ArchivedLogs:Sidestepping

Sidestepping
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Parley	2013-04-08 Not-really-conversing.
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. It's a quiet knock, three small 'knk-knk-knk's that come close enough together they sound huddled and uncertain. Inside the apartment there is music playing, not loud but filling the living room well enough regardless. Tracks of Ryan's. Perhaps on no album yet. There is light playing, too, skittering in erratic whorls of sharp-bright colour through the apartment as Jax rifles through a box up in the loft. There is a finished painting fresh on the easel -- a forest, wintry-snowy, trees crystalline and perhaps made of glass; some have been cut down to (bleeding) stumps, some have shed boughs link grasping limbs onto the snow beneath. Beside there is a frame, some canvas waiting to be stretched onto it. Up in the loft the quiet knock might almost have been overlooked -- probably /has/ been overlooked, save for an eager beagle who provides far more notice than the uncertain soft sounds. Obie scampers towards the door, tail wagging furiously, snuffling at its base. It is this excitement that draws Jax's attention downward, frowning at the canine and then leaving off his rifling to descend the ladder, smoothing at his clothes (a corset-esque tank in teal brocade, layered over a black mesh shirt, a pair of black capri pants. Black hair streaked in purple and teal, a dusting of shimmery green eyeshadow paired with silver eyeliner and black nailpolish) as he hastens towards the door. Peers out through the peekhole, nudging Obie gently out of the way with one bare foot. Outside the peephole stands Parley, weight leaning to one hip. With arms crossed, his head dropped low and eyes either studying his feet, or just closed - until Jackson peeks through the peekhole. The thing about the psionically gifted: they tend to know when you're looking at them. There's no attempt to hide it, or add much excitement - he just looks up into the little lens with his head still mostly tipped down. He wears work-casual clothes, a gray turtleneck, black slacks, loafers. His stiff-bristly hair is tied back. Or at least what length of it can /get/ tied back, in a small tuft of topknot poking off the back of his head. There's a click of lock, a thunk of another lock, a rattle of security chain. Jackson pulls the door open, an easy-polite smile on his lips. "Hi, Parley." It's polite, as well; Jackson kind of /defaults/ to warm so it is warm by nature, but quiet, too. He steps back to allow room for entry, invitation indicated more by shift of motion than any words. "'kai help you?" The 'polite dance' happens sort of independently, Parley even looking mildly bewildered to find himself drifting in on the implied invitation, though he asks cautiously as he drifts, glancing around the apartment, "Is this a bad time?" Jackson actually gives this question a moment of serious consideration, a period in which a fluttery host of extensive to-do list flits through his mind. Obie takes this time to eager-frisk around Parley's ankles, tail thwap-thwapping as he sniffs at the man excitedly. "I got a minute," Jax answers eventually, "what's up?" He's slipping back around, skirting past Parley to return to the living room where he just stops for a moment in brief vague what-was-I-/doing/-before uncertainty. "-- can I get you a drink or somethin'?" Hands hanging loose at his sides, Parley stops a few yards inside, looking down at Obie for a moment and then away. And takes in a slow breath. "Why are you telling people not to trust me?" "-- What?" This is startled-blank, and that much is genuine; Jackson turns to give Parley a puzzled look. It takes a moment to get drawn out of his hummingbird-flit of thoughts and study Parley before the puzzled look fades into an understanding clarity. "I ain't telling /people/ nothin'," he says blandly. "I told /Peter/ he needs some discretion and that's probably the biggest understatement I've made all month." "You said," Parley says quietly, "it about me, specifically." His eyes slowly turn to Jackson; they're not angry. Just serious. And tired. "What have I done to you, Mr. Holland." "Yep," Jackson says, and he meets Parley's eyes with something too neutral to be anything, really. The mind behind it is tired, too, "and I'd've said it about /anyone/ that he was bein' all cagey about talkin' to, because