ArchivedLogs:Sorry

Sorry
Dramatis Personae Jackson, Micah	8 November 2013 Don't punch! (Warning: Mild violence.) (Takes place directly after impending trouble and directly before Lucien's solution.) (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - 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 myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room 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. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. 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. Jackson has been at work. The tattoo studio is closed, certainly, the club as well, and the school inaccessible. But if there's one thing people need a lot of these days it is security, and his shifts at the clinic have picked up quite a bit. He's not /scheduled/ to be home for some hours yet, but he's arriving anyway, late into the evening but well shy of midnight when the guards' shift change occurs. He looks like he's seen better days but then, there are few in this city who /don't/ anymore; too-pale, dark shadows beneath his eyes, clothes not just bedraggled-dirty but actually singed in places. He enters the apartment without actually greeting any of the children currently packed into it, just heading for his bedroom straightaway. Micah has been washing dishes. There has been no work for him at all this week, which has lead to a very /productive/ kitchen, many deliveries of soup to neighbours, and a very clean apartment. He is dressed in typical not-work wear of an olive green T-shirt (depicting a Darwin-inspired sketch of finches with adaptive technology upgrades), patched old jeans, and a pair of black socks covered in multicoloured fireworks patterns. “Hi, hon!” he calls with a glance over his shoulder to discern the identity of the door-opener. He frowns in concern at Jax as the other man moves silently into the bedroom, placing the freshly-rinsed bowl in his hand into the drying rack and drying his hands on his pantslegs before following. He knocks on the door, three sharp raps, but actually waits as opposed to opening it in his usual fashion. Jackson goes to pull the door open without in fact /answering/ the greeting, immediately returning afterwards to -- apparently packing. He's gotten out a backpack and is carefully stocking it. Clothes, though not many. First aid supplies. A good deal of his stash of energy bars and dried fruits and nuts and other assorted Portable Foods that he tends to have on him at any moment, given his caloric needs. "Um...Jax? Honey? Why are you packin'? We need t'go somewhere?" Micah asks, one eyebrow climbing up on his forehead as he watches Jax. He slips inside, closing the door behind him. "Is it an emergency? Can I help?" The redhead just lingers in the doorway, observing, with an impressive worry-face on. "Yes." Jax's voice is terse and sharp, though he immediately rescinds this -- "No. Not you, I don't know I don't --" He swallows, rubbing knuckles against his eye and turning to look at Micah with an expression that has moved past worry and into fear. "/I'm/ going. You just -- just stay --" His words drop off, knuckles rubbing in harder now. Around him a brief harsh flare of light blossoms, then fades away into nothingness. "Keep in touch with Luci an' them, okay? I think they're close. To crackin' this thing. Getting it fixed up." “/Where/ are you goin'?” Micah presses further, moving into the room to lean against the desk chair as he does so. “An' why?” He blinks against the bright light, but seems relatively unfazed by the flare-up. “Lucien an' I were s'posed t'work on that...language centre tangly thing. But that was before...” A hand raises toward the door, waving at it in a vague gesture to indicate the kids and their near-magical repairs. “Guess I should give 'im a call an' see if they still need guinea pigs t'fuss at.” "I don't know," Jackson admits. "Out. -- They've been working, still. Gotten farther, I think, at least last night -- night -- night." He quiets, hand dropping to his side as he slips into brief stillness. And then shakes his head and returns to packing. "But call them. At the very least if you go volunteer you can bring the kids with you, these days s'probably one of the safest places in –" “You don't know where you're goin' an' y'still ain't said why... Jax, this ain't reassurin' me none.” Micah's lips press thin. “I'll call 'em. An' y'need t'try not t'say the words so much.” Helpfully, Micah completes Jax's sentence with, “This area,” presumably to stop him from saying 'the city'. “Honey, can y'just slow down an' tell me what's goin' on?” "I'm going /away/ from /here/," Jackson snaps back abruptly, leaving his backpack to turn sharply and face Micah. He steps closer, a fierce heat radiating from him. "I'm /trying/. It won't /stop/, Micah, this isn't getting /better/ and I don't want to fucking stick around until --" His palm presses to his eye with another brief hot ripple of light; this one leaves the already singed edges of his clothing faintly smouldering again. “Jax. Honey. /Away/ is not a plan. Likely just t'get yourself killed just goin' /away/.” Micah blinks again at the flash of light, but does not move, expression remaining calm, if worried. “Maybe they could help you at the clinic? I think...your abilities not goin' haywire might make you a priority? Y'said they were figurin' this out. Even if they can only make it better /some/, s'a start. T'help you control it again.” His fingers fuss at his hair as he seeks more ideas to offer. "They were -- Lucien and Parley were -- he needs to touch. Me. He can't --" Jackson's expression has twisted down into something sharp and angry, an alien hardness worn uncomfortably on his usually gentle features. He reaches a hand up, for Micah's arm; the fingers that seek to clamp down -- hard -- around Micah's