying to unsuccessfully unravel this thought. ".../whatever/ they are, for you." "Don't think you're crazy," Jackson mumbles, cheek dropping back down to rest against Micah's leg. "... even if /I/ feel crazy." His eye closes. "It's just -- complicated. Don't think there's a wrong answer." Around the edges of the room there are shadows blossoming where before there were colourful parasprites; intermittently, images flicker ghostlike in them. Silhouetted people. The hard edges of a metal table. Jax draws in a quick breath and opens his eye again. His pierced lips curl into a quick smile. "Come /on/," he says, lighter, "I could get a totally awesome /laser eye/ instead. -- Or! Micah, how long 'fore you can build me a killer pair of robot /wings/?" "I think the second you said that, a B-movie called 'CyberJax' burst fully-formed into existence," Micah says through chuckles. The laughter dies quickly with the appearance of the shadowy images. That hasn't, historically, been the greatest sign. He squeezes Jax's shoulder, and is slightly reassured by Jax offering his own jokes. "Like you /need/ a laser eye; you pretty much can be a laser-person. It's /redundant/." He snorts at the question about /wing-building/. "Y'know, since I moved up here, I'm startin' to think they /should/ have included avian anatomy and physiology in my school's program, but they didn't. Just gotta be all demandin' of unique an' unusual things all the time." His sentence fades into a mock-grumpy mutter. Peter stiffens as his eyes snap over to outline of that ghostly metal table; there's a note of confusion mingled with panic -- but it soon fades at the mention of /laser eyes/ and robot wings. "...could you build -- oh, man. Gliders would be /pretty/ awesome, y'know, when I get up to speed with the shooters, I bet I could totally --" That slight smile flickers back; Peter's posture shifts -- back to that perched, frog-like stance. "--I should get going. How much do you think a pair of compression suits will cost to make? And maybe, um." Peter gestures, at his throat, circling round it like a collar. "D'you think you could get the measurements off of one of them?" Peter asks Jax, before adding: "Um I mean -- if you don't think it should be a surprise, I guess you could tell them--" "I think you mean demanding of /awesome/ things. Who wouldn't want to /fly/?" Jax leans into that squeeze for just a moment more, before hopping up to his feet. The shadows lurking at the edges of the room vanish. "I'd /look/ cooler with a laser eye though, come /on/." He sounds sort of /exaggeratedly/ exasperated at this like Micah is clearly not thinking through this laser eye business enough. "I can measure things. For you. Y'sure you don't want to stay for no dinner?" Jax gestures to the kitchen. His smile eases. "I think it'll be a pretty excellent surprise. S'probably the most thoughtful thing anyone's done for 'em in --" His head shakes. "I shudder to think about you with your glue guns an' wings at the same time, save us /all/." Giggles spill from Micah's lips at this, and he seems to try to catch them with his free hand pressed over them. "Materials cost's likely to be just shy of $50 apiece. These things mostly get expensive in labour costs, an' I don't need to charge you none of that. Honestly wish I could handle not chargin' the materials, but...I keep takin' on charity work an' it adds up." He scrunches up one eye in a weirdly sheepish expression, his hand mussing at his hair. "Just gotta get a good excuse for takin' the measurements if it's gonna be a surprise. I'll have to draft you some good guidelines an' go over 'em with you thorough-like if you're gonna be doin'. Gotta be real precise for these things, they fit like a glove /wishes/ it could do... Don't wanna do anythin' for the neck region as a surprise. That should be with full collaboration with the twins to make sure it's somethin' they can use an' tolerate. We can get to that /after/ surprise compression tops." Micah's (not-prosthetic!) knee jostles Jax playfully as he demands more awesome. "If you're just worried about havin' an awesome-/lookin'/ eye, I'm sure you could illusion yourself up the full robot...ooo, that's right, food was happenin'!" The how to distract a Micah manual...it is a simple one. "Oh man you should get an /eyeball/ grenade. You can fish it out from underneath your eyepatch and use it to blow your way outta places," Peter tells Jackson, sounding 100% SERIOUS. "Dude I saw it in a movie once--" At the mention of dinner, Peter pauses -- CLEARLY TORN. Before adding: "...um maaaaaybe, okayyessure." He hops up off the chair, WHUMP. "Just tell 'em you're gonna get 'em new super-awesome clothes but they need /extra-special/ measurements," Peter states, AUTHORITATIVELY. Like this plan is completely flawless. At the mention of cost, Peter straightens! "Oh dude it's fine, I can -- my folks still give me an allowance, and I'll be working soon, I can /totally/ swing a hundred dollars." FORWARD. Toward. FOOD. Chomp chomp. "Miiiicah." Jax is giving his boyfriend /puppy eyes/ -- OK, one puppyeye. Bigeye. Wide. Pleading. "... can you make me an /eyeball/ grenade?" That's totally a prosthetic, right? Clearly Micah should be able to handle this. He leans in to peck Micah lightly on the cheek and then slips away to the kitchen to finish assembling the wraps he'd been working on, setting them on plates. "I could illusion myself /totally/ robotty but I wouldn't /be/ an awesome cyborg. I'd /know/. On the inside. I would know it was a lie." He manages to sound extremely put out about this, too!' "Jaaaax, I don't make weapons an' anythin' that goes in an' out of an eye socket that isn't for the exclusive purpose of bein' a /sight organ/ is a bad plan," Micah huffs, sadfacing. With the stick-out lip. Because Jax has already escalated to puppy-eye. It doesn't last through kisses, though, no matter how quick. "We'll figure somethin' out t'let you feel adequately robotty. In the meantime, I'm helpin' do /somethin'/ if there's still doin' to be done with the food-makin'." This is, apparently, non-negotiable.