Peter and cagey don't never mean nothin' good." "The boy is cagey about everything," Parley's arms cross, slightly tight to his chest. "Please be more careful how you phrase things, especially to people that speak very freely. Because he seemed to think you felt particularly strong about me. I don't -." His head tips to one side, then the other, eyes dropping, "-I /try/... not to mind. Most things. But if it spreads that," his mouth twitches, "Jackson Holland, hero of the New York mutants, feels I'm untrustworty, it could hurt the work Ms. Basil is trying to do, keeping me employed. The trust of her clients, in /her/ and the people that work for her, is more important than my employment. And I would sooner quit than endanger the work she's trying to do." He takes in a breath, lets it out, "I know you don't like me. I have a feeling I even know why. But please. Don't do it this way." "No, he actually ain't," Jackson says, blinking at Parley. "I mean, mebbe with you but he ain't with me. When he is it's probably not a --" His head shakes, and Parley's words make his hand lift, rubbing at his eyes. "No, Parley, you don't know how I feel about nothin'. I can't actually pin you down enough t'have much feelings 'bout you one way or other, and from what little you let me see that's t'your liking. I /don't/ think you're trustworthy -- should I? I don't think /most/ people are trustworthy till they give me reason to." His lips press together, just slightly. "And a good deal less if they come pre-equipped with plenty of reason not to. I ain't real overly inclined to trust. Peter is. I don't think it's a healthy habit of his." << Oh my fucking god I'm being invaded by teenager. >> Hive's voice slams whipcrack-sharp into Jax's mind. BOOM. << You didn't tell me this assload of candy was from Peter. >> << Ow. >> For a while this is all, from Jackson. There's a vague stew of feelings that come through here, a twitchy exhaustion, a tight pulse of ache, a suppressed-unease revolving around Parley standing in his house questioning him about Peter. About telling Peter to be careful. Somewhere beneath the surface of his mind there are images to answer this question; memories of Peter showing up with his sorry-you-got-tazed FOUR BAGS of candy. And then another stirring of unease, that rises in conjunction with Parley's presence downstairs, and an echoed questioning: Peter's there? << Yes. Being cagey as fuck about some shit, what's it got to do with Parley? He wants -- stealth -- I dunno. Camoflauge? What the fuck is with these fucking teenagers and their stupid deathwishes? >> Hive is still stab-sharp. Cranky. Mngh. The question about Parley isn't quiet answered; it just comes with a sense of confusion: don't know. More memory: Peter's texts, Peter mentioning that Parley didn't want Jax to know. /Parley/ coming to ask Jax why he doesn't trust him, bright-fresh-new memory coloured kind of heh-heh wry on this question. More what-on-earth-is-Peter-getting-up-to unease. << Something sneaky, >> is Hive's unhelpful answer. Vaguely coloured with concern. Parley is quiet, and he listens, eyes leveled towards the ground, "I've never minded sharing with people that-." Again, his head tips, eyes squeezing shut, taking in a breath, letting it out. Eyes opening again. He unfolds his arms, looks at his hands, watches them lightly unfold to a loose curl, and then hangs them at his sides, shoulders low and tucked in. A thin bit of air is pushed through his nose, glancing back at Jackson with a brief flicker of some odd - interest? A curiosity, and he pursues, "Pre-equipped?" ' Something sneaky' draws nothing out of Jackson so much as bland unsurprise, but Hive's concern is echoed in his mind. A strong twinge of it, tired and /protective/: don't let him /hurt himself/. "-- Sharing with people that what?" But immediately after this Jackson winces, and not at anything Parley is doing or saying but at a brief headache-twinge of pain that flares in his mind. He rubs at his temple, brows drawing into a frown and a ripple of unease and a much stronger one of concern surfacing in his mind as he draws in a deep breath. Focusing past the pain. "Sorry," he says, still rubbing at his temple, "I gotta --" His eye squints shut. Parley says nothing. Only rolls his eyes upward towards the ceiling idly, and compresses his lips. "Take your time." There's another whipcrack-sharp flare of painful voice for