Live out Loud

Contact info

Mon, 18 Aug 2008 15:50:01 GMT

If anyone wants to reach me, Elias-player's got all my info. I'm definitely going to miss hanging out with y'all.

<3 Jax

Elias

Sun, 17 Aug 2008 03:28:55 GMT

Elias has had an initial interview and was taken aside for blood and urine tests. The standard physical has been passed with flying colors. Now he just has to sit and wait for the next step. Stepping into his room for the first time puts a knot in his stomach, turning around and examining all four walls as he draws in a deep breath. "Well, the good thing is that you will get to meet my mother sooner rather than later." He turns around and looks at Jackson. "She'll probably be here in a couple hours."

Jackson lingers briefly in the doorway, sunglasses masking the sweep of his gaze around the room. "Should /I/ be nervous?" he wonders, a trifle -- nervously. "Didn't quite imagine the circumstances'd be like this, but -- I mean, your ma. That's big." His brow creases slightly, briefly uncertain. "That's big, right?"

"That depends, I suppose. Did you want to be the friend when you meet her, or the boyfriend." Elias moves over to the bed to sit on it and test it out. He frowns as he looks back to Jackson, thoughtful. "She doesn't know. About my status. She might be getting the idea I'm with some one though, so she might head in that direction anyway."

Jackson shifts from one foot to the other, posture somewhat awkward, and moves over to stand in front of the bed, head tipped down to look down at Eli as the other man sits. "It's -- she's your mom. Whichever you're more comfortable with. If it's gonna be awkward or rough or anything -- this ain't hardly the time to cause any problems for you."

"She might be happier knowing you. It's not like I've never been with a man before. It's just... boyfriend." Elias' eyes widen as he says the word, expressing how big the term is. "Anyway. She won't decide to start blaming homosexuality for my stress. She might try to feed you."

Jackson quiets at that word, and moves to sit on the mattress beside Elias, one of his hands slipping into his partner's. "I'm an irritating person to try an' feed," he says with a brief twitch of a smile; it fades into a more serious look as he squeezes Eli's hand gently. "If you're okay with it -- I think I'd always prefer being the boyfriend over being the friend."

"Well, we'll just play that part by ear. Maybe she'll be thrilled you've been making sure I get my veggies." Elias leans toward Jackson until shoulders bump, squeezing his hand as he shifts his weight to give the mattress a bounce. "Decent sleeping surface. I'm also a little scared about how much this would cost."

"I checked up on all the financial stuff while they were working with you. Your insurance plan'll cover the bulk of things," Jackson says with a shrug of one shoulder, head tilting down to look at their joined hands as his fingers absently trace against Elias's. "The rest --" He hesitates, teeth catching at his lower lip briefly; his words halt for a reluctant moment before (probably, thinking of how upset he'd be if Eli kept anything from /him/, were their positions reversed) he continues more openly: "The parts it don't cover, I'll be able to manage for now. We can talk about the details now if you want, or later -- or work out something different altogether. I just wanted to make sure that it'd be taken care of so -- so that you don't gotta worry about nothin', just at the moment."

"Thanks." Elias doesn't argue, stiffen or freak out - however out of character that is. There's something muting about this entire process. He moistens his lips and exhales. "So. Um. What are the details. I have to figure out some things too. About rent. Good, fuck, my lease is up." That's inconvenient. "I don't know. Maybe we should just - you could just move everything into your apartment and I can go apartment hunting when I get out? I don't know how long this is going to be. Maybe we should get a storage place - so you're not crowded out. I should call..." Eli freezes up and hangs his head. Apparently, he can't call this person. "Missy'll know what to do."

Jackson rests his free hand at the back of Elias's neck, rubbing gently. "I'll be okay. If it really comes down to being here that long, I'll take care of things, alright? D'you need me to do anything about rent or your lease?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I really don't fucking know." Frustration builds as he closes his eyes, swaying toward Jackson's hand and the comfort it provides. "I can't believe this is happening now. What the hell. Right before a show. Right when my lease is up. Fuck, fuck... fuck."

"Okay. Okay. We don't gotta figure it all out today." Jackson's arm slips around Elias's shoulder, stronger, steadier, pulling Elias slightly closer against him.

Elias leans into Jackson, though his body is tense like he doesn't want to be there. He sighs and moves to rest a hand on Jackson's thigh. "Sorry."

"No. You don't hafta be --" Jackson's head shakes slightly, and he rests his hand over Eli's. "You've got every right to be frustrated. I'm just -- I'm gonna try and get things sorted as much as I possibly can, alright? So there's -- less to worry about." Read: apartment issues, under control! Having to cancel his show -- maaaybe rather less he can be helpful about.

"Missy'll take care of the work things. Fuck if I know what she's going to tell people. This is a disaster. It'll ruin my non-existent practically imaginary career and fuck with my pride and I don't know how broken I can be. I'm already at rock bottom."

Jackson is quiet for a long while, hand squeezing Eli's. "I'm sorry, Eli." He lifts Elias's hand to his mouth, lips brushing the backs of Eli's knuckles. "I don't -- don't know exactly what's gonna happen from here. But whatever -- whatever does, I'm gonna be here to help you get things set right after, okay?" He presses his mouth to Elias's knuckles again, and against the other man's skin his lips curve just slightly into a faint, brief smile. "It don't help much with /this/ part of things, but -- but I know from experience that no matter /how/ broken life makes you -- if you got support, you can get put back together."

Eli's jaw sets and his eyes close, inhaling deeply through his nose til his nostrils flare. He shakes his head a twitch to the left and a twitch to the right before nodding in agreement, squeezing Jackson's thigh and glancing around the room.

Betsy

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 22:20:08 GMT

Log. Saturday morning. 16 August. Coffeeshop.

The morning brings just as much attention to the local Coffee Shop as the night time, Betsy being one of the customers sitting with a large Mocha Frap next to her Compaq laptop. The computer brings more attention as she scans the internet, looking at various photos, documentaries and the like--one focus in particular capturing her attention the most. The purple mug is brought to her lips but what she see's causes then to open but not take a sip. Instead, the mug drops into its former position, a lean inching her closer to the screen of the device, and she escapes into her purse afterwards. A cellular device is found first and a small, torn piece of paper soon after. Dialing, she answers, "Hello, Jackson? Are you up?"

The phone is answered on the second ring, and the background of city-noise -- the rush of traffic, the snatches of conversations only heard in very brief passing, the thumping beat of a drum-player set up with plastic tubs on a sidewalk corner -- these things suggest that Jackson is not only /up/ but also /about/. "Mornin'!" he says, bright and cheerful for the hour. There is a brief pause as he pulls the phone away from his ear to squint at the name on the display before he continues, "-- Betsy! Howdy. How goes, hon? M'up. Just through -- work an' church an' -- morning-things."

At the sound of Jackson's voice, Betsy looks at the time displayed on her computer. Wincing slightly, not realizing how early in the morning it is, she apologizes, "I'm sorry for calling so early. Guess I dialed first and looked at the time second." She glances back at the image in question -- one of a very glowy Jackson -- and reads the subtext mentally, returning to the beginning phone conversation. "Do you have time for a cup of coffee? My treat."

"Sure," Jackson says with an easy laugh, "though after a weekend shift I'm /more/ than capable of paying for a coffee. -- Where should I meet you?"

Betsy grins at that, a smile forming and going to those around her. "The coffee shop where we met sound good?" she asks, lifting her cup and finally taking a long sip of mocha-flavored coffee.

"Oh -- Oh!" Jackson pauses with startled surprise, looking up at the street signs around him. "Yeah. I ain't far from /there/ at all. How soon can y'get there?"

Dropping the cup once again, this time leaving a foamy mustache, her smile can be heard through the phone, saying, "Sooner than you think." Another glance of the computer image surfaces before Betsy returns to the previous page on the Internet Explorer, reading the dialogue regarding CPAM and the incident in question. "I'll see you when you get here," Betsy adds.

"Alright! I'll be there soon." It is just shy of fifteen minutes before Jackson does arrive, dressed rather unassumingly in gym-clothes: black sneakers, red-piped black workout pants, a red t-shirt with PRATT printed in large black letters along with the college's emblem, and his large mirrored sunglasses; the tang of chlorine clings strongly to his skin. His head turns as his gaze sweeps the room, and a bright smile spreads across his face as he catches sight of Betsy, lifting a hand to wave as he heads towards her.

Betsy is in line, two customers from being at the cash register. Her cup is empty, dry even, and she waits to get another, all the while, keeping an eye out for Jackson. His entrance causes an arm to throw itself into the air and wave, motioning an 'I'm here', and she smile is bright and inviting. "So you really weren't that far away," Betsy says, a hug closing the distance between them, her nose catching chlorine instantly. "Been to the gym much?"

"Every single morning. Two hours at least." It shows, too, in his quick hug, lean hard muscle tightening briefly with the motion. Jackson rocks back on his heels after, peering up at the menu board. "The glittery makeup," he adds with a swift flash of a grin, "is just to throw people off. They have this weird idea that not fitting perfectly into their idea of 'male' means I'm somehow weaker. How long've you been waiting?"

A chuckle escapes. Moving up one person in line, Betsy replies, "Not very long--maybe a few minutes." She looks up at the menu, viewing the different options available, and then scrunches her nose. "I could add strawberry to my Mocha Frap for a dollar extra," she recites. "Tempting, but I will just go with the regular again. Chocolate is my weakness. What are you thinking about getting?"

"Chai," Jackson decides after a moment. "Soy. I am tempted to go for something with caffeine but I really prob'ly should grab some /sleep/ after this." He grins, slightly lopsided, and rubs at his cheek with one hand. "Sometimes I don't actually get to sleep hardly at /all/ from about Thursday morning to Sunday or Monday so -- I try to catnap where I can grab it."

"You must be exhausted, and here I am chleping you to coffee houses," Betsy apologizes. "I don't know--I just--" Reaching the counter stops Betsy's words, a smile greeting the cashier for the second time. She orders Jackson's drink and reorders her own, pulling out cash simulanteously from her back pocket. "Call it even for me not going to the bar last night." The drinks did not take long and Betsy depoits the change into a tip jar that saw better days. She hands Jackson his drink and heads toward the table where her laptop in sitting idle. "But I really asked you here because I remembered something."

Jackson's hand is already reaching for his wallet when they reach the counter, but he doesn't make any fuss over Betsy getting his drink, dropping his hand back to his side instead. His wallet chain rattles as his fingers toy with it absently. "Thanks," he says with a smile and a lift of the drink in indication, trailing her towards her table. "An' don't worry about it. I'm there -- all the time, I'm sure there'll be chance in future to get you drunk. What was it that you remembered?"

Betsy takes a sip of her drink before she sits in the chair in front of her computer. Violet eyes close briefly from the comfort the liquid gives her, and she places her mug next to her laptop, turning to face Jackson hesitantly. "At the mall," she begins, "remember when I said I would remember where I'd seen you before after we left?" A moment to absorb the question sinks in, Betsy attempting to focus on direct eye contact with Jackson--failing. "Well--I--I was reading some articles online and came across something... interesting." She pauses. "You."

Jackson takes a seat opposite her, leaning back in his chair and lifting his drink, though the rising steam dissuades him from taking a sip. His posture, lax and languid in his lean, tenses just slightly as she speaks. At her final words, his eyebrows lift. The mirrored sunglasses make it hard to tell where his own gaze is directed, though his head tilts just slightly downwards towards the table. "Ah." It is not a very helpful 'ah', but not a particularly surprised one, either.

"No, not an 'Ah,' Jackson," Betsy assures. "Maybe an 'Oh,' or 'Mmhmm'--well not an 'Mmhmm,' but you get what I'm saying." She notices his head tilt and raises a concerned brow, leaning forward to deaden the sound of her voice somewhat. Crossed legs balance the lean and a hand gestures for him to not look down. "Listen, I know we don't know each other that well but you are a cool guy--with goals, a job, and style. If you were straight I'd marry you," she begins, attempting humor. "I just want to be that girl that can, you know, help with something--anything."

Jackson's lips twitch, a fleeting shadow of a smile as he sets his drink down. "Gosh. Ain't heard too many people talkin' marriage to me without a few drinks in 'em." His head lifts, turning first towards her computer before looking back to her. "I can hazard a guess as to the things you read, but honest, I'm -- I don't need help. I mean, I don't need -- I'm --" His hands -- one whole, one maimed -- turn upwards, spreading in a shrug. "A cool guy," he finishes wryly, "with goals, a job -- two, actually -- and style. See? M'all set."

"So none of this bothers you?" Betsy questions. "Knowing that you are different--in more than a couple ways--and people will look at you with insecurity, fear, and, hell, discrimination in their eyes?" Her tone is one of concern, like a friend counseling another, and her eyes finally connect with the mirrored shades set upon Jackson's face.

Jackson's teeth drag slowly over his lower lip, pausing to wiggle absently at one lip ring. "Yeah," he says, tone rather too-light, "'course it bothers me. But if I let everything bothersome on earth get to me -- well, I'd hardly have time left to enjoy myself, would I?"

"I never had to go through any of that when I--" Betsy stops abruptly, changing her words in the process. "--when I was younger." Removing her laptop from its idle mode, the same article pops on the screen. "And this picture of you... you know. How?"

"I'm used to it by now," Jackson says simply. His fingers tap against the tabletop in a slow drum. "How -- what?" he asks, brows knitting briefly in confusion.

She hesitates, unsure of how to put the words together. Her hands attempt to illustrate the picture of Jackson glowing, with her asking, "You know... shine like that. I mean--" She leans even closer, "--you're not shining now, but in the picture--" Hesitation. "I should have known told me it was Photoshopped."

"Not photoshopped," Jackson says with a shake of his head. "For a while I just couldn't turn it off." He leans back again, shrugging. "It's what I do. My mutation. I play with light. Bend it. Change it. Sometimes I glow."

Betsy nods, intently listening, and astonish is apparent in her eyes. "I--" Hesitation again. She looks into her lap and releases a sigh, deep thought reering its head. Eyes returning to Jackson, her smile downgrading to a mild grin, she says playfully, "Well I have a mutation as well." In a whisper, "My hair /astonishes/ people into stopping me and asking stupid questions."

Jackson laughs quietly, shaking his own very hairless head. "Purple ain't exactly a common natural colour," he says with a shrug, "but hair dye ain't exactly uncommon." His lips purse thoughtfully, and he looks at Betsy a long moment like he's like to say something more; in the end, though, he just looks down at his drink and picks it up again to take a sip.

