Logs:The tide beats in my soul so strong that happiness breaks forth in song,

The tide beats in my soul so strong that happiness breaks forth in song,
Dramatis Personae Kitty, Leo?, Jax, DJ, Steve, Sam, Polaris, Hive, Matt, Fury, Ion, Dusk, Maya, Ryan, FitzSimmons	summer solstice '23 / jax's 31st birthday "May I have this dance?" (Jax's birthday party part 2 -- from disembarking previously and forward to deliberating, and drama.)
Location <NYC> Rooftop - S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ - Times Square
There's an unexpected oasis at the top of this gleaming high-rise, the whole of it carpeted in thick, soft, layered ground cover of sedums, grass, and moss. A small, carefully manicured grove serves as the centerpiece, with benches, tables and chairs scattered around in the shade. Beside it, a professionally landscaped garden boasts a pond and quite a few planters that either used to hold plants or still hold dying ones. The greenhouse is somewhat sparsely and eclectically populated with tropical plants, flanked by garden beds even more sparsely planted. An open lawn on the side overlooking Times Square makes a great spot for a picnic. The otherwise unsightly structure housing the roof access, a single stall bathroom, and tool shed has been covered on three sides with turf and shaped into a little promontory offering a breathtaking view of the city. The lawn has mostly disappeared under the newly assembled raised stage, wires for lighting and sound systems running through the grass to generators that definitely do not belong to SHIELD. The tables have been commandeered as food and drink stations, starting to deplete as the long, long arc of sun on the longest day of the year meanders lazily towards the horizon. The fae-like uniforms of Jax's friends are easy to pick out in the crowd in front of the stage, glowing horns and sun-adorned wings catching light from the star in the heavens as well as on stage. Ryan Black, in a slim-fitting white suit so densely packed with optical fiber that it has a glossy sheen even with the lighting function off, a dress shirt so black it looks like a void amidst all the light, gold cowboy boots with solar designs picked out in bright EL wire, and a matching gambler's hat that shows a brilliant sunburst when viewed from above, is winding to the end of "Care Less", the slick ferocity of the violin line lighting up the fibers in a vibrant dance of colors. The slip into "Brighter" is subtle at first, but at the first lyric a cheer goes up from the crowd. Kitty, glittery and gold in a Gatsby-esque sequinned flapper dress, radiant sunbeams emerging from her headband, and a fairy wand with a sunburst topper in hand, is spinning out on the dance floor. Swing dance would probably be more appropriate for her outfit, but she's not letting the genre discrepancy stop her from laughing, cheering, and sliding in closer to her dance partner to kiss his cheek -- heedless of the slack jawed look Jemma Simmons is giving him from the drink table. "I cannae tell if she manipulates intramolecular force or nuclear force," Leo Fitz is bemoaning into his beer, "and she won't tell me which it is." "Uh-huh," Simmons replies absently, swirling her cocktail with one hand. "...You think Mr. Jax might introduce me to Mr. Concepcion if I ask nicely?" Morosely, lifting his beer to his lips, Fitz replies, "Probably not." Leo accepts his kiss with a faint flush, and his small smile has a glimmer of amusement as he spins Kitty back close to him. "That man," he's only lightly indicating Fitz with a small point of pursed lips in the engineer's direction, "has have his eyes on you all evening." There's no jealousy here though there is a healthy dose of appreciation when he adds, pitched quieter as if someone else might hear over the upbeat music: "You do shine." Had he planned to be at this party? Difficult to say, given the capriciousness of his schedule. But he seems to be well enjoying himself here, twirling his girlfriend on the dancefloor -- he's currently less eye-catching than her in outfit though no doubt his presence alone draws a few stares, but, currently, the neat and colorful button-down he is wearing has been largely obscured underneath an oversized tee shirt likely caught from one of the two t-shirt cannons a matching fairy-winged pair of Ryan's crew are shooting at the audience. His has the by-now very familiar HOLLAND WAS RIGHT text on the front, though the dragonfly it is usually styled around has now grown a stylized sunburst for a thorax in a design that is echoed smaller up by the back collar. Underneath the smaller back logo, printed in simple font: party like the day is long! summer solstice '23 | happy birthday, jax. Jax has been on stage through the beginning of this song, getting even Brighter himself as Ryan takes off the sunburst-hat and bestows it upon him. In contrast to his BFF's radiance on stage, Jax himself is startlingly not glowing -- for now -- though his smile is bright enough he might as well be as he's helped down off the stage and back into the crowd. His very fierce heat is accompanied