Logs:Wayward Sun
| Wayward Sun | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2023-07-24 "... I brung your go bag." |
| Location | |
It's getting late, but the growing camp is still quite alive -- people loosely self-organizing into work duties, though the less glamorous ones (trash crew! water detail!) have not yet attracted nearly so many volunteers as some of the more conspicuously Badass (the self-appointed Safety Detail has already needed a gentle but stern talking-to from Jax himself about throwing their weight around with who they let come down the drive; only slightly shamefaced they are now more proactively consulting with others to make new security metrics.) Jax himself is looking remarkably Together, at least to an outside perspective. In his expertly tailored light-swallowing black armor, sword at his back, very faint luminescence under his skin, he's a readily identifiable figure weaving his way from campfire to campfire; checking in here with some ooold labmates catching up after years, fielding anxious questions from parents who honestly probably know more than he does at this exact moment. As he extricates himself from one worried barrage -- well, his serious-calm expression doesn't actually falter, but there's a brief faint fuzzing around its edges, like an odd rendering glitch that smooths back over almost too quick to catch. -- Spencer's abrupt arrival might look like a rendering glitch on reality, to an unfamiliar eye. He's grown since May, decidedly taller now than his father even in thin-soled prison shoes with an exhausted slump to his shoulders, and he's even put on some muscle. His scrubs are spattered with blood, whatever crude washing up he's done on the go only highlights his pallor after months without sun, and his hair is a wild mess only nominally held down by the steadfastly smiling sun on his kippah. "Pa," he says, kind of quietly, as if that would offset the surprise of his sudden appearance beside Jax, whom he's staring at with wide, wide gray eyes. Jax pivots on a heel, and adjusts his gaze subtly upward with a frown. The frown lingers as he pulls Spencer, silent, into a fierce and fiercely too-warm hug -- even for July, Jax is burning hot -- and even still as he steps back to look over his son again. "No," he's saying quiet, under his breath, and maybe this first was intended as some kind of communication; but maybe not, it just repeats a few times, softer: no, no, no, as he reaches up to unclip the kippah, smooth lightly at Spence's hair, clip it back on at a slightly different angle. "Your sun was all tilty." He's extracting a slim packet from some cleverly hidden pocket in his armor, offering it out to Spencer -- a strip of teriyaki seitan jerky. Softer: "You don't gotta be here, you know." But like a concession to the answer he already knows is coming: "... I brung your go bag." Spence squeezes back tight, heedless of the heat. Swallows. Bows his head obediently while Jax adjusts his kippah. He accepts the jerky kind of automatically but then just blinks at it, uncomprehending. The delay in processing is brief. An instant later he's tearing into it with desperate hunger. "Sorry," he mumbles between bites. "Thank you." He looks down at his scrubs. "I haven't talked to Luci but I figured this would be better for interviews." His mouth tugs hard to one side. "Also, I don't think my clothes are gonna fit right." This idea seems to be causing him disproportional consternation, but not enough to stop him polishing off the jerky. "Well, you was supposed to be smaller," Jax says, mildly reproachfully. "I'm sure you right about the interviews, though." His frown has cemented itself firmly in place as he looks Spencer over once more. "I got us a little spot t'camp. The pups'll be here in the mornin -- gosh, B's gon' need them rocketboots now just to hug you. You should do some sleep 'fore you even think 'bout talking to Luci -- I'll find you something more meal like than that, you just looked fit to keel over." "I slept!" Spence objects, then almost immediately concedes, "Not great, though. I keep trying to nap." He's fiddling with the empty package in his hands. "Then I think about..." He swallows. Looks across the camp, searching the night beyond it. "We almost made it out on our own. We got outside. On the fourth." His fingers flutter over the plastic in his hands, then go very determinedly still, gripping down hard. "I'm sorry," is practically a whisper, and he's blinking back the tears as hard as he can. "Oh, Spence, honey --" Jax shakes his head, his arm -- reaching to curl around Spence's shoulders, settles for curling around his back instead at the newly adjusted height difference. "We heard. Y'all made some noise and we heard it." His voice is hushed, but intense. "This is Lassiter. You know what it took them to get out a lab not even a tenth this size? With a fraction of the guards? You did more'n anyone could possibly have expected. Now it's time to rest. We got'chu from here, okay? I got you." Spence also tries, at first, to tuck himself under Jax's arm where he no longer quite fits. Now the tears come. It's several long heaving sobs before he gets out, "I know, I know but I just keep. Keep." He traces a circle over and over in the air. He's wrestled control of his breathing again, and curls his arm around his father with a convulsive strength. "You have a sword," he says, as if he'd somehow only just noticed, or as if the fact could have possibly escaped Jax. It's kind of hard to tell now whether the fluttering of his breath is laughter or more weeping. "That's so badass." Jax just holds Spencer, through the tears; around them the rest of the camp has grown just a little fuzzier, obscured behind an odd blur of shifting light. "I know," he replies softly. "You done the best you can with what you had. That's all you can do." His hand rubs slow circles against Spence's back until the comment about Sunbeam, and he steps back, head half-turning over one shoulder as he spins in a full circle like a dog that can't quite catch its tail. "I have what? Did you stick it there while I was off guard, kids done graduate from 'kick me' signs, I guess." Spencer does laugh, this time, though the tears haven't actually stopped. "It probably stuck itself on there cuz it's drawn to heroes who are also giant weirdos." He takes a deep breath. Looks down at the jerky wrapper in his hand, twisted into knots. "I probably need like. Two meals. I've gotten real unpicky. Oh no I gotta make sure my gang's okay first." He sniffles. Tucks his free hand under his arm. "Then we talk to Luci? Then you have to tell me why you look like an elven prince." "Oh, no doubt, I bet this sword's extra full of magnetism." Jax wrinkles his nose, head shaking firm. "Boy, Luci prob'ly got five hands busy with packin' an' herding media and getting his plane tickets together an' -- 'sides I was right serious 'bout you sleeping, I got melatonin an' I got Benadryl an' there a lady down the way can put folks to sleep with her brain. I'll get you some proper meal, an' if you try to talk to Luci or no reporters or nothin' for you've had a solid sleep I'mm'a tell 'em you ain't even 18 yet and I don't see no permission from your father to be troublin' you with that nonsense. C'mon-c'mon-c'mon," the odd visual fuzzing around them is shifting neatly back into clarity as he starts ushering Spencer off. "An' ain't your Nana ever told you? S'cuz I am an elven prince." | |