Betsy finally retreats into her seat. The comfort allows a sigh to escape, yet her face expresses mild discomfort. "Call me lucky then." A look goes to her laptop, shaking her head somewhat before closing it. A similar look goes to Jackson but a toothy grin follows. "You're so mysterious, Mister Bond. But seriously, Jackson, I don't want to keep you up if you're tired. We can catch up at the bar, say, tomorrow night?"

"M'there nearly every night," Jackson says, tone welcoming though his phrasing is carefully noncommital. He smiles as he stands, lifting his drink, and flashes a warm smile. "Thanks for the drink. I'll see ya round?" Fingers curl in a wave, and then he is already heading out.

"Yeah," Betsy says, falling limb into her chair. What a day.

Logan

Sat, 16 Aug 2008 03:48:02 GMT

Log. Friday evening. 15 August. Xavier's, gym.

=XS= Gymnasium - Lv B2 - Xavier's School
Far more tame than the vexing challenges of the Danger Room, the school's Gymnasium is no less enormous. Some of the equipment is a bit unorthodox, but other than that it's a standard-issue gym, the floors mapped out with the designs for a basketball court (to suit the four hoops that flank every wall), although the walls are covered in hard rubber tiling. Small alterations to cater to the needs of occasionally out-of-control mutant powers. A set of punching bags, heavy and light, hang in one corner, surrounded by a sea of blue foam matting.

Flesh lands against flesh, metal against bone. Logan blocks the last exchange of the spar and counters by simply grabbing Jackson's forearm loosely, slowly shifting his feet to a more relaxed stand with all but the smallest hint of defense, and rising his other hand flat to silently give the instruction to 'stop.' When he lets go of the arm, the old professor shakes his head slowly and comments "Kid, there's a whole lot'a angry in 'ya right now. Think we better give it a rest for a bit."

There is a moment -- just a fraction of a second where it seems like Jackson might ignore that 'stop', his body still tensed for further motion. It passes quickly, and he drops his arms back to his sides, taking a step back. His face is flushed, streaks of damp darkening the grey fabric of his t-shirt, and sweat is beaded on his shaved head as well; he lifts a hand to wipe the back of it across his forehead as he nods. He grunts a vaguely affirmative noise before checking himself and offering a more complete response: "Sorry. Yeah. I just --" His hand waves, in a vague and generally frustrated gesture. Okay. Maybe not /that/ much more complete, but at least more emotive.

Logan can't help but crack a smile, if only for a second. But as he rolls his head with the sharp metalic 'clinks' of adamantium laced bones popping, there is a bit of an understanding look on his face instead of a mocking one. "Hey, bub, always better to get that stuff out in here instead of where someone might get hurt. Not the fist time someone's used me as a punchin' dummy knowin' there'd be nothin' of it." Logan pinches his tank top and fans the sweat soaked cloth a few times as he turns around to grab the pair of watter bottles set at the edge of the mat. "But for what its worth, you did pretty good."

"Thanks, sir." Jackson follows after Logan, holding a hand out for one of the water bottles in silent request. "I kinda have to. Hafta /try/ to do pretty good, anyway. The city these days --" He breaks off with a jerky shrug and a brief tightening of his jaw. "Just -- just, thanks." Despite being clearly worn from the workout, there's still a frustration in Jackson's expression that bleeds out physically into the coiled tension on his posture.

"C'mon kid, get it out." Logan instructs, handing over the water bottle gently and quirking his eyes with a little impatience in them. "Is there a particular someone you wanna take apart right now, or would just anyone do? If you still need to get it out'ta your system, I can wheel one of the bags back out and let you go to town."

"The entire world, maybe," Jackson says with a snort of rather humourless laughter. He quiets as he takes a loooong drink from the water bottle, shoulders popping quietly as he rolls them afterwards. "I don't know. Used t'be, spend long enough at the gym or in church or with my paints an' I'd manage to work out whatever was going on. But ever since --" His maimed hand curls into a loose fist, lifting to adjust the strap of his eyepatch slightly. "-- since this winter, and then hardly being able to go a week in the city without someone or other picking a fight with me --" His hand turns up in a shrug. "Gets to a point where therapy just /really/ don't cut it anymore."

"You ain't the first one I've seen who wanted to take the world on like that, and hell, you've got your reason I'm damn sure of that..." Logan begins as he turns towards the equipment that's been rolled into the corner and begins to wheel out a rather worn and beaten punching bag. "...but I'm telling you, no matter who you are, thats a fight you end up loosing every time. And trust me, thats something I know about. Here... take a few licks on this. Not sure any more practice is gonna help, but I'm thinkin' you really need to get some of that hate into something besides the next dumb ass that starts something with you."

"Yeah." Jackson eyes the punching bag as he takes another long gulp from the bottle; he closes it back up afterwards to set it aside. "Prob'ly right. Some days it's at the point where I'm almost /hoping/ for someone to try something." Hands freed, now, he crosses to retrieve a pair of gloves from his gym bag, strapping them on and flexing his fingers. as he walks towards the bag. "Once upon a time," he adds, wry, "I was a pacifist."

"Once upon a time." Logan echoes as he places his hands against the far side of the bag to hold it still for Jackson. But as the old professor's eyes turn again to Jackson, its a worried look there, if a slight one that hangs on. "You know this ittin' a fight you have to do on your own, bub, if anyone's really got your number out there, we're here to help. Lotta people can make a lot of /dumb/ decisions when they're mad, and some of 'em you just can't make up for."

"Thanks to CPAM, there's a whole lotta people with my number," Jackson says, mouth setting rather grimly as he drops into a better stance and throws a well-aimed punch at the bag; with the hours he spends in the gym every day, it's not a /weak/ one either. Words give way, for a moment, to more intent concentration; to fill the silence in their place there is the shift of his sneakers against the gym's floor, the sound of his breathing, sharper as he exhales on each jab, the smack of neoprene-wrapped fists against the bag. "Ain't gonna make such an easy target without a friggin' /cast/ on my leg, neither."

"Hey, I can't say the soccer mom bigots didn't help with that, none..." Logan begins as he tries his best to keep the bag still regardless of the emotion fueled punishment Jackson puts into it. "But I don't think those types would have had much trouble picking you out without 'em. They sure didn't have much trouble of finding us before the poster parade. From the calls we've been getting', you aren't the only one, either."

"I ain't all that hard to find," Jackson accedes, words rather breathless. His jaw tightens further, and the next series of jabs favour speed and precision over simple power. "All the more reason t'make sure I'm harder to beat." His arm lifts briefly to wipe sweat off from where it drips down into his eye. "Them other people, though -- calls you're gettin' -- they got anyone lookin' out for /them/?"

"We're doin' our best." Logan explains with some frustration in his own voice at the 'best' they're able to do. "But it sure as hell ain't been easy. Mostly we've been having to handle clean up. Day before central? One of ours had there house completely wrecked, whole place soaked in red paint, and I'd be surprised if they left a window standing."

Jackson's expression twists into a grimace, the noise he makes in response more growl than grunt. His next punches carry a good deal more force, and he rocks back a step afterwards, shaking his arms out. "Can't go after every bigot who decides to harass innocent people," he says, though his tone implies he rather /wishes/ this were possible. He takes a deep breath, the kind intended to calm and steady, though it is rather dubious whether it accomplishes this goal. "But, gaw, some days I wish it were possible. At least y'all can help -- some things."

"But not everything." Logan returns rather pointedly, trying to coax more of an explanation from his old student.

Explanation comes in another burst of frustration, Jackson's voice edged with a note of helpless anger. "S'too many things ain't nobody can help. Can't give my my eye back. Can't give me my freakin' /sanity/ back. Can't make the world stop /ending/ or the people I love stop going crazy or people in /general/ stop being twisted --" His lips press together into a thin line, and he glares at the punching bag as if it is, perhaps, responsible for all the world's problems. The next punch he gives it seems to fault it for all those, too. "But y'all, here -- you /do/ help some things," he says, quieter but no less frustrated, "an' no matter how much sweat an' blood I pour into all the activism in the world it feels like -- that's more'n I'll ever manage."

"Jackson." Logan asserts rather certainly with a hard look at the man, using his name this time instead of 'kid' or one of his random nicknames. A rarity in itself. "You know one of these days know one is gonna give a shit about me or Slim, or the rest of the team and the things we've had to do. We're gonna hang up the stupid outfits and retire, and then? All that blood and sweat of yours, and Red's, and Chuck's, and I sure hope to god some of these damn kids that is really gonna matter. We do what we do 'cause right now we gotta, and you all need to keep doin' what you're doin so that one day, we don't gotta any more." It isn't... a terribly elegant pep talk, but there isn't much doubt in Logan's rather blunt delivery of it.

Jackson looks from the bag to Logan at the use of his name, single eye meeting Logan's gaze steadily. It takes a while -- his nod comes on a definite delay, but it comes. "Thanks, sir. I know that. Some days, I know that. Don't think I'd keep doing it if I ever forgot entirely, not with how hopeless it can feel. But some days --" One gloved hand turns up in a shrug, and then clenches back into a fist as it drops back to his side. "Some days I just want t'hit things," he finishes with a wry smile.

"And those days, get your ass up here and I'll make sure there is something to hit." Logan informs Jackson in a tone that doesn't bother to hide that it is more of an instruction than a suggestion. "Now go on and get cleaned up and relax some. I'll take care of putting the gear away."

Jackson's head tilts in a nod -- acknowledgement, acceptance, thanks. "Thanks, sir. A lot." He wipes his face off with the bottom of his shirt as he turns, peeling off his gloves afterwards and scooping up first his water bottle and then his gym bag as he heads out.

Frustration.

Betsy, Radovan

Fri, 15 Aug 2008 18:15:16 GMT

Log. Friday morning. 15 August. Manhattan Mall.

=NYC= Manhattan Mall - Midtown - Manhattan
Keeping with an 'open concept' idea, the Sunrise Mall sports a large front lobby area - complete with a massive fountain located smack dab in the middle - its spray shooting up towards cathedral ceilings. Behind the fountain are tall, marble pillars that flank either side of dual escalators, their whiteness broken-up by ornamental circuits of bronze and brass. Those adornments match the rest of the decor, from the railings along the second floor patio, down to the new-age style benches lining the corridors that split off from the foyer. Everything looks so very shiny and new, though it's certain that it won't stay that way for long; especially after the swarms of teenagers have settled in.

The waning days of summer have brought out a crowd even in the late morning. Groups and lone shoppers flow from one store to another. From parents to young adults, teens to the elderly, there's plenty to do and plenty doing it at the Manhattan Mall. It's these crowds that have brought out a solo trumpet player to wide open lobby of the Sunrise. Case open at his feet for hand outs, Radovan keeps a quick and upbeat tempo to keep in tune with the early morning rush. A jazzy improve coming from the brass instrument in his hands. A few people have stopped to watch, though most pass by and simply drop what loose change they have for the live performance.

Jackson does not, partculary, flow with the crowd: that is, he does not drift from store to store, doesn't window-shop, doesn't linger with any group of friends. He doesn't carry any shopping bags, although he does have a backpack on his back, and he is beelining for the exit with the purposefulness of someone who is here for a specific /purpose/ and doesn't want to linger any more than strictly necessary. The music, though, lures him more than the rampant commercialism does, and as he nears Radovan his steps slow, and then halt. He hooks his thumbs through his belt-loops, rocking back on his heels as he tilts his head, listening.

Betsy is a shopper and, therefore, has bags in hand from numerous markets. Saks Fifth Avenue, MAC Cosmetics, Neiman Marcus -- these are the stores she visits, each a hefty load of expensive and personal taste. Flowing with the crowd seems the more obvious choice, bags lunging to and fro with her steps, pace quickening a bit. Must. Get to. Tiffany and Co. Sunglasses cut a small visual from her face, a pleased grin depicting current emotions. Normally, she passes mall performances without a second glance, but familiarity strikes in the form of man. Eyebrow quirked, she asks, "Is that my colorful friend I see?"

Radovan watches the group from behind his pince nez sunglasses. Judging the group sizeable enough, he plays a flourish and lowers the horn. "Ladies and gents, time to kick the show to the starting line. So step up now so I can drop my rhymes. Keep with the rhythm and you'll do just fine. Pays to pay attention cause the words I weave are about the times and the lives we lead." The performer starts to rattle off words, waving the non trumpet clutching hand to beckon the audience closer to him.

Jackson's own sunglasses are larger, intended not just to shade his eyes but to actually hide them entirely, and as he turns towards the source of the familiar voice, Betsy is reflected in their mirrored lenses. A wide smile chases a previously exhausted expression from his face. "Heya!" He is indeed just as colourful today -- bright yellow tank with darker yellow butterflies sewn on, worn over a purple fishnet shirt. His jeans, at least, are plain and dark. His head tips in a nod towards her many bags, and his voice drops slightly lower to not interrupt Radovan. "Wow, you've been busy. I was on my way out, but this guy's pretty good, so I --" He gestures towards Radovan, inching closer as the performer beckons.

Lifting the bags as if to so say, 'Oh, these?', a soft chuckle escapes. "Call it stress release." Radovan's beckon pulls Betsy closer to him, listening somewhat intently to his words and rhythm in his tone. A step forward suffices, unfamiliar in a situation as this, and she returns to Jackson--or, rather, his attire. "You're looking fabulous, I might add," Betsy says, pulling gently at the purple fishnet shirt. "Even moreso because of the purple. I like."

"The guns are blazing the Middle East, another child's dying while a dictator feasts. The end hangs above like the Sword of Damocles. Let me ask you all are you at ease?" Radovan asks the crowd through his lines, looking among the people watching, making a few gestures to some of the people in the crowd and taking in the varied reactions to his openly charged words. "With hate in the world, that's par for the course, but man you don't have making things worse. Alienation taking over this nation, left and right, black and white. Now we're fighting some genetic fight, like our brothers in arms are some kind of blight."

"Stress release. I wish shoppping worked like that for me." Jackson falls quiet as he actually listens to Radovan's words, eyebrows raising; his head cocks with decided interest. He doesn't say anything more, yet, but continues to listen curiously; his hand rattles at his wallet chain for a second before he slips it out of his pocket to pull out a five dollar bill and add it to Radovan's case.