Jackson, here: << Fucking cocksucking dickbag /weasel/, >> is heavily flavoured with the image of Parley's face. Despite the words it's -- not even really angry. Just kind of blandly SIGH. TEENAGERS. WHAT CAN YOU DO. It takes a moment before the pain subsides. Only to flare again! And a moment longer before Jackson's hand falls to his side. "Wow," is half muttered under his breath, with a squeeze of eye closed and then slowly open again. The sharp knot of concern that stirred before has returned and just /settled/ heavily somewhere in Jax's mind. "-- Parley," is tired, as he pads over to the kitchen to get himself a glass of juice, "what do you want here?" There's something cut-off, shaky to Parley's breathing. His head dropped forward and a hand pressed over his mouth. "I wanted...," he says it slowly, so that it's clear. And then bites down hard on the pad of his palm that connects to his thumb. Hard. Breathes in, then out, and lets go. Shakes his head, "Ahh? It doesn't matter. You're a difficult man to open up to, Mr. Holland. You say you could never pin me down, yet I can barely get three words to you before you look so... /tired/." Head drifting to the side to rest his cheek on his shoulder to nuzzle on it, possibly terminating an idle itch, "Tell me. What did you mean when you said I came pre-equipped with reasons not to trust me?" "And I can barely get three words /out/ of you before you're dodging questions again," Jackson says, with a slight twitch of smile, "and still expectin' me to answer yours. If it didn't matter, I wouldn't'a asked." He takes his juice around the counter, leans against the bar to rest one elbow on its top and watch Parley. "Are you not even going to answer that?" Parley tips his head to the side. "It's a little relevant, I think." Hello, it's Hive again! Slamming-stabbing into Jax's brain. << Parley's planning some kinda breakin at Oscorp. Looking for anti-telepathy tech or some shit. Had Peter signed up to go /with/ him because man it went so well last time Peter broke in there. Guess Peter got roped in because his dad might be involved. >> This is irritable-gruff, a twine of sharp /disgust/ that echoes more in sentiment than in words: fucking predators messing with /our kids/. And then a sheepish retraction of sentiment when he catches himself at that. << --- >> That's all. No words, just sharp protectiveness spiking from Jax: /our kids/ is definitely echoed here. Fiercely. There's another twinge of pain that flares in Jax's mind, and he closes his eye, tired. For a while he focuses on the sweet-cool juice as he drinks it slowly, letting it ease away the sharp-edged protective-concern that accompanied the spike. "Hhah," he breathes out, a slow tired not-really-laugh at the continued question-dodging, "It can't be relevant. Cuz we ain't having a conversation for it to be relevant /to/. Gotta actually be talking /to/ each other, for that." "Mr. Hol- ... Jackson-son. What do you think I'm trying to do?" Parley taps his fingers on an arm, watching Jackson flinch and suffer in his mind assaults, patiently waiting. "I think if you felt you couldn't trust me from the start, that's exactly where we should /start/ talking. I tell you I feel I know /why/. You say I don't know your mind. I still think I do. But at this point, I just sort of..." he takes in a breath, bracing himself, "want to hear you say it." Jackson lifts a hand, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "What I /said/ was that you were wrong about me /disliking/ you, Parley, I know communication's your thing so please stop twisting mine. And we're not talking. You came into my house to grill me without answering a single thing /I've/ asked. If I'm tired it's cuz chasing you down is tiring. Most people I talk to actually talk back." He's setting the glass half-finished on the counter, slipping away towards the front door to unlock its many locks. "I am kinda amused that you come in here acting like it's somehow surprisin' someone don't trust you and then on the side are taking /fifteen year olds/ to break into places that have tried to /kill them/ before. You know, the FBI's still looking for Peter?" "What exactly have you asked me that I haven't--." Ah. Parley's mouth takes on this 'ah' shape. And then closes. His eyes close slowly, shoulders beginning to ease. "Hn." "You haven't answered a /single/ thing I've asked," Jackson says, and now he sounds more /amused/ than