by a very fierce blush as he accepts a hand down, accepts a dance -- far from his first tonight but this one comes with a flush of mingled warmth and grief, an echo of memory summoned up of dappled sunlight in a faraway grove, a flicker of yellow feathers under rustling wings. The rhythm he falls into is familiar, unthinking. It's only after several measures when he looks up, lifts a hand to touch fingers light and brief against his dance partner's neat-trimmed beard which itself grows a sunny illumination -- that he lets the grief settle into a somewhat less complicated delight. "Gosh, but you you clean up good." There to help Jax off the stage is DJ -- the hand that turns over to takes Jax's is, as fits the theme tonight, resplendent in color; the prosthetic has been intricately painted in a pattern of feathering -- on the over side a more staid black-brown but on the underneath brilliant metallic emerald giving way to a bold scarlet with a very subtle metallic purple flash at the edges in the brilliant plumage of a scarlet-chested sunbird. He's in a sleek two-piece suit in crisp red-and-black striped seersucker over a neatly pressed white linen shirt cinched with an eye-catching tie styled very abstractly after a flight feather, its barbs forming fine chevrons in an iridescent red-purple-green-black ombre, and black oxford shoes polished to a shine. In his mind there's a hard-ingrained hypervigilance threading through the beat, out of sync with the environment but nevertheless threaded taut through the steps, tracking the crowd around them as intently as he tracks his partner's motions. His smile at the compliment is bright, buoyed by the company and the empathic vibrancy of the music. "Figured it was about time I --" As he drops his hand to signal an outside turn he's also dropped his sentence, also dropped his stance; it all happens quickly enough anyone else might not have caught it at all if not for the fact that at the Very First Sight of someone beelining for Jax, Jax himself has abruptly vanished to reappear safely beside Ryan's bodyguard. DJ -- who just a second before was tensing, bracing for a fight, mind snapped to alertness, is now blushing fierce as he looks up at the very close proximity of "-- oh. Oh," his blush is only deepening, his wary look already shifted to a crooked smile that belies the butterfly-flutter inside him. "I'm sorry, I thought -- obviously. You wanted --" Standing off to one side, Steve is wearing a blue-and-red windowpane suit with a spray of heliotrope for a boutonniere and a magenta-violet-blue ombre tie. He only clocks the swinging beat in Brighter when he spots Jax swinging to it with DJ, and with a bright smile makes his way over. << Gosh I've never cut in before -- do people still cut in or -- >> He doesn't have time to be alarmed when DJ blips Jax away and pivots more or less right into him. Before he even knows what's happened he's sliding one foot back, then in almost the same moment checks the motion, amused and embarrassed. Quietly thankful DJ's swiftness also beat him to the awkward stuttering he was definitely about to do, he finishes the half-spoken sentence, "-- to dance. Obviously." This might have come out more suave if he weren't distracted by that smile, at once soothingly and painfully familiar. His slow breath out hitches on a chuckle as they both try to lead. << How do two fellas decide... >> He dismisses his mental image of proposing rock-paper-scissors almost before it's formed. Instead, he settles his right hand onto DJ's brightly colored prosthetic and his left hand onto DJ's shoulder, confident and decisive and flushing pink nevertheless. His rhythm is imperfect and his steps sloppy on the turns, but he follows well for a beginner. "Thanks for bearing with me," he tells his partner earnestly as the song fades. A little hesitant, he adds, "Glad you made it out tonight." He dips his head and makes a leg -- luckily having released DJ's hand -- before stepping away, suddenly unsure what to do with himself. That uncertainty flees when he catches Sam's eye, and though his smile is still a little faint and his rhythm still a little off, he's nodding in time to the swelling music again. Sam has been in between partners, in between drinks, but after watching Steve take his leave from DJ he's ambling over. At once casual in stride and not-so in his seafoam green collarless suit, sleek and clean and unconventional with scrollwork embroidered on either side of the front opening in hunter green to match the lightweight tunic underneath, which is longer than the jacket and separates it visually from the trousers to striking effect, and black dress boots with hunter green spats. No paper-scissors-rock -- though his offered hand comes with a lift of brows, a tip of head, a "May I have this dance?" he seems confident enough of the answer and confident as well as he leads Steve back onto the floor, falling smoothly into the rhythm of "Save Me". His eyes follow pointedly after DJ, and return to Steve -- just a little searching. Maybe it's the music and its buoyant warmth; maybe it's whatever he