"I guess hanging around the wrong people got me started," Betsy replies, facing Radovan as his words hit the crowd. She nods to their realism and the symbolism within, a 'Hmm' humming to the part about the end hanging from above. She eyes Jackson adding five dollars to the case and hesitance becomes her. "I see why you stopped. He should try out for American Idol," she jokes, cross two of the bags into its opposite. Reaching into her purse to pull out a twenty dollar bill, Betsy steps to the case and retreats hastily next to Jackson. "So. What did you buy?"

Radovan takes note and looks to the people giving him money, and keeps an eye on the people that don't look nearly as pleased with his choice of words and decide to walk off on the little performance. "What I'm asking all is for a little peace. Internal love needs a sweet release. Understanding, respect, you've got to elect, to show it. Whether your one side or the other we're brothers, at the end of the world all we go is each other. So I ask you all," he winds down, looking specifically over to the rather kind Betsy that just dropped a twenty into his case, "In the last of times, why the crimes, to your fellow man, just take a moment and understand. Thank you." Some people seem pleased with the message, just as many don't buy it and turn away with little more than a shake of their heads. Some don't seem to like it one bit and look sour before leaving.

"Yeah," Jackson says with a note of laughter in his tone, "cuz America's really going to go for a musician who talks about this kinda thing. Understanding an' peace an' respect sell real good right up until you bring the genetic issue into it." In contrast to Betsy's retreat, Jackson steps forward, bouncing slightly on the balls of his sneakers with restless energy. "Thanks, sir!" he says to Radovan. "I mean, y'don't hear this kinda thing from enough people. I jus' wish more people'd stop to listen."

Betsy nods, saying, "Americans are a race in itself, ignorant to that of which they fear." Broad shoulders shrug in mild interest, her head leaning to the side somewhat before returning. "It's a way of life for them, I guess--" She observes her bags for a second. "although, I seem to enjoy it, no? Do you work tonight?"

Radovan raises his eyebrows curiously at Jackson's comment to him. He chuckles while crouching to fix his instrument into its case and to retrieve his gatherings. "I only weave the words and follow the beat, cousin," he tells Jackson, "Up to the streets to make the mind to hear me or not." He looks up and over to Betsy with a smile. "And yet they mostly fear that which is ignorant rather than being willing to educate," he interjects, "props for the paper, by the by."

"I work most nights," Jackson says with a faint grimace. "Especially now that we've stopped closing on Mondays and Tuesdays since people are just as willing lately to party on weekdays." His lips purse thoughtfully as he turns attention back to Radovan. "S'that what you're doing here, then? Educating?"

A grin surfaces, knowing more than her fair share of weekday partying, and pats Jackson's shoulder. "Well, that's more money in your pocket then," she comforts. Her attention returns to Radovan as he begins to pack his instrument into his case, adding his thoughts. "Thank you! You deserved it." Betsy silences herself once Jackson speaks, flipping her hair in idle amusement.

"How does the teacher know that they have taught?" Radovan asks Jackson, grinning to himself as he stands with his case in hand. "Like I say, cousin, only dropping English. Up to the streets to decide if they want to listen. Your crystal on my aims, though." He looks over to Betsy and then back to Jackson. "So lay it on the line and answer the quiz, you hear something in the new to either of you?"

"New?" Jackson's forefinger taps idly against his cheekbone. "Don't often hear these views coming from a street performer. I kinda am -- neck-deep in the activist scene, though, so a lot of my life is full of talks like this." His hands turn up, spreading in front of him. "Sometimes I think educating is the biggest battle we got. Hard to tell who's listening, though."

A manicured hand is raised into the air, signaling her need for attention. "I'm new to this," Betsy replies, not quite sure what their terms of 'new' is. A cheeky smile feigns innocence, but an inspection to Jackson dissolves such an expression. Leaning toward his ear, she whispers, "You're into the activist scene?" Her gaze never leaves Radovan. "I think everyone listens, they simply are too afraid to act. But this dwelves deeper than politics and the--" Looking around. "--/mutant issues./"

Radovan laughs and nods in agreement with Jackson. "When paper ain't the point, my point of purpose shifts," he explains. "Gig the club scene for the crystal scratch. Hitting the streets if for the soul, not the wallet." He shifts his case from one arm to the other as Betsy catches his attention again. "People hear, that don't mean they internalize."

Jackson's teeth click against his lip ring, wiggling at it as he nods to Betsy's whispered question. "He's right -- I mean, listening don't mean people -- /listen/. And with the mutant issue t'ain't like their fears are groundless. Getting to that understanding, that's an uphill climb for sure." His head turns, gaze wandering out over the shoppers in the mall. "Jus' kinda hope that what with the end of the world approaching people would take the time to /try/."

Betsy gazes intensely at nothing for a second, her mind forming images of a destroyed world. "Hopefully. But what if they don't listen?" she asks both Jackson and Radovan. "We're not getting any younger--" In another whisper, "--and I do have an expiration date on my career."

Radovan takes his cap off and runs his hand through his hair, scratching his head before resettling the newsboy back on. "That's the prerogative for a person to pick for themselves," he says with a small shrug. "Focus yourself on you, drop the good word, but when the heaven's rain down, you only got yourself to blame for yourself."

"Y'can't /force/ people t'listen. You can only do what --" Jackson's fingers flutter in a wave towards Radovan. "-- what you think is right." He rocks back on his heels, head tipping downwards as his lips twitch into a wry grin. "At this point, I think we all got expiration dates on our careers."

Betsy simply nods, knowingly. "Well, keep doing what you're doing, sir," she says to Radovan. "We're listening at least." It is safe to say that she is listening now then ever before. A look goes to Jackson, violet eyes squinting in faint recognition. "Now that you said you were an activist, you look -really- familiar, Jackson. But where?"

Radovan looks from Jackson to Betsy and offers a hand. "Hear, handle's Radovan Karga, check for digits in the directory," he tells the two. "I'll scram to let your duet continue unabated, you been sweets, real sweets," he tells the two with an honest smile between them.

"Radovan Karga. I'm Jax. Was real nice chatting with you." Jackson tips his head in a nod of farewell. His cheeks flush red at Betsy's question, the blush all the more prominent for the pallor of his skin otherwise. "I get that a lot," he says with teasing lightness, looking down at his rather unique appearance. "Everyone always thinks I look like someone they know."

Parting from Jackson for a second, she says, "I'm Betsy." A smile and a mild chuckle escape, a steady hand removing violet strands from her face, Elisabeth nodding to performer as he departs. "He was nice--" she begins, remembering the previous conversation. "--but I do remember you from somewhere, though. Not the club because I'd never seen you there. Hmm." This is killing her. "I'll probably remember after I leave, which will suck."

Jackson blushes deeper; one finger lifts to push his sunglasses just a touch higher on the bridge of his nose. "There's -- posters," he says with a lopsided shrug, slipping his disfigured right hand into his pocket while the other curls around a strap of his backpack. "Sorta -- all around town. You mighta seen one of them."

An eyebrow quirks at the latter. "Posters?--You mean promotional ads or something?" Betsy asks, unfamiliar with the posters in question. She places the bags down in front of her to rest her arms, removing her shades to reveal violet eyes to match her hair.

"Or something," Jackson answers with a quirk of a grin. "Sorry. Lots of people recognize me from them." His fingers tighten around the backpack strap, teeth dragging slow across his lower lip. "If not there, then I got no idea," he says apologetically.

"Eh," she shrugs. "It doesn't matter. Like I said, I'll probably remember after I leave--I'm a ditz like that." Twirling the shades in her hand, a brief stretch overcomes her, arms flailing outward and unrestrained for those walking pass. "But if you work tonight, I'll be there... without the anti-social workers by my side."

"I'll be there. It's women's night on Fridays," Jackson adds with a brighter grin, "so I'm sure if you turn up y'won't be lacking for dance partners."

Betsy picks up her bags but keeps the shades handheld. "Haha, very funny. I'll give you a call, 'kay?"

"It's /true/." Jackson flashes a bright grin towards Betsy, lifting a hand to wave. "I'll see you later, hon."

A playful roll of the eyes follow a "Bye, Jackson," and Betsy is off in the direction of Tiffany and Co. What should she buy now?

Elias

Fri, 15 Aug 2008 00:36:26 GMT

Log. Wednesday night. 13 August. Elias's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 230 |Elias| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
On the left of the entry way in this studio apartment is a small sitting area complete with a love seat and an arm chair strategically situated around a television on a stand filled with a small dvd collection. A short railing divids the living room from the bedroom, two steps up on a small platform. The bed is a queen sized mattress with a dark wood headboard. Similarily dark, short dressers serve as nightstands. Curtains hang from floor to ceiling at the three of the four corners of the bedroom platform, used to close off the sleeping chamber from the rest of the apartmen at the owners will. The section directly in front of the main portal is a work area. A large, heavy-duty table sits with two sewing machines on top. There's a single rack for hanging clothes, half full and other collapsed and stuck behind the wall. An shelving unit, open on both the front and back sides, holds bolts of clothing, a few sets of books and some messy stacks of patterns.

To the right of the entryway, the wall juts out four feet before leading to a hallway. The kitchen lies off this hall, with a half wall, complete with barstools for eating off the countertop, dividing it from the work area. All of the kitchen appliances line the wall, leaving a decent amount of space to walk while cooking, but creating a cramped feeling. Opposite the kitchen is a closet, sliding doors keeping the contents from being seen. At the end of the hallway is the door to the bathroom.

It is late -- some time after receiving Elias's phone call; time enough for Jackson to find a last-minute replacement to cover his shift at work, time enough to return home, time enough that the two are alone in the apartment. Jackson is still /dressed/ for work, tight colourful clothes and glittery makeup, but he is barefoot, now, and tucked into a corner of Elias's loveseat. "How soon do you think you'd like to --?" he wonders, quiet and thoughtful, teeth wiggling absently at his lip ring and his expression just slightly abstracted as he turns over making arrangements in his mind.

In Bahir's absence, Elias remains silent. It's safe. When Jackson asks a direct question, he turns his head in his direction with a sigh. "Probably as soon as possible. I don't want to lose this resolve. It's starting to slip away already." he swallows hard and rubs at his eyes. "Sorry about all the stuff before."

"Stuff?" Jackson's brow creases, puzzled, and his focus is pulled out of his thoughts and fully back to Elias. "As soon as -- okay. D'you mind if I use your computer?"

"Hell, I don't know. The shouting, the snarking, the belittling. My warped perception. The fact that I told people the worst things about you that were based on... My instability." Eli grows adjitated the more he elaborates, frustrated, but trying. He waves at the computer as a means of expressing permission.

"Oh." Jackson's expression does, briefly, register a flicker of hurt, but it passes quickly. His head tilts in a nod of acceptance as he moves to turn the computer on. "Things have just been rough. We'll get you sorted out an' then -- then maybe the rest'll be easier to sort." His fingers tap at the keys, opening up a web browser and then a Google document that appears to be a long list of various individuals and organizations and their contact information.

"Oh, because that will be easy and quick." Eli replies with sarcasm. He turns his eyes downward as he gives up on conversation again.

"No," Jackson says, answering sarcasm with quiet calm. "It'll probably be rough an long. But I'll be with you throughout -- s'much as you need or want me." He scrolls down through his document, stopping to highlight one name and pull his cellphone out of his pocket.

Elias perks up a little bit and looks over at Jackson, his expression hopeful. His eyes narrow on what Jackson is working on. "I don't know how any of this works. Do I get weekly visiting hours or am I supposed to be cut off from the world entirely?"

Jackson enters a number into the phone from off of the computer screen, and then returns to sit by Elias, not dialing just yet. "You ain't hardly cut off. Phone, internet, visiting hours daily. And they don't usually keep people as inpatients for long. It's just a better way to be able to have a stable environment while they can -- figure out what's up more comprehensively."

Elias leans against Jackson quietly, glancing at the phone and then looking up to Jackson's face, mild concern expressed in the way his brows quirk and eyes skip about. "Comprehensive?"

"Yes. Looking at -- all the different factors that could be affecting things, physically or mentally." Jackson reaches for Elias's hand, squeezing it gently before he dials the phone. "Hi, this is Jax Holland, I work with -- yes. M'sorry it's late, I just need a bit of help finding a -- I have this friend --" (And here follows a tedious one-sided conversation about options for psychiatric inpatient treatment, with Jackson being as vague as possible for Eli's privacy and me being as vague as possible because otherwise this would get long.)

Elias listens in silence, his hands clasping and shifting positions as he waits, his nervousness leaking out.

Eventually Jackson finishes, hanging up and setting the phone aside. "There's a place out in Westchester that sounds like the best option," he says. "She's gonna call them an' call me back in a minute to see if there's space." He reaches for Elias's hand again, fingers twining through the other man's, and lapses back into thoughtful silence.

Elias takes Jackson's hand as he moistens his lips. He squeezes it silently and draws it up to his lips and presses a kiss to his fingers. "I don't know what to say anymore."

"It's okay. You don't hafta --" Jackson is interrupted by the buzz of his phone; this time when he answers, the conversation is quick. He turns to Elias when he hangs up again. "You could go in as early as t'morrow morning, if you're ready." He pulls the laptop over onto his lap, going back to gmail and waiting a minute before a new email pops up -- it has information on the facility recommended, and he turns the screen towards Elias so he can see; it is a small private inpatient facility, with more personalized care than a lot of state institutions can grant.

Elias nods again, inhaling out of nostrils flared by discomfort. "I - should call off the fashion show. It's less than a month. If this is all stress related - there's no point me going in to try and deal with this and come out with a deadline." He leans forward and rests his forehead against their clasped hands. "I'll get Missy to take care of it." There is a lot of regret in tone, but equal parts of determination.

"If it's all stress related," Jackson agrees quietly. His other hand moves to rest at the back of Elias's neck, fingers tracing lightly against the skin. He presses a soft kiss to Eli's temple, and then rests his forehead against Elias's head. His hand squeezes Elias's briefly tighter, and he doesn't say anything more.

"Bahir said he'd come get me settled - so I can make sense on admission. I hate to parade him around like that, but I'm just -" he's dependent on Bahir already, like his own personal human panacea. "But...this. Tonight. With you. This is good. I'll miss this."

"I won't be going anywhere," Jackson assures Elias, kissing the older man's temple again. "I mean, I'll come see you. Every day, if you want." His hand slips from Eli's neck, arm sliding around Elias's shoulders to pull the other man closer against him. "And you won't be gone forever. There'll be lots more nights after this to spend together."

"Yeah. I just - I'm not doing well thinking about the time away." Elias turns toward Jackson and raises his other hand to brush knuckles against Jackson's cheek. "You are far too good to me. I wish I could return the good you do me."

