Logs:Half-Cocked

Half-Cocked
Dramatis Personae Jax, Steve
In Absentia	2020-05-28 "Agents, he's joking, but I'm not."
Location <PRV> VL 303 {Lighthaus} - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows (their sills and window-boxes alive with a bounty of herbs) 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. Out in the kitchen, the sharper fumes of Jax's studio are far less harsh, though there is still a lingering paint smell clinging to his clothes -- at the moment, just a cheerful yellow tee whose cartoon character logo is half obscured behind a faded pair of corduroy overalls, one strap buttoned and one hanging loose. His hair is shifting itself from peacocky purple-green-blue hues to a green ombre, brilliant deep emerald by the time it reaches the tips. He's just wiping his hands dry after a thorough scrubbing, offering the towel to Steve before he goes to grab a mango-lime summer roll off of a plate of them, dipping it lightly into a spicy peanutty sauce. "Please ignore Obie," he's cautioning Steve, "he's plain lying about the last time he ate." Steve has been momentarily distracted from his own handwashing by the changing of Jax's hair, but shakes himself out of it now and, with another rinse, shuts off the water to accept the towel. It's the first time in many months that his painting t-shirt has received new splatters, like many-colored stars in a black sky, though the blue jeans he's relegated to this purpose seem to have escaped without additional adornment today, at least. He dries his hands and returns the towel to its place before eagerly plucking up a roll of his own. "Not sure I've ever known a beagle who's been fed in his entire life, honestly." He takes a bite, nodding eagerly, trying -- and mostly failing -- to give a thumbs-up with his unbandaged right hand. Then, after he's swallowed, "This is amazing! Thank you so much. Didn't think I'd be this hungry already, but--it's like this when I'm on the mend." He blushes. "Thank you for you patience, too. I imagine you must be exhausted, with exams and such." "I'm just glad you are. On the mend." Jax slips back around the counter to get a pair of glasses from the cabinet, faintly shimmery green and blue glass with silver dragonflies swirled into the design. He sets these down on the counter, opening the fridge after. "Lemonade? Sweet tea? Just water?" He's getting the tea for himself, a tall pitcher. His head bows as he pours it. "Exams ain't so bad. Well, not for me anyway. The grading that comes after, that'll be a pain. But I'd honestly rather be thinkin' 'bout exams right now than just -- endlessly refreshing Twitter or some such. Some days I'm real glad to keep my schedule packed full." "It wasn't all that bad." Steve sounds ever so faintly petulant about this, nudging experimentally at the outline of bandages beneath his t-shirt. And wincing. "I'll have some tea, please -- and thank you." He pops the rest of the summer roll into his mouth, then sinks to one knee -- gingerly -- to pet Obie. "I've only experienced exams from the student's side of things, I guess I didn't consider how different that might be." He straightens up, less cautiously, lips pressed thin. "Haven't checked it since I got on the train. Hardly been doing anything else all week long, though." He studies the glasses as Jax fills them. "Times like this, I wish I had a gift for teaching." "Don't look to be all that good neither." Jax pours the second glass full of tea as well, and returns the pitcher to the fridge. He crosses back around the counter, going to set the glasses on the coffeetable and then transfer the plate of rolls there too. "Minneapolis looks fit to explode. Surely do hope they got some good support out there." His knuckles pass over his eye, and he sinks down onto the couch, turning to look over at Steve. "Yeah? What would you want to learn people, if you did?" "Wasn't my proudest performance," Steve admits breezily as he follows Jax into the living room and carefully lowers himself to the couch. Grabs his glass for a sip while the other man goes to fetch the plate. "It surely does. There's folks like you -- medics and such -- in every major city, right? And comrades who can travel there, too?" He meet his host's eye. "Gosh, so many things..." But here he trails off, thoughtful. Shakes his head. "Though I suppose most of them come down to some permutation of 'why we ought to care about other folks'." "Yes -- usually, yes. Most all cities got their own base of support. Just kind of frightening times for people with stuff poppin' off so quick in the middle of pandemic an' all to get --" Jax shakes his head, pulling a leg up underneath himself. He takes a roll, spooning a little sauce onto it. The bite he takes is slow; he's slow, too, in chewing it over. "It sounds jaded, maybe, but I think if people gotta be coached into caring 'bout human life, they're --" He hesitates, teeth wiggling at a lip ring. "I don't want to say beyond reach -- I don't think nobody is beyond reach. But I do think it ain't at all a productive use of time an' energy trying when there's only so many hours in the day. I used to sink a lotta hours into tryna get people to care but -- there's this whole huge wide world of people in the middle, you know? They already care, but they got no idea where to put it, or feel like there ain't no point, or think that things like voting is plenty enough already -- I think there's energy way better spent talkin' at them 'bout how to turn that carin' into useful action." Steve sets down his drink and downs another roll in two eager bites, though he manages not to look too sheepish this time. "Figured a lot of local medics are in a better position to travel there than most, considering the high immunity rate to the coronavirus around here." Picks up his glass again, take a sip. "I want to know how I could support that effort. Haven't got the training myself, but do have a platform and a lot of muscles I'm not using for much. The muscles, I mean," he adds. Then, with a resigned tip of his head at Jax, "Though I'm sure I could be putting the platform to better use, too, than yelling at racists whose minds I'll likely never change. Doesn't seem jaded to me, trying to be smart about where we put our labor." He manages a small, self-deprecating smile, "I may have been born to charge into everything half-cocked, but I sure don't think that's necessarily the best way to go about it." "Yelling at bigots may not be the most productive use'a time but sometimes," Jax's smile slips a little wry, "it do feel good. But --" His eye tips up toward the ceiling. Lips twisting slightly to one side. "Gotta admit there's times that just runnin' in half-cocked and decking 'em do seem a bit more satisfying. Like, we been trying words, you know? Maybe it's time to just --" A small glow flutters around one of his hands. Fades. The quiet huff he lets out if quick. Sharp. "Lord help us if the FBI agent watchin' this building's paying us mind right this minute. Clearly, I jest." "I have to be a lot more careful about casually decking people these days," Steve laments. "Not because of my fame -- though I'm sure the decking I do all the same makes awful headaches for Luci -- but my strength. Still worth it, even if I have to dial it down to maybe quarter-cocked. Either way, though, the police never seem too fussed about the misuse of my powers." His mouth tugs slightly to one side as he tilts his head up to address the ceiling, "Agents, he's joking, but I'm not. I will gladly deck any of you." He looks around the living room, then adds, "Outside." "Far as I've seen, half-cocked on you is still a whole lotta --" Halfway through the sentence a deep flush is flooding Jax's cheeks; by the time he approaches its conclusion his eye has widened, he only barely mumbles, "-- cocked," before shoving the rest of the summer roll into his face with a deep scrunch of eye and a duck of his head. Steve had just lifted his sweet tea for another drink when Jax hesitates at the realization where his sentence is going. It takes Steve a fraction of a second longer before his eyes widen, too. He does not choke on his drink, but does set it hastily down, his cheeks going profoundly red. "Oh, gosh. I realize you didn't intend it as -- that kind of joke," he says carefully, his smile returning slow and lopsided, "but I will take the compliment in the spirit that it was given." He bows his head slightly, too. "Or just pretend it didn't happen, if you prefer." Jax's face continues to burn red as he swallows his too-large mouthful of food. "Why don't we actually just pretend I ain't never spoken at all, it's probably best if I. Just shut up. Forever." He's half-hiding his face behind a hand, but drops it now to give Steve a sheepish crook of a smile. "Thank goodness you're a gentleman, Steve Rogers."