finds (or doesn't) in Steve's expression, but the searching soon gives way to just a companionable ease in the steps, navigating tight-crowded dancefloor and inexperienced partner and Occasional Stares in Steve's direction with equal facility -- he eventually deigns to acknowledge this last when it's a gawky and gawking Xavier's teenager whose stare has pulled them obliviously straight into the press of dancers to peer up-up-UP at Steve with eyes wide as dinner plates. The song isn't yet done but Sam is relinquishing his partner, patting him firm on the shoulder: "-- feel like this is your patriotic duty, Cap," and now he's left in the slightly awkward position of trying to weave through the floor unpaired -- -- only to be swept up by Polaris, who was presumably just happening by, but in the press of bodies appears as though she materialized out of thin air precisely when Sam found himself stranded. She's wearing a metallic purple-green duochrome corset dress that would be quite revealing on its own but is only kind of revealing over a semi-sheer black blouse, a wide v-shaped chainmaille belt along with intricate woven wire cuffs and choker, and black ankle strap pumps. Her long green hair is bound up in two crown braids woven together with a glowing flower crown, and one of the event workers' sun wands dangles from her belt beside a black velvet purse. "You're wearing my color," she informs him, though the brightness of her smile belies the presumptive complaint even before she adds, "and wearing it well!" Though not the most skilled dance partner, she is pouring enough grace and energy and fiercely determined joy into it to be a compelling one. There's no small amount of hypervigilance in her attention to the intricate shimmering fields--biological and technological--all around, enmeshed in an electrifying dance of their own. There's no small amount of love, too, her mind alight with music and motion and a profound sense of connection that cannot be wholly attributed to Ryan power. "You should be careful wearing green on midsummer night, you know?" She laughs as Sam spins her out into a turn, unabashed that she works an extra step into it. "Lest the fairies whisk you away!" The fairies are about to whisk, little though Sam or Polaris might know it. It isn't the ones that work the party wearing tattered wings or glowing horns or gleaming claws -- quiet, unfelt, a deft psionic force spreads its roots out, rides the beat, rides their minds; on one step they are a pair, on the next they're both dancing with new people. It feels like Polaris's decision -- and then, of course it did, because on the next step she no longer is Hive, but she is just dancing with him, and he's not smiling, same default-grump-scowl he always wears; but as his mental roots pull back she can feel the lingering amusement, warm and unabashed, he leaves in his wake. "Feel like I should get at least one dance in with my --" Just a beat, a small sideways twitch of mouth. "-- you." He isn't much of a dancer. There are times that the oneness of him smooths over for that, an innate proprioception of his partner's movements, but this isn't one of those times. It's not DJ he's stealing from now, with his actual dancing skill and confident grace; just turtling back into himself with the help of the Elder Telepath in his network; shielding he's not innately good at -- and, for the rest of the song -- just him. Just Polaris. Just dancing. It's warm. But as one song fades into the next, as he pecks Polaris on the cheek, it's warm, too, as his mind relaxes with something like relief back into its expansive openness. Is it the return of feeling his hundreds of selves that hits him deep, or the opening strains of "Little Wonder"? Either way he's stopped at the edge of the floor like he's temporarily forgotten what he's doing. It's also hard to say whether it's the shift in Hive's self(ves) that catches Matt's attention or the fiery adoration spilling through the song for the missing child--the missing children. He's in a white oxford shirt, green linen vest, and gray slacks, the matching jacket nowhere to be seen, and had been draped languidly picturesque against a nearby picnic table, methodically getting drunk. Now he goes to Hive, gathering his friend close though he does not know if he has it in him to do much more than sway to the music. His mindscape is eerily flat, and he's trying to dredge something up from beneath its murky surface other than the jagged rage hungry for someone to sink into. "{Thank you, my dear.}" His words are soft with improvised gratitude and affected affection for Hive's tireless search. "{I have missed you, also.