Jackson's eye slips closed at the touch. "I'll see you lots. I promise. You ain't gonna be alone through any of this, honey." His arm tightens around Elias's shoulder, head turning so he can kiss Eli's knuckles.

Elias smiles at the knuckle kiss, but turns it soon into lip to lip contact, one hand resting on his hip as he faces him fully. "I know you're supporting me, Jax - Even when you're not around. I love you. I want you to be able to go to D.C. this weekend."

Jackson's lips curl into a soft smile after Elias's touch them, but the expression fades back into solemnity soon after. His eye opens, meeting Eli's gaze. "Don't worry about -- the other people I'm presenting with can handle everything fine. I jus' want t'get you settled."

"You've already given up so much for me, Jax." Elias doesn't renew the idea or try to persuade Jackson further. He just makes the statement and rests his forehead against Jackson's, breathing him in deep. "They're going to let me eat vegetarian, right?"

"They are," Jackson assures. He kisses Eli once more, light. "And I can smuggle you in contraband pie," he adds with a twitch of a smile.

"Key lime, please." Elias leans in and steals another kiss, lips soft and full, his fingers cradling the base of his skull and pulling him close. "And conjugal visits?"

Jackson laughs, quiet, and flicks a glance towards the bed before kissing Elias again, deeper. "Mmm. Y'know, I ain't sure on their policy on that one -- we should probably stock up tonight just in case."

"Couldn't hurt," Elias admits. FAMOUS LAST WORDS.

Preparing for the CRAZY HOUSE.

Betsy

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 08:46:05 GMT

Log. Wednesday night. 13 August. Coffeeshop.

Wednesday evening, and this small coffeeshop is fairly full; most of the tables are occupied and a short line (its clientele mostly young, and mostly trendy -- no chain, this, but an artsy independent place full of exotic teas and fair-trade everything) waits to order. Jackson has already claimed a space for himself, tucked comfortably into an armchair in one corner with a large mug of chai and a similarly large cookie on the coffeetable in front of him. He has a book -- /Neither Man nor Beast: Feminism and the Defense of Animals/ -- open, and a notebook as well, with notes in a painfully neat spiky hand filling most of the page, but at the moment he is paying attention to neither. Instead, his attention flits between yet another book -- a sketchpad that he is drawing in -- and the television, which is tuned in to a news station. He fits in, with the artsy-trendy vibe of the cafe -- piercings and tattoos (even over the top of his shaved head), check. Political reading material, check. Rather eclectic wardrobe (consisting today of black jeans with red flames embroidered up the sides, a red tank top printed with glittery black stars layered over a short-sleeved black shirt, and fingerless fishnet gloves), check.

Betsy is a fashion model, but trendy is not in today's designs. She enters the coffeeshop in grey sweatpants, a violet tank top, and grey, violet Nike tennis shoes. Stopping because of the hefty traffic inside, eyeing the line in front of her, she decides to find a place to sit and wait until the line dies down a bit. She rearranges the strap around her neck, holding her Compaq Notebook, and adjusts it to maximum comfort. Quick steps are then aiming for the nearest chair--one catching her attention next to a fellow with a rather colorful ensemble. Colorful, the model term, not the assortment of loud hues. Waisting little time, a toothy, "Hi, is anyone sitting here?" escapes to Jackson.

Jackson's head turns towards Betsy, eyes hidden behind large wraparound sunglasses with mirrored lenses (despite it being well past dark.) His smile is brightly warm and welcoming, though, and he gestures with the pencil held in one hand towards the empty chair. "Howdy, miss! I s'pose you are, now." His accent places him as decidedly non-Native, thick and heavy with a Deep South drawl. The chair shares his coffee table, and so he leans forward to slide his things further over and make space.

"Thank you so much," Betsy replies to the hospitality. It is obvious to her that he isn't from New York City, but his accent has little to do with it. The pencil gesture urges motion and Betsy obliges as she splats in the seat across from Jackson. The laptop carrier is removed and violet strands are as well, from her face. As the television captures her attention first and the numerous amount of people about second, she says, "It's amazing how death has become a main sponsor for coffee, nowadays."

"Hm?" Jackson's eyebrows lift curiously, and his head turns again as he glances around. "Oh -- t'ain't just coffee. I think people freak out an' lean back on vices." His nose wrinkles slightly, and he sets his pencil down on top of his sketchpad, picking up his mug instead. "I work as a bartender an' it's amazing how much the end of the world makes people party more. Or --" He tilts his head in a nod towards the television, with the reports of various meteor-related incidents from around the world. "-- Just kinda freak out in general."

"But can you blame people?" she asks. Pulling out her laptop and setting it in the spot Jackson's items held previously, she flips it open and pressed the power button. As it activates, manicured nails fill the air as if aiding what she is going to say next. "What a natural disaster afoot and ads like, 'Why die unhappy? Buy Greygoose,'--" Her hands spread apart and back together, imitating a title banner. "--people are bound to start doing crazy things. And New York is crazy enough without meteors slamming into it." A chuckle.

"Ain't that the truth." Jackson's lips twitch into a wry smile, their curve hidden briefly behind his mug as he takes a long drink. "City's nuts an' people are going nutser -- but no. Can't say I can blame them. Sometimes you just really don't want to think about --" His hand (scarred badly, and missing a finger) lifts in a shrug.

The fingerless hand causes a feeling of concern. Concern and curiousness. She does not ask, though, instead, "Aha--nutser. Nice word." Anything to distract. After looking at the progress of the line, and of her notebook laptop, Betsy sighs and leans back in her chair. She is not getting up anytime soon. Instantly, her boredom forces her to look around. Nice shoes. Cute shirt. Neither Man nor Beast. "I don't think I've ever read that one before. Is it good?"

"Hm? Oh." Jackson looks down at his book and nods. "Yeah. It's good. It's about the -- intersections between oppression of women an' oppression of non-human animals -- gets into the connections 'tween objectification and --" He blushes, sheepish, head bowing. "Sorry. I'm giving a workshop soon on this kinda thing and it's sorta filling my head at the moment."

"No, go on," Betsy comforts, "I tend to enjoy being compared to a wild animal." The tone of her voice is not sarcasm but one of friendly amusement. The moment the main screen to her laptop appears, requesting her password, the violet one leans forward and enters it. Waiting once more.

"Actually," Jackson says cheerfully, amusement lacing his own tone, "it's mostly comparisons with /domesticated/ animals. They're the ones we abuse most. My workshop is actually just about how most all different forms of oppression are interrelated. Sexism, racism, classism, speciesism. Homophobia. Anti-mutant bias." His fingers flutter in a vague wave. "T'ain't enough cross-pollination between activists -- everyone working with such tunnel-vision on their own issues when we could all be helping each other."

"Interesting," Betsy says with a broadened horizon. Never judge a book by it's cover. Giving up on the waiting, she lifts a leg into the chair and leans her head against a kneecap. "What would an over-worked model, with purple hair and eyes--starting graduate school soon--fall under?"

Jackson purses his lips and closes his sketchpad to set it aside. He leans forward, elbows propped on knees and his mug cradled in long fingers; one glittery red nail taps against the ceramic idly as he studies Betsy from behind his sunglasses. "Dyed or natural?" he wonders, rather mildly.

Violet strands spray into her view as she rocks forward and back in her seat, a finger creating a divide for a better visual of Jackson. "Natural. Hard to believe, right?" she asks, flipping her freaky colored hair behind her. She reaches into the interior of the laptop carrier and pulls out a scunchie. The start of a ponytail is born. "Long story short, my mom said I always had an infatuation with the color purple." A small pause. "I even liked the play!" A grin.

"Not that hard to believe, living in this city long enough." Already friendly, something eases still further in Jackson's manner at this revelation. "Purple is a pretty awesome colour. I have purple hair a lot of the time, when I have hair. Not natural, though, by any stretch. I only wish I could be that lucky."

Ponytail complete, Betsy smiles. "It's nothing special--well, besides people looking at you all the time, asking you 'Are those contacts?' and 'You are /so/ beautiful. Why did you dye your hair?'" A sigh escapes after that. "It gets old real fast. But you can have it, if you tell me where you got your shirt from."

"There's this ridiculously awesome thrift store in the Village -- it was a dress when I bought it but it totally didn't fit me so I had to adjust." Jackson grins as he looks down at the shirt and then back up at Betsy. "An' I'm sure y'don't need to hear it from me, but the purple hair thing sure don't hurt the beautiful at all. People are way too insular."

The dress comment raises an eyebrow yet instills a vivacious smile upon the violet's features. It is as if time stops just as Jackson reveals his fashion secret--and possibly his lifestyle choice. It is inevitable for the laughter to ensue. "If the dress don't fit, cut it and make it your own, I guess." Talking instead of focusing, Betsy forgets about her computer booting up, and the Windows Vista intro shocks her a little. She glances at it once and then returns a violet gaze to the one before her. "Thanks, you're sweet. So where do you bartend?"

Betsy's smile lures another one, warm, from Jackson, and he blushes just slightly as he turns his focus back to his drink, sipping it slowly. "Nightclub called Heaven, in Chelsea, miss." The dress says more about Jackson's gender expression than anything else, but the location of the nightclub might provide an inkling, at least, to the type of clientele /it/ attracts. Jackson's head tilts curiously at Betsy's brief shock. "Somethin' wrong with your computer?"

"Oh!" Betsy remembers, as if Jackson lured her into something she's forgotten. "I've been there, like, three times." She takes a moment to look at her desktop's background image at his mention. "It's a piece of crap, but I love Mister Slow Bot--but, anyway--" Betsy turns the laptop, more interested in the nightclub in question. There is an image of her in a Vogue print. "Do you remember Elisabeth 'Betsy' Braddock going there a month ago?" she asks. For a second, she sits poised in the same pose as the picture.

Jackson glances at the picture, and then at the woman. His reaction comes at a delay; the sort that suggests he is not exceedinly well-versed in mainstream media and pop culture. After a moment, his eyebrows raise. "Oh -- /oh/. Yeah. The guys did point out -- yeah." He breathes out a quiet laugh. "I should remember better. T'ain't everyone who shows up with an entourage."

Betsy tilts her head to the side, silent curiosity--again--rearing its head, yet her smile still lives. "Funny," she says, a semi-dry tone that bursts into her own bit of quiet laughter. "No one likes them for some reason. But I wouldn't need an entourage if I could meet some decent people in New York. You know, a Sex in the City kind of moment?"

"A what?" Jackson looks blank for a brief moment at the reference, brow furrowing slightly. It passes quickly, displaced by another smile. "There's plenty'a decent people in this city. I've met lots, anyhow. It's got it's share'a crazy, but it's got it's share'a great, too."

A shrug comes from Betsy. "Guess I haven't met the great. Although, you have a /great/ sense of style, not to mention you work at a bar--with alcohol--where I can get drunk--and dance." Oh, the good times Betsy has since living in New York. Good times, indeed. "But wait. You've never heard of Sex in the City?"

"With alcohol. An' dancing. Sometimes, people even dance with /each other/ -- we're real progressive that way." Laughter is buried in Jackson's voice, warming his tone. He breaks off a piece of his cookie, nibbling at it slowly. "S'that a show or something? I've never owned a television, really. There was one at my school in high school, though."

"I noticed," Betsy replies, remembering the club's atmosphere. Turning her computer facing her again, her fingers begin its dance and click away, often times stopping to finger-scroll. A look goes up to Jackson and not owning a television, and then retreats back to the device. Music can be heard coming from the laptop--not too loud. It is the intro to Sex in the City, a video on YouTube going to work. "This, my sheltered friend, is Sex in the City."

Jackson downs the last of his drink and leans forward, continuing to nibble on his cookie as he looks at the screen. "I work at a queer nightclub full'a -- drinking an' drugs. I think I've seen plenty'a sex in the city, offscreen," he says with another faint blush colouring his cheeks.

Her laughter is not contained this time around, a few eyes staring in her direction. A couple 'Sorries!' are mumbled in those people's direction and her mouth is covered by hands. "You are hilarious!" she admits through fingers, dropping them shortly afterward. "Although," she points out, "doesn't the word 'queer' go against your domestic animal, human comparative beliefs?"

"Not hardly. If some bigot was yelling it at me to be offensive, then sure, but --" Jackson's hands turn upwards, spreading in front of him in a lazy shrug. "There's a huge difference between that and re-appropriation of the term by those who fall outside heteronormative confines. Slurs are one thing; language reclamation's another entirely."

"Quite some words, that. Things have been worse where I'm from." Betsy states simply.

"Oh?" Jackson's prompt is simple as well, eyebrows raising questioningly.

Betsy mm-hmms. "A world where Mommy and Daddy gives you everything and can take it away just as quickly--if not quicker." She nods her head illustrating the false strictness in her parents' discipline. Tear. She had to live in a mansion for Christ's sake! "But I know others that can relate. The modeling industry is crawling with colorful individuals such as yourself. Some cute and available--who's numbers I have." Wink.

Jackson's brows raise higher, now, and his head tips downwards slightly as he laughs again, soft. "That does sound pretty rough," Jackson says solemnly. "An' I'm an artist. I ain't never lacked for colourful individuals in my life." He grins and offers out one glittery-nailed hand towards her for a handshake. "I'm Jax, by the way, miss."

Ooh, glitter! Betsy observes the hand and nails, delivering manicured purple nails of her own--albeit no glitter. "Nice to meet you, Jax. I'll definitely have to stop by and have a drink with you." The 'miss' is met with friendly apprehension and a raised eyebrow. "Miss? No. Betsy. Somehow, I've acquired that nickname here in the States."

Glittery nails and missing finger aside, Jackson's handshake is firm and confident, if brief before he drops his maimed hand back to rest less obtrusively to one side of his leg. "Betsy, then. Sorry. It's a habit. Southern --" His words are interrupted by the buzzing vibration of a cellphone in his pocket, and he wrinkles his nose in silent apology as he slips it out of his pocket. "Sorry -- it's -- just a sec. -- Hey, Eli." That last, a warm greeting delivered into his phone. Warmth swiftly gives way to a deeply worried expression. "-- of course. Just -- one sec, hon." He lowers the phone, holding a hand over the mouthpiece as he looks back to Betsy. "M'sorry, I hafta --" He gestures towards the cell in indication: important! With one hand he quickly writes a name and phone number and email address on a corner of his notebook, tearing the information off to slide it to her. "It was nice to meet you. An' you really should swing by the club some time."

