Logs:Work, In Progress

Work, In Progress
Dramatis Personae Jax, Ryan
In Absentia Scott	2024-11-16 "Where else was I suppose t'go."
Location <NYC> Astoria
It's very late, the temperature dropped sharp, even moreso down by the water than elsewhere. It isn't so very far from L'Entente, out here. In normal times, the spot Jax has chosen -- tucked up underneath the Hell Gate Bridge -- would be pretty easily accessible with a few well-placed forcefield-platforms, but today Jax is roughing it like nearly all the other graffiti artists in the city. He's quite precariously high up a support beam, in weatherbeaten paint-splattered old jeans and a soft fleece-lined black sweatshirt, one sneakered foot planted on the beam and the other braced hard against the cement support wall in front of him. There's a small camping lantern set on a beam overhead, and the straps crossed over his chest hold quite a few paints, both spray and acrylics. He's been out here a while, that much is evident -- both from the intermittent fumbling, now, of his kind-of-numb fingers but also from the almost luminous water that has splashed itself up in vibrant tidal wave of paint to cover the wall beneath the bridge. In the water, now, alien marine life is also climbing the wall -- odd dark shadows with too many tentacles, brilliant colorful winged fish, strange fey things half-plant and half-creature. He's going considerably slower, now, than he was some hours ago, stopping to holster a brush in the belt at his hip so that he can cup his hands, carefully blow hot breath onto them to keep going. His perch wobbles slightly more than is probably reassuring, while he's doing so. In normal times, Jax would have been able to tell well before Ryan neared that someone was coming, no matter how strikingly little sound his crutches and clunky braced boots make on the very painstaking descent down the narrow clangy-metal maintenance access staircase. Ryan himself is definitely not attempting any further feats of exploration -- he stops considerably above Jax to seat himself on the broader platform that circles the support wall, just a short stretch beneath the rail line itself. There's a quiet flutter -- the gentle waft of string music whispering around Jax with a calming empathic touch, first quite soft but slowly rising. In normal times. Here, though, the gentle music is Jax's first clue that he has company. In well honed instinct at this sort of task his first reflex is to freeze, hand dropping to the beam beside him for extra support as his head turns -- down, first, absurd as it is to imagine Ryan might be taking the more treacherous path down the rocky riverbank and through the shallows. He lets out a breath, lets the faint traces of startle-reflex shiver away. "'zat you, sugar," is said very low under his breath, as if there's any real question. He plucks his paintbrush back up to continue the feathering on the wings of his latest creation. "You ain't gonna make me fall but gosh, should you be out here?" "Should you be out here? It's gotten cold." The music fades away at this confirmation. Ryan is bellying up to the edge of the platform, head poking down to peer over at Jax and then immediately pulling back like he's regretting this decision. "Jesus Christ, you should have a fucking harness. -- I didn't want to startle you." "Don't usually need one," Jax replies, and though his tone is mild the discomfort here is weighty. "S'back at the house, an' I jus' wanted to --" In lieu of words here he is finishing his sentence with a vague "mmrngh," but the restlessness in the sound comes across clear. "Just been out here a while," Ryan frets, "and you haven't exactly been in peak -- parkour -- shape." There's a quiet shifting sound from the platform above, a low scrape as Ryan rolls onto his back, tucks his crutches safely between himself and the wall. "Bad day?" "I been pretty still." Jax's retort comes immediately. "Parkour is moving." "Oh my God." There is the faintest of thrums that vibrates quiet through the metal beams. It's barely any actual motion, but the tiny hum seems distinctly exasperated. "At least let me know how much longer you're gonna be out here? I did not book time to worry 'bout you all night." "It's like, two a.m., what could possibly be on your sched -- I'on want to know," Jax is deciding before he's even finished the question. "I don't know how much longer. Until I'm done. I woulda done this on a more stable canvas but my studio's back at the house, too." The stress here is spiking, sharp and upset and wildly disproportionate to the necessity of doing his painting at Chimaera or the Xavier's art room. "Where else was I suppose t'go." "It's way later than that, cher." After this Ryan is quiet, for a moment. He lets the stress and upset roll over him, and when he finally speaks again there's a softer