}" He isn't sure how true that was before now, but he's found his emotional stride and with it his rhythm, his feet light as whirls Hive and his borrowed steps around the dancefloor. "Little Wonder" acquires new dimensions as the jazz musicians of the next act seamlessly join in, one by one. Something reaches out from his turbid depths for Ryan's electrifying voice, and though sharp and rapacious it is not anger but desire that he immediately tamps back down. It might not have stayed down, but the song is winding down, not so much ending as morphing into improvisational jazz. Matt bends to kiss Hive's hand before sending him off in DJ's direction, as best he can estimate the path of the bright flickering beat in his mind. He is emphatically not paying attention to Ryan as he hops off the stage into the arms of the ecstatically awaiting crowd. He's leaning into his anger instead, searching and finding a suitable target, veering off giddy with (somewhat) playful malice to drag Fury up from where he's been methodically getting drunk. "I hear you're a fine dancer, Director Fury," he pipes with an impish grin. "Prove it." With the generous support of the free booze, Director Fury had started to enjoy the concert despite himself -- little though anyone would be able to tell by his persistently baleful glare. << That Ryan Black steady wildin', but he don't sound half bad tho. >> He tenses up at the prospect some telepath might have overheard that admission, and starts running through the psionic self-defense exercises he'd let lapse. The organic changing of the act on stage makes this harder -- the steady sweeps and capricious turns of the jazz blossoming from "Little Wonder" speaks to him in a deep way that Ryan, whatever his skill or powers, could not -- and the sudden appearance of the Other Mister Tessier shatters his precarious focus altogether. "Oh hell no," he blurts as Matt pulls him to his feet, and though he's sure he could prevail if he fought harder, he doesn't. A part of him is suspicious some psionic influence swayed him to accept the dance. A part of him is terrified of being surrounded by drunken mutants with God knows what powers. The rest of him is reversing Matt's grip on his hand and letting the music move through him and appreciating how readily the younger man follows his lead. And then he's suspicious of that, too. << (does he know)(what's his agenda)(at least his power can't hurt me none) >> Aloud he just says, "I been dancing longer'n you been alive. I ain't got nothing to prove." Perhaps belying this, he embellishes his already elaborate footwork, challenging Matt to keep up and at once annoyed and impressed that he does. Somewhere between this absurd game and the technical demands of playing it out on a crowded floor, he forgets his wariness and just dances. "{That's how he get you.}" Relaxing, evidently? Dancing, evidently? Enjoying yourself for a few brief moments -- on one outward spin Matt whirls away and blink-and-you-might-miss-it quick, a small static-shock zap in Fury's hand -- which is turning back over, gripped now in a calloused-rough one. "{Secondary mutation, you know, make you lose yourself in them fairy-green eyes.}" Ion's grin is fierce, his own dark eyes bright -- did he dress for this at all? Probably, with his motorcycle boots and weatherbeaten cut there's his nice jeans and a lightweight linen button down, sunburst wand jammed through a beltloop, long pointed ears blended seamless over his own. Right here Matt should have been twirling back, should have been dipping, but instead Fury's getting Ion's aggressively cheerful energy -- can he dance? Can he swing? He's sure got rhythm to spare but in the scheme of things, these may be secondary to the forceful exuberance with which he's turned this ship Right Around fully heedless (or perhaps enjoying) Fury's poleaxed horror or his long-acclimatization to leading. As his partner stumbles trying to rock-step the wrong foot Ion's grin sharpens, as Fury starts to lose his balance Ion's grip shifts seamlessly to a harder clamp on the older man's forearm. The Director of SHIELD does not fall; as quickly as the tornado of a dance began it's ending as Ion deposits him in the questionably loving arms of another Mongrel to recoup his balance properly. Ion's cheek clicks against his teeth, fingers snapping, pointing in quick-bang motion at Fury, taking his grin and exuberance with him as he dips out across the floor -- "{Careful, eh? Party just getting started and already you slipping.}" Ion is intercepted, across the floor, pulled in to loop in to a small knot of newer Prometheans who have formed their own circle by an outstretched wing, not dark today but painted rich and brilliant with sunburst-ombre flare. Dusk's wing drapes around the electrokinetic; a soft pleased rumble in his throat as he watches an elderly woman pulled out of Blackburn teach a much younger Dirac alum the basics of swing. As he drops his head to rest against Ion's and briefly just bops with the music -- his growl deepening when the elder almost stumbles after a group of slightly-too-eager (slightly-too-tipsy?) Xavier's students collides with their group, his growl subsiding just as quick when the Dirac kid steadies her easily and the dancing-clusters mingle into one. 