Betsy delivers a toothy, silent 'Kay!' and takes the torn paper. After observation, she folds it and puts it in her bag before pulling out a pen. Taking the liberty to mentally say 'It's okay, the paper is already ripped,' Betsy stands, bends over, and writes her number under the torn corner of his notebook. In a whisper, "Give me a call. BETSY." A smile. All before she escapes to the line to /finally/ get herself some caffeine and the same cookie Jackson ate.

Jackson looks at the number and flashes Betsy one last smile that does not entirely displace the worry in his expression. He waves at her as she leaves. Phone pinned between ear and shoulder, he gathers his things quickly, tucking them all away in his messenger bag as he continues his conversation on his way out of the coffeeshop in search of somewhere quieter and more private. His tone is light and calm despite his look of worry. "-- alright, I'm here -- what's up?"

Elias

Thu, 14 Aug 2008 07:00:50 GMT

Log. Wednesday morning. 13 August. Jackson's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 340 |Jackson| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
Unlike its tattooed, pierced, brightly clothed and glitteringly makeup-ed occupant, the decor in this apartment is subdued and minimalist. Black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome. Though the apartment is small, but kept obsessively cleaned and free of clutter to lend it a more spacious feel than its size would suggest.
The tiny entrance hall -- a shoe rack by the door to collect footwear from all visitors (and keep polished floors gleaming) -- opens onto a living room whose back wall is dominated by large, airy windows. To the right, the tiny kitchen, black tile separated from the living room's hardwood floors by black countertops; a breakfast nook sits in back, along the windows, cushioned windowseats in place of dining chairs. To the left, doors open to bathroom and small bedroom. In the far back corner of the living room, rows of shelves and cabinets are laden with neatly organized art supplies; in front of the windows, a large easel is set up with a stool in front to take advantage of the natural light.
A couch, upholstered with black corduroy and facing windows and easel, is the main piece of furniture in the room; a low black coffee table sits in front of it with small end tables at each arm. In one corner there is a computer desk with a desktop set up, and against the wall beside it, a futon. Large black and red cushions piled by the windows provide comfortable pillowing when seated on the floor. Ever-present in the apartment is the lingering smell of painting; turpentine and oil paints mingling in a pervasive caustic odor that never quite fades away.

It is morning, but with no class to dash off to and no appointments till later in the day, Jackson is unhurried once he gets home from the gym and Mass. The drag of his step and shadow of his eye suggests that probably he should use the downtime to get some more sleep, but instead he prepares a gourd of mate and settles down with it and a notebook in front of his computer.

Elias stumbles out of the bedroom around nine thirty, heading to the kitchen first to check for coffee. He peeks around the apartment when his search comes up empty and heads out into the living room. "G'morning." He comes up behind him and rests his hand on his shoulder. "Whatcha got?"

"Mate," Jackson answers, tipping his head back to smile up at Elias. "D'you want some? Or it wouldn't take long t'fix you somethin' else, if you'd prefer." His computer screen has a rather large number of windows open -- email and web pages (largely relating to animal rights, though a few deal with other issues) and text documents, mostly, with a few IM conversations in his gmail window. "Y'sleep aright?"

"Yeah, for what it was worth." Elias collapses onto a cushion and rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Caffeine would be great. You don't have to get up. I'm quite capable of getting myself a cup of something in a minute." He's just going to sit there for a second.

Jackson lifts the gourd, wiggling it slightly as he holds it out to Elias. "This's got caffeine. I don't crash afterwards like with coffee, though." He scrubs his free hand against his eye, blinking slowly afterwards as if still trying to wake up himself.

Elias takes the gourd and takes a sip, processing the flavor for a moment and nods. "Mmm.. that's nice." He smiles as he hands back the gourd and settles into the couch further. "What are you working on?"

"Presentations," Jackson says with a faint wrinkle of his nose. "For this -- that --" His hand waves, gesturing vaguely with the gourd held in it before he takes a slow sip from the metal straw. "Conference. This week. An' I been so caught up with finishing my school projects I ain't hardly --" He catches himself, head dipping briefly, and rubs his eye again before swivelling in his chair to face Eli. "I'm a terrible procrastinator," he says with a crooked smile -- though, overachiever that he is, this is, by and large, a terrible lie.

"You're making a presentation? Or two?" Elias wrinkles his nose again and turns around to face backwards on the couch. "Where? When?"

"Or three, if this guy ends up backing out," Jackson says with a breath of tired laughter and a tilt of his head towards the gmail conversation open on his computer. "I told you -- didn't I tell you?" For a moment he just looks puzzled. His head shakes abruptly, as if to clear it. "AR2008. DC. Big -- animal rights conference. M'sorry. I didn't -- I thought I --" He loses his train of thought again, taking another sip from his drink.

"I guess I just forgot it was this weekend. Sorry." Eli gets up and heads over to the kitchen, rooting around in drawers and cupboards as he pulls out a glass and milk from the fridge and a spoon and chocolate syrup. Nom. "I guess I'll be fending for myself. I suppose you hired a babysitter?"

Jackson snorts, eyebrows lifting in mild amusement. "I got someone to walk the dogs an' all, but they're slightly past 'puppy'."

"Well, I wasn't - that wasn't what I was referring to." Elias is derailed by Jackson's response, frowning deeply. "Um, Thanks. I could have handled that though."

"I didn't want t'presume -- an' I totally forgot to ask about it till this morning. But I can tell him not to bother, if it ain't no trouble for you." Jackson turns backwards in his chair, one arm resting along the chair's back and his chin resting atop it. "The dogs'd totally like you better anyway. I think the little one is still at the biting stage with strangers, poor thing. But he's used to us now." His teeth click against the metal straw, eye flicking towards Elias before he admits -- "I know it wasn't. Do I --" He breaks off, toying with the straw in his mouth.

"Hell, with everyone else riding my ass, the dogs are the only comfort I'll have - you in D.C. and all." Elias pours himself some milk and starts adding sugar in the form of chocolaty goodness. "Do you what?"

"I don't mean to be annoying," Jackson says in a rush, head still bowed as the words spill out. "I mean, I /know/ I am -- too -- too /mothery/ -- all the time. It ain't just with you but we're together so much --" He looks up again, hand lifting to brush hair that is no longer there back from his forehead. "I'm sorry. I'm really gonna try to take a step back. I /know/ you don't need anyone taking care of you -- I think sometimes I get mixed up. 'tween caring about people an' caring for them."

"Well, thanks for the vote of confidence no matter how disguised it seems." Eli is gruff as he grabs his spoon and stirs the mess up before leaving the spoon in the sink and taking a long first drink. When done, he takes a drink and casts a glance sideways at Jackson. "Then the weekend away will help?"

"My workshops are only on one day," Jackson says with a shrug of his shoulder. "But -- yeah. I think. I don't know. I hope so. You might still need to hit me on the head once in a while when I'm being obnoxious."

"I'm not the violent type, Jax." Elias finishes his chocolate milk and rinses out the glass for later cleaning. "You're not staying for the entire weekend?"

"Gently," Jackson amends; his lips quirk into a smile, amusement dancing in his eye. He shrugs a shoulder at Elias's question, turning halfway in his chair to flick a gaze back at his computer. "I don't know. I've got work here. If I'm only working one day down there I might as well come back an' be productive."

"I'll just get out the gag and tie you up for a couple hours for peace," Elias jokes lightly as he skirts out of the kitchen again to move back to the cushions, falling face first onto the squishy goodness.

Jackson's smile widens into a playful grin. "You say that like it's a threat."

"I meant it more as a fact. Sorry. I'll work on being more deadpan in the future."

"Hopefully you won't need to," Jackson says, more seriously. "To get peace, I mean. Just -- let me know. I don't hardly even notice when I'm being annoying." He takes another long sip from his drink and turns back to the computer, rubbing at his eye again as he tabs through windows and makes more notes.

"What has gotten you so obsessed with being annoying?" Because it's getting annoying. Elias turns his face in Jackson's direction. "You say that word one more time and it will be taboo."

Jackson shrugs a shoulder, not looking away from his work. "I don't know. Too much thinking and not enough sleeping."

"Nasty habit. Should give it up entirely." Elias buries his face back in the pillow, sighing.

Jackson exhales a breath that is almost laughter. "I think /that/ one is a habit I can't break. Just, since Na--" He cuts the name off sharply, shaking his head. His finger taps against his mouse, restless and jittery. "D'you want breakfast?"

"If it keeps you from bringing up sore topics." Elias turns on his side and eyes Jackson, his lips thinning. "You - I - Come on Jax. Spill it. I'm curious now."

"Spill what? T'ain't nothing I haven't said before. You told me not to listen to what she said the other day. I -- shouldn't." Jackson types a few more messages into his conversation window before getting up to head to the kitchen.

"And yet, you're up late obsessing about it?" Elias gets up and follows.

"I'm up late," Jackson says. "And I obsess about it. The two things are entirely unrelated."

"I don't like that you're obsessing about it. Look, if you heard how I ripped her head off for what she said to you, you wouldn't concern yourself with her opinion." Elias is grumpy as he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pajama pants.

"I don't care about what she thinks of me." Jackson grabs a bowl and starts to collect ingredients for pancakes on the counter. "I mean, I don't care about her opinion. But being /mean/ don't make her wrong. She said I should look at myself more honestly. I'm trying to."

"Honestly?" Elias rolls his eyes, bristling as his jaw sets. "Fuck her." He settles down in a sitting position by the kitchen but on the floor outside it. "For the love of Pete. If she has something to say, she can come back and say it without ulterior motive."

"Okay." Jackson smiles, bright and cheerful enough. "I'll try to ignore it, then. I just kept thinking I was being irrational and brushing off everything she said just because she can't stand me. Now I'm being irrational in totally the opposite direction." His gaze turns down to his work, mixing and measuring.

"Middle ground or something. Discover the truth on your own time." Elias frowns as he rubs his hands through his hair, elbows resting on his knees.

"Yeah." Jackson heats a bit of oil in a cast-iron pan as he mixes the batter, and then purses his lips with a glance to his pancake batter. "Banana, blueberry, or chocolate chip?"

Elias, Norah

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 04:02:27 GMT

Log. Tuesday evening. 12 August. Norah's hospital room.

Visiting hours! And, importantly, the last visiting hours before some doctors try to saw into Norah's skull to get the whatever-it-is out of there. During Norah's time in the hospital thus far, she's collected a panoply of gifts from various individuals: flowers, cards, candy (placed far across the room at the moment to remove temptation) and a stuffed rhinoceros currently propped behind her back as she sits up in bed, writing in a spiral-bound notebook.

Elias knocks on the door before pulling it open and peeking inside. "Norah? Decent? Hospital gown opening satisfactorily hidden?" He flashes her a bright yet somewhat manufactured grin as he pushes the door open a little further to show that Jackson is with him. "Up for a couple well-wishers?"

Jackson peeks around from behind Elias, with his own additions to Norah's pile of gifts: a foil-wrapped pie and a stuffed bright green bear with a four-leaf clover on his belly. He wears a smile, too, bright and cheerful. "I brought Good Luck Bear," he informs her earnestly.

"They let me wear pajamas all day because they're just operating on my head," Norah replies smugly. Sadly, though, the rubber-duck pajamas are being washed and in their place is an old college t-shirt and sweatpants. "So there is no nakedness to worry about! Thank God for small dignities, right?" She closes up the notebook and sets it to the side and then grins at the pair. "It's nice to see you two! And thanks, Jackson." She reaches out for the bear. "A little extra good luck is definitely appreciated."

"Yes. I never understood why they never evolved beyond the old open backed robe. There's contraband pie too, but I'm not sure if you're to the point of 'no eating' yet." Elias moves further into the room as he skirts around the bed to take the far side. "Holding up okay?"

Jackson places Good Luck Bear in Norah's hand -- the Care Bear is not new, but faded and worn enough to suggest that it is a) an original from the 80s and b) extremely well-loved. "If so you can save it till after," he adds, glancing uncertainly from the pie to Norah. "It'll keep! It'll be something to look forward to."

"At the moment, yes," Norah answers Elias. "I make no guarantees for five or ten minutes from now. I'm kind of unbalanced about the whole thing." She briefly hugs and cuddles Good Luck Bear for a moment, and then moves to set it aside -- but in so doing notices for the first time the level of wear on it. "Hey, is this -- Jackson, is this your bear?" she asks, frowning. "You can't give me your Care Bear! And yeah, no more food until after surgery, unfortunately. I'll definitely look forward to it, though!"

"He has others," Elias notes, but the comment is quiet. He smiles as he looks around the hospital room quietly, the color on the walls draining his mood.

"Of course I can," Jackson says brightly. He crosses the room to set the pie down where all the candy is before returning to Norah's bedside, dragging a seat up to the side of the bed before he sits down. "That's what they're /for/. You know, when --" Briefly, just briefly, his smile falters, but he has it back in place soon enough. "-- people I care about jus' need a bit extra love."

"No, you can't!" Norah says with cheerful determination. "It is on /loan/. I'll prove my sneaking skills sometime to put this back on your apartment once I don't need the luck in it anymore. If I die, though, I'm taking it with me. I want it /in the casket/. I should put that in my impromptu will right now." She grins teasingly and reaches for the notebook and pen, but as she does so her eyes skim by Eli, and she stops mid-reach. "You doing okay, Eli?"

"Yes. Fine. Thanks." Somewhere between mechanical and snarky, Eli replies, eyes narrowing on an unused monitor. He blinks and turns back to Norah, looking sheepish. "Ah. Um. Sorry." He turns away again, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets.

"I'll keep that in mind, 'cept for the part where you /ain't/ gonna die. You can have the good luck on loan, then." Jackson's tone stays light, but a distinct flicker of worry crosses his expression. "They'll figure it out an' one day this will just be a really -- really -- strange story you can impress your students with." His teeth catch at his lower lip as Eli turns away, his one-eyed gaze (for he is eyepatch'd, today, rather than sunglass'd) flickering after the older man with a hint of apprehension.

"I was really kinda hoping they'd figure it out before cutting, but they're in a little bit of a hurry to get it out of me," Norah says wryly. "Understandably, I guess. It is very wierd. Plus, it's interfering with my sleep, so the longer it's in there, the crazier I'm going to get." She glances at Elias again, and then back at Jackson. "So... what's up with you two?"

Elias glances back at Norah when she mentions crazy, his expression stony. He looks over at Jackson before wrinkling his nose. "So. Um. What were your initial symptoms?" Never mind that Norah asked a question. His seem slightly more important.

