Logs:Next Steps

Next Steps
Dramatis Personae Jax, Ryan	2023-07-30 "I guess we did it, then."
Location Shepherd Center - Atlanta, Georgia
Jax isn't sleeping, but even at this small hour that's not unusual for this time of year. In plain denim overalls and a lightweight blue button-down, hair muted in a plain deep black that makes his skin look even paler, he looks a far cry from the sword-wielding hero striding through the gates of Lassiter. The charcoal sketch on the page in front of him -- in its later shading stages, he's been at it a while -- is Ryan, beard growing out too thick, hair a messy-dark halo around his head. In the sketch it is not electrodes or IV tubing or a Foley catheter that have been attached to him, not a hospital blanket that covers him, though perhaps more disturbingly the blanket of flowers in the drawing has grown right out of his body, and the slender fruit-bearing vines that snake up and away pierce his arms and run root filaments like veins branching out under his skin. Ryan is sleeping. Sleeping is mostly all he's been doing for the past week, helped along by copious painkillers through several surgeries, and sleeping is what he continues doing for a while longer. When he stirs it is small, first, head shifting on his pillow to turn his face like a sunflower towards the heat radiating from the side of his bed. His eyes crack open, and he studies the drawing first for a long few minutes before lifting them further. "Where's Spence?" His mouth has moved once, silently, and then given up on this effort; his voice sounds soft and clear and not nearly as tired as he probably is, when the words come. "In my heart, the answer to that is sleeping, but in reality he's probably back off bopping 'tween Lassiter and wherever the stragglers need to get to." Jax doesn't look up from his drawing, but the wash of relief that comes with his words is palpable to Ryan's senses. "Joshua's been takin' on a lion's share'a that, though, so I hope he's back at the farm where I done left him." "Joshua." This does not come out as a bitter hiss, really; Ryan's mouth still isn't moving. There's a shiver steel-sharp and steel-cold of hurt and anger that comes with the name all the same as Ryan gives an incredulous snort. "Now he shows back up." His eyes are bright with tears, though, at this reassurance -- no doubt it's not the first time someone has told him Spence Is Okay, but how cognizant he's been through any of it has been a bit of a crapshoot. He closes his eyes again, and waits a good while for the tears to pass before trying to open them. His brow creases when he does, and he's looking around the unfamiliar hospital room slowly, and with a steadily growing frown. "Man earned himself a sabbatical," Jackson answers, and his voice is soft and calm but there are echoes of that anger flickering hot in him all the same, and then flickering out. "He couldn't'a knowed how bad the timing was. -- ain't real sure when there's been good timing in our lives, in fairness." He quiets, and allows Ryan his tears; on his page the drawing is coming to vividly colorful life, surreal-bold shades sprouting into the flowers and faint luminescence blossoming in the fruits. A thorny tendril scrapes down against the sketch-Ryan's face, and where the thorn pierces skin sap wells up like teardrops to trickle down his cheek. He only glances up, now, when Ryan opens his eyes; his eye flits from corner to corner of the room, small and plain but comfortable, and then settles back on his page. "Atlanta," he answers, though Ryan hasn't spoken. "One'a the best centers in the country for spinal surgery an' rehab, so we're told." "Oh," Ryan replies softly, and this is with his mouth, a staccato-sharp puff of air followed by a softer, tired: "Oh." His hand smooths down against the sheets, pressing slow and firm where it comes to rest against the top of his thigh. He closes his eyes once more, and doesn't cry, this time. "The others --" It's back to a quietly projected speech, both hope and despair clenched in punishing chokehold where they are trying to come to blows under the words, his mouth pressed firmly closed. Jax's eye tracks the motion of Ryan's hand, slowly, and slowly, too, drags back to his page. He doesn't answer the question immediately, the aborted sentence putting a quick puzzled frown on his face like he'd been gearing up to answer something else and is having trouble, when the question doesn't come, switching tracks. The slowly shifting play of colors freeze in place on his page, and he twirls the charcoal pencil he's been holding, a rapid blur skimming up and down between his fingers. "All the team that got catched been freed. Most of 'em been depowered, but it'll wear off. Kitty an' Heather an' Steve all got fair hurt but they'll recover. The Professor's tryin' to wake DJ an' Hive back up, still. Ion -- disappeared, he didn't never make it back to the jet. Dusk's dead." His voice stays steady, but he can't keep the grief and rage from Ryan -- couldn't, probably, even without the empathy. The pencil falls from his agile fingers, clattering to the ground. He doesn't pick it back up, just sinks heavily back in his chair. "Everyone's out of Lassiter. Labs are all closing." Ryan's fingers scrunch slow and tight with each additional piece of news, and when Jax finishes he's still gripping his sheets in a hard clench of fist. "Well." His voice here is rough and creaky, and his eyes fix steadily on the ceiling. "I guess we did it, then." He swallows. Blinks. "Now what?" Jax draws in a breath -- and says nothing. As he lets it out, slow, he sinks forward until his head is resting on the mattress at Ryan's side. He rests his hand over the other man's, his fingers curling in gently, and until the nurses inevitably next interrupt, there is just silence.