Logs:Triangulation
| Triangulation | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia | 2023-03-16 "Are things getting easier for you? Emotionally, socially... ecumenically. Grammatically." |
| Location
<NYC> Chez Tessier - Greenwich Village | |
Around lunch time on Tuesday, a Signal message bound for DJ's phone lands in the cloud and waits there patiently.
A few hours after that, another:
Unsurprisingly, there is no answer to Matt's text. Was it even ever read? Signal does not seem to think so. But, nevertheless, Thursday evening -- admittedly on the late side for dinner -- a familiar bright signature is making its way towards the Tessier house. Two familiar signatures, actually, the oddly muted echo of hive-by-proxy enmeshed with DJ's own livelier register. Normal walking pace, no erratic flutter. A considerable hesitation on the sidewalk outside before he approaches the door, knocks firmly. On the doorstep, DJ is in a chore jacket over a lightweight grey-green checked flannel, jeans, workboots. Freshly clean-shaven. Sensible to DJ well before he's made up his mind to knock, Matt's mind is a familiar paradox of distant intensity that shutters at his approach, though not tightly enough to silence his relief. He does not hurry his guest, but is still very swift to answer the knock when it does come. He's in his work clothes still, absent tie and vest, just an orchid oxford shirt with the top button undone and charcoal slacks. Flèche is sitting obediently at his side, her tail whipping the air furiously and her keen brown eyes bulging as they dart between DJ and the bone-shaped biscuit in Matt's hand. "Hello, darling," he says brightly, his smile likewise bright though there's not a lot in the way of emotion behind it. "Thank you for indulging me, and rescuing me from this horror show." By which he means the hockey game on the television behind him, where the Canadiens are trailing the Panthers 7 to 3. "Have you eaten?" DJ dips his head as he enters, shedding his jacket, crouching to unlace his boots. "Oh -- I'm good, thanks. Sorry I'm late." The arm he wears today is colorful -- decorated with brilliant multicolored iridescent plumage punctuated by stark patches of white-bordered black feathering, the paint job on it detailed enough to make the feathering on the prosthetic gleam as though wet. He folds his jacket over his arm as he stands, peering over toward the TV. "Brutal. You try rooting for the Rangers?" "Not to worry. I haven't been starving myself in case you turn up for supper, you know." Matt's expression doesn't change when he sees the feathers painted on DJ's prosthetic, but he swallows once, hard. There's something artificial about his grief where it stirs beneath the glassy surface of his mind. He lets it stir. "I do! Except when they're playing the Habs." His eyes linger on the white-bordered patterns, his mind fruitlessly trying to recall if he'd ever seen the same feathers on any of Flicker's arms. He firmly redirects his gaze and reaches for DJ's jacket, offering him the dog biscuit in exchange "Here, let me get that. Would you like some cocoa? Juice, soda, we've plenty of libations." DJ's eyes drop to his plastic hand -- a little self-consciously he tucks it beneath his folded jacket. "It's a wood duck." This comes out almost apologetic, a faint blush in his cheeks. He takes the biscuit, relinquishes the jacket -- stares for a half-second in some confusion at the biscuit as if he might, maybe, try to eat it himself out of some dogged politeness -- then looks relieved to find Flèche nosing at his hand. For just a second he regains his confidence, giving the dog the biscuit at least, evidently, familiar ground. "Oh -- oh. Juice? Juice would be. Nice. Thank you." Sans jacket, sans dog treat, he is left kind of hovering awkward and uncertain in the entry hall. Flèche, too trusting to ever suspect DJ was going to eat her treat, cronches the biscuit happily. The words "wood duck" conjures a very uncertain image in Matt's mind--it's more or less just a skinny mallard with the prosthetic's current colors applied slapdash. He tucks the jacket away in the closet and ushers DJ out into the living room, waving in the general direction of the sofa. "Please have a seat, I'll be right back." He bustles off to the kitchen. Flèche remains with DJ, sniffling at him curiously if politely, by dog standards. Matt returns in short order with two glasses of orange juice and a plate of pear and apricot tartlettes. << Maybe I should break out a boardgame or something so I'm not just interrogating him (really should have done this sooner) >> As soon as his hands are free he snatches up the remote, but hesitates, arching one eyebrow at DJ. "You don't want this one, do you? I shouldn't just assume you're not a Panthers fan..." The image in Matt's mind adjusts itself with a startlingly delicate psionic touch to a beautiful drake aglide on a pond, stunning splashes of iridescent color between striking patches of black and white, large red eyes, a sharp downturned crest. DJ has settled himself on the edge of the sofa, leaning forward with elbow propped on knee and petting absently at the dog's head. His "thank you," is dutiful as he accepts the orange juice. His eyes drift back to the television, and he shakes his head. "We actually didn't have Florida back home and yours doesn't seem worth rooting for." Matt does not voice his surprise when DJ illustrates the wood duck more properly for him. There aren't any words attached to his surprise at all, really, just an inwardly << ?! >>. The reflexive sweep of his power registers only DJ and the weird edge case of Hive inthroughas DJ. A highly familiar power doing something highly unfamiliar in a situation where he can neither examine nor control it should perhaps, he reflects, alarm