"Once it's out, won't it be easier to figure out what it /is/? Or how it -- how it got there." Jackson scrubs at his cheek with one hand, and leans back in his chair, head tilting curiously at Elias's question. "Mostly just work," he adds in answer to Norah's, although his tone is slightly distracted. "School's out -- or just about. Just gotta turn in my final project for one more class."

"But what if it doesn't /want/ to get out? What if it's secretly got tentacles in all the parts of my brain that I /need/ and we just can't see them on the x-ray?" Norah asks Jackson. Yeah. She hasn't been getting much sleep. At least she seems to be joking, what with the wry smile on her face. "It'll be nice to have it out, though, I guess." She pauses a second before answering Elias's question. "Umm... it's hard to say. A couple of weeks ago I started having a really hard time learning new things -- nothing really /stuck/ in my mind. But that might've been just stress. The tests say that clumsiness is definitely because of this thing, and that was a little over a week ago that I started noticing that -- my spacial perception being all off and stuff."

"Then I just have stress." Eli takes a deep breath, his head bowing as he works his jaw around. "Sorry." He flashes Jackson a weak smile this time and looks for another chair, dragging it over to where Jackson is. "No wonder, with the world ending and all."

"Oh, tentacles /definitely/ show up on X-rays," Jackson assures Norah. "Last time /I/ had a rectangular tentaclemonster living inside me they found those in a flash." He looks up at Elias, reaching over to squeeze Eli's hand briefly. "I'm just glad it's gonna be over soon. I mean, our club can't meet without you! It just wouldn't be the same."

"You thought you had a rectangle in your head, too?" Norah asks Elias, clearly a bit puzzled. And there is just a faint sense of miffed in there, too, like maybe he is stealing her thunder. She masks it quickly, however. "I can't decide whether it would be wierder to have a solitary brain-rectangle in the entire world, or to have two brain-rectangles in the minds of two people who know each other." To Jackson, she smiles wryly. "Plus, don't forget, while I can't go invisible Tim's the only true member. He has majority vote over anything. He might just end up being corrupted by all that power."

"No... no problems with hand eye coordination. No balance issues. Just stress causing a really short temper. Sorry. You'll just have to remain the sole owner of a brain rectangle for the time being." Eli attempts to joke lightly, but he is a bit too tense and uncomfortable to follow through well. He just falls silent and listens to Jackson and Norah talk.

"If there were two in two people who knew each other, that'd be like someone was --" Jackson flicks a glance between Norah and Elias, and his words cut off abruptly; in his lap, his maimed hand curls into a loose fist and slides into his pocket. Instead of finishing that thought he latches on to another: "/See/? You've gotta come back quick, 'cuz you /know/ Tim is totally the type to get completely corrupted by the power an' use it for evil." He cannot at all manage to keep a straight face through this accusation.

"It'd be like you were secretly an alien and did it to us. You're the logical person at fault here, being our mutual acquaintance and all," Norah accuses Jackson, and laughs. They /may/ have given her some pain meds prior to the visit; she does seem a little punchy. "And yeah, Tim's totally going to be everybody's evil overlord. I've already put him on the wrong path. Speaking of which, we're planning a sneak attack. And it's a sneak attack on Kurt, so it's going to be /legendary/. I've got plans in here." She points at the notebook. "Any suggestions from either of you on how to make it more awesome would be appreciated."

"I don't know who Kurt is and why this would be - legendary." Eli replies sullenly. He draws in a deep breath and looks at Jackson with a flare of annoyance. "I don't have a brain rectangle and I wasn't abducted by aliens. Thanks."

"Kurt teleports," Jackson explains to Elias. "Which prob'ly makes him pretty sneaky to. And harder to sneak attack. What plans do you have so far?" Jackson looks towards the notebook eagerly, reaching one hand towards it, questioning. "-- An' I think Tim'd have preeeetty far to go before he got to evil. Or even mean. You might want to aim at putting him on the path to mildly cranky, and then he might get there some time this century."

"Wow, you do have a short temper," Norah says, lifting her eyebrows at Elias, her tone more impressed than annoyed in turn. "You should meet Kurt. He's cool. But yeah, the teleporting thing. Basically my plan is to have several sneak attacks planned by different parties set up at different locations he might teleport to after the first one gets tripped. Ideally, I'd like to recruit the whole school for it, but we'll see how things go."

"That ain't nothin'," Eli replies to Norah, his sarcasm a touch on the heavy side. He sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose as he collects himself and offers, "Do it for his birthday then. That's the day you least expect sneak attacks." Well, after the age of then anyway.

"School-wide sneak attack! That'd be pretty rad. I'd totally get in on that, if Tim ain't took over the school by then." Jackson leans forward, resting one elbow on his knees. "The /real/ trick would be trying to sneak attack a telepath. If you can pull that off, there'll hafta be some sort of /award/."

"His birthday's not until December; I don't know if my attention span's that long," Norah says honestly to Elias, before grinning eagerly at Jackson. "It is rad! Plus, I'm thinking if we can flush him out of doors, I can give the kids outside paintball guns. I'm not sure if that crosses the line from funny to mean, though, so I'm still considering it. And one thing at a time! Kurt first, then a telepath."

Elias laughs softly and leans back in his seat, turning his attention to the rest of the hospital room again. One hand rubs across his face before the other runs through his hair.

"Maybe water guns," Jackson says, laughing. "Drying /off/ must be hard enough but getting paint out --?" His nose wrinkles at the idea of trying to wash paint out of fur. "Definitely seems kinda cruel an' unusual." His smile splits into a wider grin. "-- Not that unusual is all that bad a thing, 'round that school."

"Oh, yeah, Kurt has fur," Norah adds to Elias, in explanation. "And he's blue. And he's got a tail. And only two fingers on each hand. He's kind of a wierd-looking guy, all told. Sorry, by the way -- must be kind of boring for you to hear all about my plans to prank somebody you don't know." Despite the apology, she can't help but add to Jackson, "But the paintball really kicks it up a notch, I think. And would make for fun pictures! And he keeps making fun of my inability to do a good sneak attack, so he's kind of asking for it. It's come out eventually, probably."

"Well, good luck. I - I think I'm going to go grab a cup of coffee from the cafeteria. Don't worry. I'll stay out in the hall for it." Elias gets to his feet and gives each of them a smile before sneaking out into the hall for a while.

Jackson cringes, looking apologetic as Elias gets up. "Sorry!" Not that this stops him looking excited at the prospect of sneak-attacking. "-- It /would/ be awesome pictures. What contrasts best with blue?"

Norah has had some Valium today, which means she does /not/ wait until Elias has left the room to tell Jackson, "Wow, you really weren't kidding! He is /super/ wierd and cranky. I hope the stress goes away for him soon!" Oh, Norah. "And I think orange and red, probably. But I see no reason not to use green and white and purple, too, for an overall super colorful effect."

Jackson tenses at Norah's first statement, head bowing and his gaze flicking after Elias, apprehension rising again. He scrubs one hand at his cheek tiredly, sinking back in his seat. "I hope the stress does, too," he says, though his worried tone sounds unconvinced. He fits his smile back into place. "Rainbow Kurt! It sorta makes you wonder why we don't paintball people more often."

"Well, I've never been forced into this sort of escalation before!" Norah answers. "Normally all it takes is to sneak up on somebody from behind and shout really loudly, but I've been having to kind of build this up for a while, and I don't want to risk him saying 'That's it?' at the end of it. So that's why it's got to be legendary, you see." She glances out the hall where Elias left, and adds, "So do you really think it's just stress? I mean, the world is ending, but he didn't seem that cranky about it before..."

"Legendary," Jackson agrees. "Well, count me in! I ain't quite so sneaky as you but I can definitely play the support team." He pulls one leg up to his chest, resting his chin on his knee, and shrugs a shoulder awkwardly. "At this point," he says with a laugh that rings slightly false, "I think maybe I just worry way too much." He does not say 'but', but the glance he flicks after Elias says it well enough for him.

"There'll be plenty of positions to play on the sneak attack team, fear not," Norah says, firmly. "And you do suffer from chronic worry syndrome, but /I'm/ worried about that and that's only from hearing him say, like, three sentances. Admittedly, I don't really know him all that well in the first place, but still."

"It'll be okay," Jackson says, determinedly cheerful. "We'll work things out and -- you'll get better and -- then later we'll all be sitting around eating pie to commemorate a highly successful sneak-attacking an' I'll be wondering what on earth I was all fretting about."

"Oh, yeah, we'll all be fine," Norah agrees, a wry tilt to her smile. She absently takes the rhinoceros from behind her and sets it in her lap, arms wrapped around it in a loose hug. "Except for my hair. I think that honestly ranks above dying on my list of serious concerns right now. It's like number one, brain damage; number two, going through surgery and they still can't get it out so I have to go through surgery again; number three, getting a patch of my head shaved; four, dying. Because the head shaved is a sure thing! First thing tomorrow! They drew on my scalp with sharpies today." She tilts her head forward to show him the lines drawn there by the doctors amidst the strands of her hair.

Elias slips back in from the hall quietly, peeking around as he sticks a piece of gum in his mouth. He gives a small wave before he settles down in the chair. "You're missing nothing in the cafeteria." He eyes Norah and raises an eyebrow. "Huh. You could get a tattoo while you're bald."

"Huh." Jackson looks at the sharpie lines, expression sympathetic. His hand skims over his own scalp, shaved and tattooed brightly. "I could give you --" he starts, but Elias finishes his thought, and his lips twitch into a crooked grin. "-- A wicked cool Abe Lincoln, an' prob'ly wouldn't nobody ever see him again."

"I'm not getting a tattoo!" Norah says firmly, but then looks tempted for a moment. "As cool as I think it would be to have Abe Lincoln standing guard over my brain for the rest of my life, I may not always think it is cool! Plus, there are needles and hurty involved in that, and I've had quite enough of those here already." She pauses, and adds, "If I was going to get a tattoo anywhere, the scalp /would/ be a good spot for it, huh? It has the bonus of not being visible so your work doesn't look at you funny, but it's not on in any sensitive areas that might lead people to believe you're a slut."

"Well, maybe they can do it while you're out. Then you don't have to worry about the pain at all - since you'll be out anyway." Elias settles into his chair and slouches, one ankle resting gently on the other knee. "Though, my favorite college prof had a tattoo of a humming bird on her shoulder."

"Lots'a my professors have tattoos, but I'm in art school." Jackson looks at Norah thoughtfully. "I bet if Abe Lincoln was guarding your brain, it wouldn't sprout rectangles."

"Yeah, I teach at a private school for rich kids and their uptight parents; let's not forget that," Norah points out. "The people in charge are much less inclined to be tattoo-friendly than those at a liberal arts school would be. But no, seriously. Still not putting Abe Lincoln permanently on any part of me. As much as I love the guy." She draws a hand through her hair, feeling the length and thickness that will soon be compromised. "I mean, it'd be like a big wierdo alert to any guys I wanted to date. They're supposed to find out the wierdo thing /later/, after I've charmed them completely."

"Well, if he's under your hair, you could keep him a secret as long as you like - But never the less! Bald is beautiful. Look at Jackson." In a flamboyant moment, Elias gestures to Jackson's head much like Vanna White would. "And it's smooth. Feel."

Jackson's cheeks flush red, and he grins at Elias's gesture. "Bald is pretty awesome. Or you could get an stylish wig till it grows back. In electric blue, maybe. -- Cuz, y'know, that wouldn't be a weirdo alert at /all/."

"My hair's one of the two things I can get a guaranteed compliment on, though," Norah pouts, and obediently reaches out to touch the top of Jackson's head. "Oooh. Very nice and smooth, Jax. And anyway, we'll see how much they end up shaving off. I might just be able to kind of hide it, depending on how I style my hair. Stylish wig's a back-up plan."

"Didn't Cindi Lauper do the partially shaved look for a while?" Elias' brows quirk as he considers, eyeing Jackson as he gets settled once more. "I vote for blue too."

Jackson's blush deepens as Norah touches his head. "Or purple. But I'm sure it'll grow back in no time. I dunno, though, I ain't got half the fashion knowledge Eli does --" He looks from Norah to Elias with mock seriousness. "What sorta hair really says, 'I'm part of a devious plot to take over the world?' I mean, I'm assuming you need the sort of hair that inspires confidence from the masses."

"There are a couple of different hairstyles for the leading ladies of revolutions," Norah begins to explain, before a nurse pokes her head in and announces that visiting hours are almost over. "Well, we'll have to talk about my potential hairstyles after my brain surgery, it looks like," she says with a shrug. "Thanks for coming by. And for bringing things. I'll, uh.... catch you guys on the flip side, then. Hopefully." She crosses her fingers and smiles wryly.

"We'll stop by some time tomorrow or the next day," Eli says as he rises, frowning at the nurse. He rests his hand briefly on Jackson's shoulder and squeezes. "We'll see you then."

"You will." Jackson lifts his hand to rest it over Elias's for a second before rising. He doesn't attempt another bright smile but takes Norah's hand to squeeze it gently and then decides on a hug instead, one arm wrapping briefly around her shoulders. "I've been praying for you lots. I'll keep praying. I'll see you soon, hon." His fingers trail down the silver chain of the crucifix that hangs around his neck as he turns to go.

Visiting hours.

Jorge, Lark

Tue, 12 Aug 2008 23:43:56 GMT

Log. Tuesday afternoon. 12 August. Central Park.

=NYC= Central Park Reservoir - Manhattan
One of the more commonly visited portions of the park, the Reservoir lives up to its popularity in sheer size and aesthetic appeal. Said to contain over a billion gallons of water, the massive lake-like body extends out to 106 acres of rippling navy and ceruleans that reflect the hue of the sky. Ringed by a thin treeline and a track used by both runners and walkers, the Reservoir remains an ideal site for birdwatchers, nature-lovers, and the like.

Despite being mid-August, the city is pleasantly -- perhaps not /cool/, but certainly not smotheringly hot. With only a few clouds in the sky and a light breeze, Central Park is full of people taking advantage of the weather. Jackson is one of those people -- apparently out for a jog, judging by his attire (red-piped black track pants, black running shoes, a sleeveless red shirt) and by the flush in his cheeks and the sweat beaded on his shaved head and dampening his shirt. He is not jogging at the moment, though; he is paused at a bench, leaning with one arm against its back as he takes a long gulp out of a colourful metal water bottle.