concern colored through his words. He does not point out that there are many unpainted walls in the city that pose far less risk of catastrophic falls, surely though he's thinking it. "What happened?" "Nothing." Immediate. Audibly bland, but roiling empathically even more turbulent with a chaotic lost confusion. Also kind of flat: "I quit my job." "Which --" Ryan is starting to ask, but the screaming discomfort in Jax's voice answers this well enough. He's rolling over, poking his head back over the edge of the platform to look down at Jax. "Why?" Jax isn't looking up; he's focusing very intently on his painting, slow and laborious with hands still not quite steady enough. "I -- the FBI raided the school, Ryan. They shot at the kids. Didn't nobody get real hurt, this time, but next time? Do I just pretend there won't be a next time? Do I just wait until there's a horde'a Sentinels there to gun down the --" His voice hitches, and he fumbles his paintbrush -- reflexively tries to catch it but leans too far, has to quickly catch himself against the beam and settle back down into a firmer seat as the brush drops down to lodge among the rocks below. "I don't think I'm a risk the school should take no more." "Should take, or wants to take?" There are flickers of anger darting bright but restrained through the edges of Ryan's projected voice. "Which one of those assimilationists been filling your head with -- nngh." He rolls himself back out of sight, head hitting the wood he's lying on with a soft thump. "You don't just pretend anything. You never have! You really think you quitting is gonna save those kids once every goddamn Sentinel is a mutant bloodhound? You think they'll be better off in the world we're heading into with some cop-ass liberals teaching them we'll have peace once we've crammed ourselves into the right boxes?" He's losing some steam after this, following it up with a soft, "I'm sorry. If you want to quit, then quit. I'm just so damn tired of those cowards throwing you under the bus so it lets them keep pretending that bootlicking can keep our people safe." "I love those kids." Jax leans back against the beam, biting down at his lip as he studies his painting. There's something numb in his words, psionic register muted along with his tired voice. "I've always just wanted a better world for 'em." He's starting to reach for a fresh paintbrush, holstered like a backup weapon at his side. His hand reroutes, lifts instead so he can blow warmth back into it once more. He leaves the painting, not quite finished, and there's a scrape of sneakers and quiet thump against the metal, each step whispering tired grief to Ryan as he starts to make his way up carefully along the crisscrossed beams. He pulls himself back over the lip of the wooden ledge and slumps against the wall, pulling his legs up tight to his chest. "Mr. Summers come to me today -- don't be mad at him, though, he's right, he --" he says, and the grief isn't whispering now but howling a furious anguish through his very soft words. It mellows, not in kind but in the intensity with which it's hammering at Ryan's senses, in the low repetitive "right-right-right" that he mumbles quiet as he starts rubbing his hands together. Ryan's soft "khhhh" roils with a keen fury that tells that he very much is Being Mad At Him. He holds his tongue, and pushes himself clumsily upright, settling in beside Jackson. He takes the other man's hands in his own, peculiarly the far warmer ones, tonight, and holds them for only a moment before tucking both beneath his shirts against the even warmer flat of his belly. Even braced, he's shivering at the frigid touch, then curling his arm around Jax's shoulders instead. "You can keep struggling for that. You always have, with or without their damn blessing." "Sure is easier with, though." Jax turns gratefully, nestling into the warmth and the embrace. He tucks his head against Ryan's shoulder, and puffs out a small laugh that dissipates its thick hurt to cloud into the air. "I'm such an idiot, y'know. I really believed he had my back this time." "I've got your back. This time and every damn time." Ryan rests his chin against Jax's hair, and digs his phone out of his pocket. "'least if this time can wrap up in, like, the next twenty minutes or so before my booty call swings by -- but after that again for sure." This time, Jax's laugh is brighter, (fond) (exasperated) (amused) in a shimmer that dims the hurt. "Y'know, that," he's saying as he gets up, helps Ryan to his feet as well, offering the other man his shoulder and his crutches until he's situated well enough to get back up the stairs, "I do believe." "You shouldn't." Ryan is clunking along carefully back up the metal staircase. "I just wanted to get you up on offa here before you decided to climb back down and freeze till dawn."