him more. But as it stands he's only moderately alarmed when he settles onto the sofa and turns off the hockey game. "Goodness! Did Florida just never exist there, or..." In his mind a giant cartoonish Erik Lensherr is physically sawing Florida off of North America, though he isn't physically touching the saw. Flèche parks herself on the other side of DJ now, to keep herself in reach of all the hands that might dispense pets, but also presumably to get closer to the cookies on the tea table, little though she's taking advantage. "I will grant that this might be too open-ended, but how have you been?" DJ's brows crease, brief and perplexed at Matt's surprise. << but you know us? >> is laced with his own confusion -- only a second ago quite sure that Matt was a close confidant and now, abruptly, less sure of this. What he does say with surety, though, is: "-- don't be silly, if he wants a new island he just heaves one up from the bottom of the ocean." He rests his hand on one knee, holding the orange juice tight; his other knee is bouncing restlessly. "Um -- busy? I don't know. Still don't really know what -- baseline here is supposed to feel like. What do you all measure against?" << I know you, >> Matt agrees readily enough, his mental voice casual despite the deep ache of << (I know you) >> beneath it, << but he(you)(Flicker) didn't use your telepathy for communication, not like that. Not with people who are not you, currently. >> Beneath the verbal thoughts flow snippets of memories that illustrate more or less the same. Matt certainly was aware in the abstract that Flicker had that kind of access to Hive's powers, he's just never seen it applied that way and is already starting to tease apart why that might be. None of which makes the notion of Magneto calling an island into being any less earth-shatteringly (<< hahah! >>) impressive. He considers the question posed back to him. << That is fair enough.>> "Mm. I think it varies, as with anywhere, no? I can sort of triangulate where I am by looking at my own past experiences, but also comparing with other white guys, other cis queers, other human-passing mutants, and so on." The rolling gesture of his hand terminates palm-up in vague resignation. "But you have at least one...sort of major axis that just doesn't really have much precedence. I suppose what I'm really trying to get at is, are things getting easier for you? Emotionally, socially..." A twitch of a smile. "...ecumenically. Grammatically." << That last one is a joke. I'm not sure you even had Pirates of the Caribbean on the other side of that rift. >> "... huh." DJ's brows furrow at this revelation. Whatever inward processing he is doing, it comes with a brief but noticeable outward flex of his borrowed power, stretching curiously and then pulling back. "S'useful, though." His shoulders pull slightly inward at the rest of Matt's question. His teeth grind briefly -- then deliberately ease as he takes a sip of his juice. "Sure we had pirates," he answers lightly, "though I don't know that they kept to the Caribbean. Getting to outer space regularly really opened up a whole second Golden Age of -- I guess that's not sail." The restless bounce of his knee is falling into a stillness as he lowers his juice. "So where are you, then? By current triangulation?" Matt tilts his head as though listening for something in that flex of telepathy. "I'm sure it is!" << I don't mean to say it isn't, or you oughtn't. It just feels different. What I can feel of it. >> DJ's discomfort produces no discernible emotional reaction until he deliberately dredges something up. That something isn't compassion, exactly, but when he speaks again there's something indefinably gentler in his voice. "I'm sorry, darling. It's a foolish question, perhaps. Well, maybe this will be the timeline that makes solar sails a Thing." He considers the question over a sip of his juice--or screwdriver, really. "Lost and becalmed and looking for some water-snakes to bless unaware?" << Or, no Rime of the Ancient Mariner either? >> A shift in that same something prompts him to add, less glibly, "I've always been a mess and probably always will be. I'm just trying to be a kinder, more loving mess." He folds one of his legs up under himself and turns to not quite fully face DJ. "I don't know if there's anything I can give you that you actually want or need, and I'm not talking about offering refreshments. But I do want to be in your life, and I would even if you weren't dating one of my dearest friends." << (...being one of my dearest friends...) >> DJ's fingers are tight around his juice glass. The tension in his shoulder remains -- his jaw, too, even if his teeth haven't quite set to grinding again yet. But when Matt finishes speaking he looks up, swift, startled; the sudden warmer crook of his smile is achingly familiar. "Oh! Oh," is breathed out on a soft huff of a laugh. "I'm -- sorry, I just. Even now I'm so used to people who -- whether they really want to get to know me or really don't, it's. Because of..." His cheeks flush, and he shakes his head abruptly, an easier relief in his tone. "Well. Not Hive." He settles just a little back on the couch, his leg starting to bounce again. "I wish I knew what I wanted. Needed. I don't know what it says about me that I felt more at ease in war than I have here, until..." His sentence trails off into another swallow of juice. "I don't blame you, and I won't claim it hasn't been hard for me. Flicker's always going to be in the room with us." Matt's smile is thin and rueful. "But he doesn't have to be between us, and even when he is, Hive is worth it. To me at least." His mind does something abstruse and emotionally confusing that obscures whatever he's thinking, just long enough to take a breath and then a gulp of his