It isn't often for Jorge to get up the nerve to meet someone for reasons not related to business. Yet here he is, wandering about the park, looking less than his dapper jazz club appearance in a plain t-shirt and jeans. He is cleaned up though, no grease or burn marks from various electronics or mechanics work. Subtly, his hand has already started drawing the short nervous circle on his thigh as he makes his rounds along the park's walkways, looking for the girl he had met all of twice, yet had kissed him last time. A moment that still confused the holy hell out of the mechanic.

That confusing young woman is running later than she said, but finally pacing up the path toward the two young men. Her look for today is one of green leaves and vines, a flowing dress of that pattern in a very light fabric draping her from neck to ankle, but leaving her arms bare. Someone has given her a morning glory flower to tuck behind her ear as well. As she catches sight of Jorge she lifts an arm to wave, a delighted smile breaking out at finding him where they said they'd meet.

Jackson looks up as he recaps his water bottle, and misinterprets the smile and the wave as being for him. His own smile is bright, and rather surprised, and the hand he lifts to wave back still holds his water bottle, so it waggles at her instead, aluminum glinting slightly in the sun. "Lark!"

Jorge smiles a little bit at seeing Lark approaching. Surprised she actually showed up. Usually he's got people doing the exact opposite, so long as they weren't regular customers. The repairman takes a step towards her and starts to bring his hand up when Jackson calls out to her. His welcoming "Al-allon...," just peters out to nothingness.

"Jackson?" Lark wonders in happy surprise, as she reaches a conversational distance from the other two. "I didn't expect to see you, how are you?" Though her first greeting is for Jackson, she hasn't forgotten Jorge. She continues over toward him, fetching up to stand just at his elbow and say a touch more softly, "Hey there."

"Oh -- then who --" Jackson's head turns, following Lark's path, and he blushes, leaning back further against the bench. "Sorry! I didn't realize -- oh, /hey/. I know you!" This is surprised, too, as he registers Jorge, but no less cheerful than his greeting to Lark had been.

The name is what triggers Jorge's memory, and looking over to the rather one of a kind appearance of Jackson just confirms it. He seems significantly less saddened, but no less surprised, at the greeting between the two. "H-hh-hey," he says with a small, sheepish grin to Lark. "Did did didn't know yyyyou knew him," he says, looking over to Jackson. "Sssstill do-ing alllright, J-jackson?"

"Yep. I can say I really know him now, too, since I finally got to see him drunk," Lark says, directing this to Jackson as much as Jorge in a light tease. "I didn't know you two knew each other, but that's New York all over. Small town, whatever they claim about biggest city in the nation. But, yes, Jackson. Still doing all right? I haven't seen to you since the other morning."

"Doing fine," Jackson says, blush deepening slightly. "Yeah. The other morning was --" His teeth drag over his lower lip and he shakes his head, moving on past that with a breezy: "How about y'all? How're you both? It really is true. I have come to the conclusion that just about /everyone/ I know knows just about everyone else."

Jorge just gives an uncertain look between the two and doesn't bother prying as to the blushing Jackson's words. "I I I I," he sighs, looking away a moment and slowing down his words to enunciate clearer, "I have a p-pair of FOH-H ha-rrassing me," he tells them, keeping his voice low enough. "Annd and sstrange girls k-kissing me at at mmmmy favorite club," this is added with more mirth, and a grin to Lark.

"They're still harassing you?" Lark wonders with a frown. "I thought that was a past thing, just one time." Her expression lightens a moment in acknowledgment of his teasing, but remains concerned. Jackson's question about her own well-being is forgotten.

Jackson grimaces at Jorge's first. "They're persistent," he says, fingers tightening around his water bottle. "They ain't hurt you or nothing, have they? Have you called the cops or anything?" It takes a moment for the latter to sink in, and he manages a flicker of a smile. "Oh. Gosh. That was you that she kissed!"

"Nnnot yet," Jorge answers Jackson first, "I c-callllled the po-po-police. Don't want to to def-end myself." He doesn't explain why, figuring Jackson knows enough by now, and not wanting to put Lark off. "It it it's the sign in mmmy window. Still up, still ha-rrassed," he tells Lark. "B-but yes, she she is the one that d-did. I w-w-wouldn't mmmind that nnnot being one time," he says, apparently an attempt at flirtation.

"It's brave of you to leave it up, then. I don't know if I could. I'd be too scared." Lark doesn't seem to notice that there are things not being explained, satisfied to hear that the police were called. "Oh, but that would be mean of me," she laughs in reply to his flirting. "When it couldn't go anywhere. I'll just have to set you up instead."

"It's pretty awesome of you." Jackson uncaps his bottle to take another drink of water, and his lips quirk into a brighter grin afterwards. "D'you have anyone in particular in mind?" His gaze flicks from Lark to Jorge, curious.

"Wo-wouldn't be be the fffirst," Jorge admits to Lark with a 'que sera' kind of grinning look on his face. The mechanic just looks lost with the question of being set up and just shrugs. "D-d-d-don't don't knnow mmmany pe-people," he says with a shrug of defeat.

"I'm not sure. Sydney, maybe? I need to get to know him a bit better before I could make a good match." Lark gives Jorge a considering frown, comparing him against an extensive mental list of friends. "The fact that you don't know many people has nothing to do with it," she informs him firmly. "It's all about who I know, and that's a lot of people."

"M'sure Yente here'll help you get to know more people," Jackson says with a laugh, amusement dancing in his eye. "She totally looks like she's scheming already."

Jorge looks nervous, his circle drawing hand picking up speed. "Sh-sure," he says, unconvinced himself of the thought. He looks to Jackson with a questioning glance. "Sh-should she knnnow a lllit-little mmore more about me fffirst?" he asks the other mutant.

"Of course," Lark answers for him. Shifting her weight on sandaled feet she looks a touch restless, but then settles by popping a hip and resting one hand on it, elbow out. "Like, what your type is and what crazy hobbies you have and all that."

Jackson considers Lark a moment with lips pursed before his head tips in a nod. "She's nice," he assures Jorge. "Always been real nice to me, at least! -- An' it seems like getting to know you is an important part of matchmaking."

"Still," Jorge says, not looking like he's settling down at the thought. "Safe-safe, Better at at mmmy shop," he says quickly, looking around the park suspiciously. "If if if if yyyou wwant to do that llater though, that that's fine."

"What do you mean?" Lark looks around as well, though hers is a look of confusion more than anything. The few people nearby are innocuous enough, joggers, a couple walking hand in hand, and one or two with dogs on leashes. Looking back to Jorge and Jackson she glances between them and then demands, "What? You're being mysterious and it's a little unnerving."

"Illusionist," Jackson reminds cheerfully. "We are creatures of mystery. I'm considering wearing a cloak jus' to prove it." He takes another long swallow of his water, shaking the bottle after to gauge how much he has left.

Jorge nods, catching onto Jackson's words. "I'm, I'm k-k-kind of lllike J-jack-son," Jorge explains in a low tone. "Nnnot com-comfortable wwwith ex-explain-explaining myself in pub-lic," he says apologetically to Lark.

Lark might have missed their meaning at first, but those bits of information so close together are more than enough for her to put it together. Green eyes widen and she gives a little, "Oh!" of surprise, but it quickly resolves to a smile. "I see. Some other time then. But, you should know that it doesn't matter to me at all." Relaxing her stance, she slips and arm through his and gives a light reassuring squeeze.

"See? Nice." Jackson's lips quirk, wry. "I pretty much can't be friends with anyone who /ain't/, anyhow. Not so much by /my/ choice but -- t'ain't much of a secret with me. Anyone -- not nice -- usually won't touch me with a ten-foot pole." His fingers tap idly against the side of his water bottle. "-- Well!" he adds, anachronistically brightly, "at least not unless they're /beating/ me with one."

Jorge seems less than amused by Jackson's good humored remarks about beatings. Though he is calmer for the reassurance. "Good," he mutters quietly. "Oth-oth-other than than that. I'mm jusssst a rep-pairman," he says with a shrug. "And mmmy reli-ligion. Not alllot of p-people re-respect it. Most are afraid."

Lark gives Jackson a worried sort of smile, but addresses Jorge instead. "Catholicism? I guess it has a stranger reputation recently, and that a few of the very liberal Christians can have a negative view of it, but I wouldn't put it like that." She glances over to Jackson again, expecting him to have an opinion on the topic.

"Half of all the really left-type people I hang out with hate that I'm Catholic -- but they hate organized religion in general. Jus', Catholicism worse'n most." Jackson shrugs a shoulder, his thumb playing with the small silver rosary ring he wears, spinning it around his finger. "As for /scared/ --" His lips press together, gaze flicking to Jorge and then down to the ground. "I don't know. People just can be kinda weird when you break out of their traditions."

"Nnneither of you ssspeak sp-spanish, don't y-you?" Jorge asks, already knowing the answer. "I b-belong to el-el cullllto a la San-santa Muerte," he tells them. "She she is is nnot re-really re-re-recognized by the pope." He sighs and shakes his head at his sadness over that fact. "But shhhhe llooks ovvver us any-ways."

"Not a lick of Spanish," Lark agrees with smile. "Though I'd love to learn." Puzzled at the saint's name, she glances at Jackson to see if he shows any sign of recognition. "I don't really even know the process for getting people sainted. You can do that, right?"

"Only really terribly," Jackson says with a faintly sheepish wrinkle of his nose for high school courses mostly forgotten. "But I looked her up after the last time I saw you!" His hand waves in a vague gesture, the water bottle still held in it. "Takes a long while to get people recognized as saints, gen'rally speaking. The Vatican's pretty picky about it."

Jorge looks completely surprised at Jackson. "You you /are/ an an accep-accep," he stops and takes a breath, "accepting mmman to allow Saint De-death ssso rreadily." His words have an approving, if curious tone.

Lark makes a surprised "Hmm" sound at hearing the English translation, but before she can comment the muffled sound of classical music starts from her shoulder bag. "Ah. Sorry!" she excuses herself, stepping a few feet away to dig her phone out of the bottom of her bag and snap it open. "Hello?"

"I'm a gay mutant anarchist with one eye an' too many tattoos to count," Jackson points out, warm laughter buried in his tone. "I pretty much got no room to /not/ be accepting." His one-eyed gaze flickers after Lark as she moves away, and he pushes himself up out of his lean against the bench, wincing just slightly as he puts all his weight properly back on his legs.

"I ha-have one herrre," Jorge admits, tapping at his chest, hoping that will be enough explain what the 'one' is he means. "Sssanta Me-muerte," he repeats. He watches Lark step away and looks to Jackson questioningly. "She ac-accepts aallll as equals," he starts, looking back to Lark, "But her, annnd her fffriends?"

The phone conversation doesn't involve much on Lark's part beyond "yes" and "no" and finally, "be there as soon as I can". Turning back to her two friends, she grimaces apologetically. "Sorry, I've got to go. Possible musical emergency. Or just a freak-out, we'll see. I'll call you later on Jorge, and we should get together for coffee or something soon Jackson."

"Don't know her friends, but Lark's a doll --" Jackson breaks off, eyebrows raising as Lark returns to the conversation. "Musical emergency? Gosh. I hope noone's hurt." (His tone registers faint amusement, rather than concern.) His hand lifts, fingers curling in a wave. "We should. Soon. Take care!"

Jorge nods as he listens to Jackson before Lark comes back only to leave. He shrugs and offers a brief smile to her. "Sure sure, yyyou have mmmy number," he says, making a short attempt at a wave. "Runnnn allong," he spits out with a short chuckle. "They nnneed y-you."

"Later!" Lark calls, then turns back down the path toward the way she came.

Jackson's gaze follows her a bit down the path, smile still bright, and the brightness doesn't fade after she leaves and he turns back to Jorge. "I should prob'ly be getting home, myself," he says with a wrinkle of his nose. "But maybe we should hang out more, too. D'you have my email or anything? I mean, I know where your shop is, but --?"

Jorge watches Lark as she heads off, shaking his head slowly as he wonders what he got himself into. "Do do yyyyou ssstill ha-have my card?" he asks, looking back to Jackson. "Just e," long pause as he tries to finish the word, "mail me annnd te-tell me it it's yyyou."

"Oh! Yeah. I do. I will!" Jackson bounces slightly on the balls of his toes, and tips his head in a nod. "Y'take care, too! I'll see you 'round."

Jorge gives a short wave to Jackson in lieu of a spoken farewell as he turns around to walk off to the bus to take to the subway to finally get back to Brooklyn.

Elias

Tue, 12 Aug 2008 03:20:24 GMT

Log. Monday morning. 11 August. Elias's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 230 |Elias| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
On the left of the entry way in this studio apartment is a small sitting area complete with a love seat and an arm chair strategically situated around a television on a stand filled with a small dvd collection. A short railing divids the living room from the bedroom, two steps up on a small platform. The bed is a queen sized mattress with a dark wood headboard. Similarily dark, short dressers serve as nightstands. Curtains hang from floor to ceiling at the three of the four corners of the bedroom platform, used to close off the sleeping chamber from the rest of the apartmen at the owners will. The section directly in front of the main portal is a work area. A large, heavy-duty table sits with two sewing machines on top. There's a single rack for hanging clothes, half full and other collapsed and stuck behind the wall. An shelving unit, open on both the front and back sides, holds bolts of clothing, a few sets of books and some messy stacks of patterns.

To the right of the entryway, the wall juts out four feet before leading to a hallway. The kitchen lies off this hall, with a half wall, complete with barstools for eating off the countertop, dividing it from the work area. All of the kitchen appliances line the wall, leaving a decent amount of space to walk while cooking, but creating a cramped feeling. Opposite the kitchen is a closet, sliding doors keeping the contents from being seen. At the end of the hallway is the door to the bathroom.

Jackson is still smelling of chlorine by the time he gets back from work, dog-walking, the gym, church -- better, really, than smelling like alcohol and sweat like he often does at the end of a shift. Friday night's fitful and hangover-y hours of sleep were, also, the only he's had since Wednesday, and so by the time he gets back he is also rather shaky with exhaustion. He is quiet as he heads into Elias's apartment, and peels off track pants and t-shirt without preamble to slip into bed beside his boyfriend.

Sleeping Elias is a very nice Elias to deal with, especially after a long weekend of drunk debauchery, kidnappers and fights with friends. When Jackson slides onto the mattress, Eli slides over so he's not hogging the entire bed. When Jax is settled, that boyfriend wraps an arm around his waist and nuzzles him silently, lips against Jax's neck. He might need to brush his teeth. When his alarm goes a few minutes later, Eli simply turns it off.