forearm are not just feverishly hot but /dangerously/ hot, like an iron ready to be used. "-- exactly /work/ if he can't touch me. There's no /plan/, Micah, there's just a whole lot of people dead and we'll be with them before long." "Is there any way t'cool you off? Cold...liquid, maybe? Just enough so he can work?" Micah has that look like he wants to provide /hugs/, a little twitch of muscles here and there as he reminds himself this is probably a bad plan and aborts movement toward the other man. "Don't /say/ that. Y'just said they were close! They'll figure it. We ain't dyin'. They'll figure it 'fore long." The soft sound that catches in his throat and the slight pull away from the source of burning-hot-pain are reflexive, but small and controlled overall. Micah reaches for a pen on the desk and collects it in his hand. In a sharp, sudden flick of movement, he raps it down /hard/ against Jax's knuckles where the hand grabs his arm, as if reprimanding a naughty student. Jackson does pull his hand back at the rap, quick and sharp as a startled expression crosses his face swiftly. And then shifts smoothly into the previous angry one, as the hand he just pulled away balls up into a still very overheated /fist/, driving in straight towards the bottom edge of Micah's ribs. Once released, Micah's arm withdraws, shaking as if the rush of air over skin will help to cool the reddened, blistering flesh in the shape of a grasping hand around his forearm. Dealing with his painful arm distracts Micah from noticing the punch until well after it is thrown. He steps back, turning as he does so, such that the blow is more glancing when it connects and lands against the less vulnerable broad side of his ribcage. His breath is still forced out of his mouth in a soft grunt. When his eyes lift back to Jax's face, his look is hurt and confused and...actually becoming more of a glare. His posture is agitated, not just retreating but rather leaning forward as if to respond. Some corner of his mind reminds him not to touch /hot/, though a low growl rumbles in his throat as his muscles tense. Jackson answers glare with glare, the glow around him returning and starting to brighten at that growl. But even though Micah doesn't actually touch him, he rocks abruptly back half a step as /if/ he's been punched, the light vanishing from around him and shaking hands lifting suddenly -- first halfway up as if he wants to touch Micah but then he wraps them around himself tightly. "Oh -- oh God oh Micah oh --" His head shakes, flame-hued (and very much black-rooted) hair flopping down over his eye. "I'm s -- I'm so -- ohgod. This is why I -- I can't be here. With you and the kids and --" His fingers press harder to his lips, the anger entirely vanished from his face to leave only a sick regret. Micah holds his burned arm curled in against his chest, his shoulders drawn forward, his posture more defensive at the brightening light from Jax. The other man using his /name/ seems to break the glare, softening his expression. “You can't just /go/. How is it any safer for anybody with you just.../out there/? We can...I dunno. Find ways t'keep you cooled down an'...maybe lock you in a room or somethin' if we /have/ to. I still think we should try takin' you back t'the clinic an' seein' what they can do. Coolin' blankets. If nothin' else. Could get coolin' blankets from a hospital.” His thoughts seem to be tracking even less linearly than usual. "It's not the overheating that scares me," Jackson's voice is shaky, and he takes another step back before sinking slowly to just sit down on the floor. Pull his knees to his chest and his arms curling tight around his shins. "I /wanted/ to hurt you, Micah. All the cooling blankets on earth won't stop nothin' if I just -- it ain't my /powers/ I'm losing control over, it's /me/." “It's the overheatin' that's keepin' Lucien from touchin' you t'help. So it's what we have t'deal with first.” The injured arm stays pressed in tight to Micah's chest, waiting to be dealt with later. “We can restrain you if we have to. But we gotta get you help. Should go t'the clinic /now/. You already got a bag packed. We should go. Help you.” Jackson keeps his arms wrapped tight around his knees, a small tremble in his shoulders. The heat rolling off him is rising, felt now even though he's backed a little farther away from Micah. "It was ugly. Walking home from the clinic, it was. Bad, I just. Kept getting --" He looks up, eye locking on Micah's arm. "I didn't mean to -- I'm sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry." “You shouldn't walk. Should...wrap you in cold, wet towels. Put you in a car. Drive you to the clinic. Help you.” Micah's head shakes. “I know, hon. I know. Don't apologise, it's contagious.” He offers up a little hint of a smile with the weak joke. “I'll...I'll go put ice in the tub an' soak some towels an'...we'll go. You finish packin' whatever you need. An' we'll wrap you up an' go t'the clinic an' help you.” "Sorry," is all Jackson says in answer to this. "Sorry. Sorry." With every repetition of the word there's another small flicker in the light around him. His chin sinks to his knees, the single word continuing in a flat monotonous drone. "Sorry. Sorry." “Shh. Shh,” Micah hushes the other man, lowering himself next to him to cup a hand over his lips, despite the heat, in an attempt to stop the repetition. “Shh. Y'just keep it together in here long enough for me t'get set an' get you back t'help. Can y'do that for me?” Jackson's mouth continues to move for a moment -- sorry, sorry, mumbled against Micah's palm. And then he stops, teeth instead clamping down on one of Micah's fingers. Just for a brief moment; he pulls back with eyes wide. The heat radiating off of him starts to dwindle. "S -- right. Oh. Oh god. OK. Yessir. Let's – go."