drink. "I think it says you have generational trauma and regular trauma. You're ready to fight for you and your family and your people's survival in a way that most people around you are not. Not even those of us who know we're in a war already, and have fought it in our own ways." "That's been one of the -- weirdest things to adjust to," DJ admits, exhaling hard through his teeth. "If things were better, or if things were awful, I think I might have been able to figure out what life's supposed to look like. But this slow creeping genocide while we're all supposed to just follow the law and live Normal Lives and pretend it's not happening -- it feels flipping insane and I know from insane. What do you do? Just get another drink, play another board game, stand around playing the flute while Rome burns?" Matt nods slowly, dropping his hand to scritch behind Flèche's floppier ear. "What did you do before it was open war, on the other side? I don't imagine that genocide came out of nowhere, and I doubt your lives just stopped when it started strutting instead of creeping." He stares at the untouched plate of cookies, his disquiet muted and dull. "I can accept that we're going about this wrong--or at least I am--but I also don't know..." He trails off and blinks at DJ. << Wait. Are you busy because you're building an army of mutant Mormons? >> Not quite serious, but not entirely joking, either. << They're not (all) mutants, >> shoots back immediately and just a little bit defensive. And softly, beneath that, a memory of scripture read so many times it feels burned into his bones: And he was a man who was firm in the faith of Christ, and he had sworn with an oath to defend his people, his rights, and his country, and his religion, even to the loss of his blood.. << Sometimes you only earn peace at the point of a sword. My people have always known that. >> DJ's words are quiet, resolute. "Before there was open war we did war more quietly." This sounds rueful, something pained flashing across his expression. "I don't know what the right or wrong way to go about it is. I just know where we are now -- I've seen this before." Matt raises his hands--glass still in one of them--conceding the point. "Look, all the Mormons I know are mutants. And badasses. Except Jamie." << I'm extremely impressed if the humans in your...(ward?)(branch?)(army?)...group are ready to defend mutant Saints to the loss of their blood. >> He drains his glass. "We do war quietly here, too." << (have causalities here, too) >> He starts to think of Flicker and shunts his mind aside instead to the raids still suspended with Jax's indefinite detention, his rage eerily cool. "I think hard about the terrible places this might go, but that's not the same as seeing it. I'm sorry if I ever make you feel crazier--I can be a bit flippant about awful things, past, present, or future." << I hope we never have to find out. >> This comes with a grimly resolute certainty that, one day, they will. "Unfortunately, Saints don't seem any more likely to be mutants than anyone else. The ones who are are just -- gravitating here." DJ sets his glass aside, and finally reaches for one of the tartlettes, biting it with hand cupped carefully beneath to catch stray crumbs. << Why are they suspended? >> There's not judgment here, just a genuine question. << Are there -- not enough of you to do it without him? He's strong, but other people are strong, too. >> The << so say we all >> that bubbles up in Matt's mind is small and quiet and achingly sincere. He doesn't answer at once, at least not in words, but he makes his contemplation of it easy to follow. The memories he summons are from training sessions, and the extra sense granted by his own power may not be familiar to DJ, but it is to Hive. Each snippet shows Jax's power blazing bright at Matt's side, struggling even with his bolstering to shield the team and their rescuees alike. << Our strategy is highly defensive. >> He reflexively suppresses his discomfort with that approach. << It over-relies on Jax for the same reason it over-relied on Flicker. >> He starts to say something aloud, but takes a cue from DJ instead and nibbles on a cookie of his own. << You saw how much we struggled with Dirac, and that was only half of it. Literally. >> He lifts his glass again, shoulders hunching as if headed for a shrug, though it never gets there. << And now we have neither of them. >> "Situations change. Your strategy can change, too." DJ's shrug is a small and quick thing. << If Jax never gets out, then what? Just -- leave Prometheus and whoever's still in there? Besides -- >> starts in Matt's mind and finishes aloud, dry: "Now you have me." Matt nods, his agreement running deeper than the slightly absent gesture might suggest on its own. "It has to change." << We can't leave them there. We won't. And we can't go back to how we used to to do it. >> His cup freezes halfway to his lips with a sharp twist of pain that never fully breaches the surface of his thoughts but leaves him distinctly unmoored. << We should never have done that, to any of us. It put Flicker at disproportionate risk. It killed him, again and again, and indirectly killed him for good. >> He drains his glass, though he knows there's not enough alcohol in it to have all that much effect at his level of tolerance. << Losing Flicker destroyed Hive. I don't think he'd survive losing you the same way, and we need you both. >> "He wasn't -- very pleased, either, when I suggested it." DJ's shoulders have gotten a little tighter, his head slightly bowed. "But it doesn't have to be the same. I'm not him. Or at least I'm not the him that --" His eyes screw up, hand lifting to dig knuckles against his eye. His voice is much softer when he continues: "For one thing, I want to live." | |