'Eeeevery once in a while,' he admits, a teasing amusement in his face, in the motions of his hands, that heavily exaggerates the rarity of this as the excitement in the group grows oh my god he's coming here for REAL '-- he fucking nails it.' And then he's squeezing Ion a little closer, letting his wing trail against the other man's shoulders as he sways through the group -- not towards Ryan himself but one of the many (staring // trying not to stare) around them His smile is bright as he offers out a hand. "He doesn't bite, you know." Maya has been here twirling with her sister, has been chatting, has been bright-bright-bright in her elegantly floral-embroidered yellow and orange salwar set, gold bangles, gold-sequined slippers, ribbons wound through her thick braids. Was she gawking, she was trying not to gawk! Certainly not in front of at least some of her students who are definitely also gawking oh gosh -- And then there's Dusk in front of her and is she less flustered, looking up into his dark eyes, sharp-fanged grin, scruffy face? She blushes, takes his hand, a smile lighting up her slightly-tipsy-glowy face. "Oh! Oh but you -- no wait do you -- wow I shouldn't assume --" She's started to reach a hand for his other -- arm? Wing? Drops it to the side, lifts it again, blushes deeper. "Oh wow were you even asking me to --" But she is getting on the dance floor with him, is kind of relaxing, even, more comfortable once he starts moving, once he starts her moving -- until another turn, and another, and then she is Face To Face with Ryan and her eyes have gone wide again, smile frozen in place, gaze darting between him and the crowd around, and maybe she'd have slunk back into the circle if not for the strong wings bolstering her at her back. From one set of wings to another; Ryan's gleaming stage costume has been luminescent between the enormous black-feathered wings of the woman who has been gyrating with him. He meets Maya's frozen smile with one warm enough to thaw, one hand turning up, beckoning with an easy confidence. "We on a dance floor -- you want to stare, stare; you want to move, then move, yeah?" He waits for her to take his hand before pulling her in, graceful but simple in the steps he leads until he's confident she does have the rhythm. Around them there are still Plenty Of Stares; excited Xavier's School teens, hipster artists pretending to be too cynical. "Don't even worry about them," there's brazen-cocky in his grin now, sure, but the first time she missteps from self-conscious watching The Crowd instead he's making the correction easily to keep the rhythm, his attention solely on his still-flustered partner. "They're not judging you, they all watching me." "Oh, all'em?" As one melody slides into another, it's a very familiar face back at Ryan's side. Fierce heat in Jax's chin as he props it on his friend's shoulder. 'I can get you his number,' he's mouthing totally-not-at-all-surreptitiously to his coworker, as he snags an elbow through Ryan's. For all the fierce heat, bright outfit, sparkling makeup, the actual feelings that wash through his voice over the empath are muted and distant -- there's love there, a lot of it; there's anger, there's a heavy exhaustion, a stark horror, but all of it coming through a washed-out filter. "Jus' wouldn't'a been a birthday if you hadn't saved me a dance," he's saying with a small laugh, "if Mockingbird closes 'fore I get out we gotta riot." He's just pulling Ryan away, just finding a relatively open spot at the edge of the dance floor, when a small knot of fresh young agents from the SHIELD Comms division gets up the bravery to come over en masse, crowded too-close and too-touchy as is too-common for fans. Something dims -- just brief! -- in Jax's expression as he's jostled back. It brightens again, vivid and cheerful when he whirls to find -- "gosh, Leo! I didn't have no idea you was such a good dancer." << I am? >> a startled question in Leo(?)'s mind, at once colored with his very-customary diffidence and something that is -- not. << am I? >> A deep blush has filled his cheeks as he looks up from his partner to Jackson -- back to his partner. Rock-steps back to let Kitty better face Jackson. "She makes it easy." The brief-sharp sting of ache this conjures up is entirely dwarfed by an entirely more uncomplicated swell of affection. "I should -- let you two --" He squeezes Kitty's hand and lets it go, stepping away into the mess of chaos. "He learns fast," is Kitty's easy -- tipsy -- warm reply, the squeeze of her hand tight around Leo's before he pulls away. There's something faintly disquieted in her thoughts when Leo pulls away, not yet a question before she turns to slot herself easily into Jax's arms. More easily than maybe it should be, with their height difference, the air between Kitty's feet and the dance floor bringing her up closer to her best friend. Later, there will be worry and rage and exhaustion. Later there will be all the emotions Kitty, like so many others here, are pushing determinedly down down down so that tonight can be special. Later there will be time -- too much time, still -- for spinning and scheming and searching. Later this -- this bright smile, this flex of her mutation -- will be too hard to maintain. But right now -- fiery warm hand in one that is delicately cool -- Kitty dances, easy and almost-carefree, on nothing.