anything else, kind of resigned to this whole conversation. "But it kinda is a little bit of a joke to come in here asking why I don't trust you while you're skulking around being, you know, untrustworthy. Peter's a kid. I care about those kids a whole lot. I don't know what you're up to with Oscorp and I'm probably guessing it'll be good to learn whatever sort of creepiness they got on their docket but /he's a kid/. A strong one, sure, but one supremely lacking in judgment. Pulling kids along into danger while telling them not to tell the people who care about them is /pretty much/ the definition of untrustworthy." "What," Parley repeats, slowly. "Have you asked me. That I didn't answer." The rest is ignored. Jackson looks kind of incredulous at this. But, oddly, not tired, this time. Bland resignation comes with an odd lift of weight, a return of the hummingbird-buzz of energy that generally characterizes his thoughts. He unlocks the door, one lock and another and another. "Parley, you couldn't even seem t'answer somethin' as simple as if you wanted a drink and asking you what you wanted here just got you tellin' me it didn't matter. You literally ain't answered a single question since you walked in the door, so stop talking to me like /I'm/ stupid. You're either /real/ disingenuous or you got a terrible memory." Watching Jackson's hands unlock the door, Parley asks, sounding - surprised? pained? hysterical? "Are you dismissing me?" "You don't want to talk," Jackson says simply. "You /ain't/ talking. You're weaselling around every single thing I say and expecting me to answer you plainly. So yes. If you don't want to talk and don't even want to tell me what you want here, why are you staying?" "You asked me two questions." Parley says, sounding... distant, looking up at the ceiling and studying it long, mouth fallen open. "One was whether I wanted a /drink/. I'm sorry if I offended you by not feeling it was terribly /important/. The other. Was what I wanted -- excuse me, breaking up the entire conversation we were /having/... to ask it. When what I wanted -- was to talk to you. And you've fought every attempt I've made to resume it since then." "Parley, I asked you /more/ than two questions, do you /seriously/ want me to recount the entire conversation for you? Cuz I ain't going to, you're just being --" Jackson does not bother finishing the rest of this sentence. "This is ridiculous. I don't have the time. /Why/ do you want to talk to me?" Parley looks down at his hands. Turns them over. Then crosses them over his chest to put them beneath either arm. "... is it that strange to want to?" he asks, quietly, a glassy shelf of wet forming along the rim of his lower eyelid. It vanishes when he closes his eyes, breathes in, then out. Tossing his head to move the hair back from his face. And pushes forward a hard smile. "Maybe I just like to pretend to be human sometime. Open the door please. This is getting boring." "No, it ain't strange to /want/ to. It /is/ strange to come in here, dance around every single thing I've said, and then /pretend/ you've come for /companionship/." Jackson doesn't open the door, but he does stand aside from it. There's a faint narrowing of his eyes at Parley's shining of tears, and what rises in his mind is -- a odd thoughtful /consideration/. "You /are/ human, Parley. And please drop the act." It sounds more bland than accusing, Jax's hand lifting to scrub through his hair. "I got a pair of teenagers, I'm pretty much the king of guilt-tears. If those tears is any realer than my smile is I'll eat my freaking hat." He's even wearing one. Suddenly. It's a wide-brimmed black Stetson. Parley, in some mid-motion - maybe /dancing/, probably not - locks still, staring at Jackson with a strange dawning ... /something/ that rises up, drops open his mouth. And then delicately closes it again. "This was a mistake." He says abruptly. And grasps for the door knob. It rattles in his grip. "I... am sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Holland." "J--" It's almost a correction, reflexively for the nth time at this name, but then Jackson just gives up, doesn't bother, resigns himself to this discomfort just as he has resigned himself to the entire conversation. "Bye, Parley." Departing through the door, Parley sounds like he's laughing quietly on his way up the hall. Hands open and palms up at his sides like it's RAINING. Indoors! Hahahahah.