Exhausted Jackson is a rather touch-hungry Jackson, and he slides closer readily when Elias's arm wraps around him, not particularly caring much about lack of teeth-brushing. His body is tense and trembling, but his smile spreads content across his face at the nuzzling. When the alarm goes off, his nose wrinkles apologetically. "Don't mean t'keep you from anything," he mumbles.

"Nothing could tempt me from bed now." Elias draws in a deep breath, turning in to face Jackson fully. As consciousness drifts in, his own body becomes rigid with emotion, a hint of sorrow underneath it all.

Jackson's arm slides around Elias's waist as well as he nestles himself against Elias. His hand strokes over Eli's back, face nuzzling against the older man's neck, lips brushing against the skin. The light caress of his hand shifts firmer at the rigidity of Eli's body, massaging Eli's shoulders slowly. "S'wrong, honey?"

"You should sleep. Stuff will still exist in a couple hours." Elias sighs as Jackson's hands run over his body, arms tightening around him in a hug before releasing him. "I'm not going anywhere."

Jackson's head tilts back to look up at Elias with a fleeting trace of worry, and then he nods. He presses his lips to Eli's in a brief, soft kiss, before turning onto his other side, back to Eli as he fits himself in against the older man. It does not take long at all before he is asleep.

Elias is quite content to sleep for a couple more hours, but when his stomach rumbles, his eyes pop open. He gives Jackson a light kiss on his shoulder before sliding from bed and heading to the bathroom. After his excursion, he heads to the kitchen for a bagel and a glass of milk. His meager breakfast is munched while he surfs the internet silently. When he is done eating, he returns to bed, sliding back in behind Jackson, resting an arm around his waist as he closes his eyes. He might not be sleeping, but there is something restful about doing nothing with one's eyes closed.

Jackson is tired enough that, normally light sleeper though he is, Elias's departure and return from bed garner nothing more than a sleepily incoherent mumble and a brief fidgeting before he lies still again. Eventually, though, his eye does crack open, and he turns around to face Elias once more. Half-awake, he is in no great hurry to wake up further; he slides his arm around Eli's waist, too, and tucks his head against Elias's chest. Whatever he mumbles now is no more coherent than it was when he was fully asleep.

Eli doesn't bother to respond, but he does stir and find himself awake again, arms hold Jackson gently. His breath is a little sweeter this time, but the mint scent is mingled with the garlic of his bagel.

"It never gets any less wonderful," Jackson says, still in a mumble but at least a more understandable one this time. He hugs Eli closer, face rubbing sleepily against his lover's chest and his fingers drifting slow and lazy up Eli's spine.

"Really?" Eli is somewhat shocked by this sentiment and frowns as he stares off into space. "Huh," his hands start petting Jackson's back with a little more regularity. "Did you sleep enough?"

"Waking up to you," Jackson clarifies the previous thought. His smile is warm, if still rather tired, and he shifts position enough to kiss Elias softly. (His own toothpaste is raspberry-mint, though it is worn off enough to only be the faintest suggestion of flavour.) "Sometimes these days I feel like I couldn't ever sleep enough," he admits with a brief wrinkle of his nose. "But I'm awake."

"I can see that," Elias replies with a heavy sense of realism. He plants another kiss on Jackson's mouth as he rubs the palm of one hand on Jackson's hip. "Sorry you couldn't sleep more."

"Ain't your fault," Jackson says with a quiet laugh. "I sleep better with you than I do on my own." He kisses Eli another time, and then rests his head back against the pillow. His hand trails idly over Elias's side. "How're you?"

"Tired," Eli admits. "Very, very tired." This is something, considering the man has just woken up. "I - I picked you, by the way. Not Natalie. She came over last night and I let her know in no uncetain terms that I didn't care what she thought of our relationship." He looks a little lost as his eyes unfocus. "She said she couldn't respect me - because I didn't think the kiss meant what she thought it did."

"Wait, she -- what?" Jackson rubs at his eye and refocuses intently on Elias's face. "Why did she -- she said she couldn't /respect/ you?" His arm tightens around Elias, holding the man close.

"I don't know anymore. I told her I kissed her because I was happy and she didn't buy it. Something about the way we were dancing. I said I was just demonstrative and she was mad at that. I went a bit far when I blamed her hang ups on cheating for making me miserable by extension. Then I couldn't do anything right." Elias frowns, his eyes not quite focusing on anything - well, maybe they are focused on Jackson's chin. "I tried and failed."

Jackson's hand returns to Elias's back, rubbing slowly. "I'm pretty sure there's a lot of times -- I think she's one of those people where sometimes you just /can't/ do anything right." His head tilts down to try and catch Elias's unfocused gaze with his own intent one. "Except for try. Maybe give her time to --" His lips press together as he restrains something completely uncharitable, and then his expression softens. "I don't know. Calm down. She's your friend. She can't stay mad at you forever." (Considering his own experience with her, though, he sounds entirely unconvinced on this last sentiment.)

"It doesn't matter. I know she doesn't like you and she knows that I know that - and that I'm going to keep picking you over and over again. Eventually, she's just going to give up." Elias does not find this an uplifting thought. He does focus on Jackson and offers a brave smile. "Sorry. I just had to get this off my chest. So, how was your day yesterday?"

"Give up?" Jackson's eye narrows briefly. "Hopefully you mean give up on trying to break us up -- cuz if you mean give up on /you/ then she's just stupid." He presses a firm kiss to Elias's forehead, and then his head bows, expression rather conflicted. "I'm sorry you're having problems with her, hon," he says, tone soft and genuine. His hand seeks out one of Elias's, fingers curling through the older man's. "But -- I -- thank you. For -- for standing up for me. I just wish it didn't make her --" He breaks off, head shaking as he lifts Elias's hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of Eli's knuckles.

"Yeah. I just wish we could all just be friends, but instead of getting over herself and trying to be polite about you - she has the audacity to tell me such horrible things to my face under the facade that she's - fuck. I don't know anymore. It's offensive and not something a friend should do. She's going to have to pick." Anger rises the longer he talks about it, so Eli tries to change the topic. "Of course I'm going to stand up for you. Good fuck. I'd pick you even if I didn't love you. Her behavior is irrational and pathetic. I don't know what bias she is working off of, but this is ridiculous. She's being petty by attempting to destroy your standing with me without example and I believe true cause. All I can figure is that she wants me, but the timing isn't right - anf it will never be if she keeps this up." Eli comes to a full stop and stares at Jackson. "That's not to say I have any inkling to dump you for her - it's just that I could deal with an unspoken crush far better than this shit."

Jackson bites his lip, worried as Elias's anger increases, and continues rubbing Eli's back gently. "I'm sorry she's being like this, hon. I know why she don't like me -- and I've certainly given her reason -- even if it was over a year and a half ago --" His brow creases slightly. "But I don't -- I wish she wouldn't take things out on you like this. I don't -- I know you're close with her an' I don't want things messed up between you. But I -- I ain't about to apologize for existing. Or for being with you." He kisses Elias's knuckles again, soft. "An' I don't know what you can do with her 'sides try. If she's going to hate you just because you don't think exactly the same way as her --" Jackson's nose wrinkles. He tilts his head foreward, lips pressing to Elias's forehead in a soft kiss that he doesn't pull back from, resting with his cheek against Eli's head.

"I'm not going to try today." Eli admits bitterly as he closes his eyes again, holding Jackson close for a minute before burying his face in Jax's shoulder.

"Maybe give it a little time. Maybe give /yourself/ a little time. You don't hardly need someone jumping down your throat now." Jackson's hand slides up to the back of Elias's head, fingers curling through dark hair, and for a while he just holds the older man close, arms steady around him.

"Now? As opposed to when?" Eli's tone is sarcastic as he exhales moodily. The longer that Jackson holds him silently, the more tension dissipates from his body.

"You don't need someone jumping down your throat /ever/," Jackson amends with a wrinkle of his nose, "but with your show coming up an' all --" He shrugs one shoulder, a slight, sparse twitch of motion, and lapses back into silence, still holding Eli against him.

"Ah. Yes. That." Elias sighs and closes his eyes. The tension returns quickly, his teeth biting down on his lower lip. "I don't know if I should pull out and save face or destroy my career with what I've got right now."

"You don't think there's any way you can -- we can -- get things complete in time?" Jackson asks, slowly, turning this over in his mind.

"I have lost confidence in my work and myself. I don't know if I can let anything go out the door like this. I - I don't know. Yes. Maybe." Eli is mildly fitful in Jackson's arms as he considers. "If it goes through and no one buys it, then I will be out a lot of money. I'll need 14 grand to settle the shop and a place to move my equipment to."

"I have confidence in you," Jackson says quietly. "I've seen what you got done, Eli, an' it's great. I ain't saying -- if you feel like pulling out is the right thing to do, then -- do what you have to, but -- but your work is amazing and if you want to show it, I'll help you get it done."

Eli just nods and says nothing more (GOT IT?). He keeps his eyes closed as he rubs Jackson's back.

Jackson kisses Elias's forehead, and holds the older man just a touch closer, silent.

Elias tries to will himself to sleep more, but he only becomes restless.

"Did you eat?" Jackson wonders. "I can make lunch. Or -- I mean. Sorry. I don't even know if you had any plans for the day." His lips twitch into a playful smile. "'sides staying in bed all day with me." (His tone suggests that he is really not that averse to this idea.)

"I had a bagel around 10." Eli sits up a little to get a look at the clock. "I'm not ready for lunch. If you're hungry though, I could nibble on something." Eli settles back down on the mattress, looking over at Jackson. "How do you absolutely, positive know that you love me? How does anyone know?"

"I was thinking of going to visit Norah later, if you --" Jackson glances towards the clock, too, but cuts himself off at Elias's question, his expression puzzled. "I don't know," he says honestly. "It's not like there's some kind of -- test. I mean, I don't know /how/ I know. I just -- /am/ absolutely positive."

Elias nods and changes the topic. "Oh? What's Norah up to these days?" No one has told him anything.

"She's --" Jackson frowns slightly, flicking a glance towards Eli's face. "Oh -- you didn't hear. She's in the hospital." Jackson chews on his lip, expression worried. "She was having some problems an' went to get checked out an' they found something in her brain."

"Oh." Elias' voice is hollow as he considers. "Fuck. Is it operable? Do they know anything yet?"

"I don't know," Jackson says with a shake of his head. He scrubs his hand across his face, sitting up to pull his knees up against his chest and wrap his arms around them. "I don't really know much of anything. Just -- jus' want to go see how she's doing." He forces a smile. "She likes pie. Maybe I'll bring her pie. If she's -- allowed to have pie."

"Dunno. Haven't spent much time in hospitals. Don't know what their rules might be." Elias moves to sit up too, facing Jackson but resting a leg on either side of him. "We can bring her contraband pie regardless." His hands rub Jackson's upper arms as he looks him over.

"We can be pie /smugglers/," Jackson says with a laugh. He rests his hands on Elias's hips and leans back slightly. "What kind of pie is the sneakiest?"

"Possibly one that doesn't fall out of the crust when tipped sideways. Lemon? A custard?" Eli's voice grows tentative as he offers suggestions. "I honestly don't know how that'd work as vegan though. You're the expert on those."

"Key Lime!" Jackson says cheerfully. "I can make a totally delicious Key lime pie." His lips purse thoughtfully. "I don't know. I'll hafta think about this. Decisions about pies ain't to be taken lightly."

"You could always call and ask her. It defeats any surprise factor you were aiming for, but it does guarantee recipient's utter satisfaction." Elias leans forward and rests his head on Jackson's knees quietly. "I would like key lime pie though."

"Would you?" Jackson rests his hand on the back of Elias's head, fingers sliding down to trace against the skin at the nape of his neck. "I can make some, later. If I ever get out of bed." The way he is relaxing back into the mattress, indolent, does not suggest he plans on this /soon/.

Elias doesn't bother moving either. He continues to nuzzle Jackson's knees. "We'd probably have to go shopping too. I really don't want to let you get out of bed either. Too much work. Can you just buy a pie?"

"None so good as what I could make," Jackson says with a laugh. "But I've got stuff at home for other pies. No shopping required." His fingertips continue to play idly against the back of Elias's neck. "Not for a while yet, though. M'kinda enjoying it right where I am."

Eli's arms wrap around Jackson's shins as he pulls them up against his chest as he leans further forward, his chin resting on top of his knees now. "Good. Kind of hard to go shopping with our legs trapped anyway."

"You're keeping my legs prisoner?" Jackson's eye dances with amusement. "What if I need them for something?" He leans forward again, too, forehead resting against Eli's.

"You'll have to ask politely for me to let you go. You might try bartering for the use of your legs again." Eli kisses his kneecap and smiles sleepily. "Or you could just give up and stay with me forever."

"Well -- we've already established that when I get up there is a very high likelihood of pie, so I'm guessing I have to throw in something /more/ than pie to sweeten the pot a bit." Jackson slips two fingers beneath Elias's chin, tilting the older man's head up so that he can kiss Eli on the lips. "Only, what I'm thinking of offering -- well, I don't think it'll make me want to get /out/ of bed."

Eli returns the kiss gently and engagingly, reluctant when he pulls away. "If they would only come up with a blindfolded catering company, we'd never have to leave bed." He releases Jackson's calves so he can sit up and steal another kiss.

"Or just a very -- tolerant one," Jackson says teasingly. He stretches his legs out in front of him, between and beneath Elias's, and wraps his arms around Eli's waist to pull the older man closer. "So -- you let go. Does that mean I hafta pay up now?"

"I was going to find a new grip, but if you want to pay up first, I'm not against it." Elias withdraws a little more and sits up straight, rolling his shoulders.

Jackson slides forward slightly to counter Elias's withdrawal, and his answer doesn't come in words but in another kiss, this one deeper, fiercer. He lies back down, his arms guiding Elias down over him as he does so.

Alyssa, Bahir

Mon, 11 Aug 2008 08:16:27 GMT

Log. Later Sunday morning. 10 August. Al-Razi apartment.

=NYC= Al-Razi Apartment - Morningside Heights - Apartments in the Sky
Newly renovated, the building's facades are crisply architectural; inside and out, the building owes an original debt to Art Deco style, one that has been honored with the recent renovations. Crisp modernity laid in over it leads to a profusion of sleek glass and chrome in the manned lobby and door. Elevators and stairs require either the swipe of a magnetic key or else a buzz from above.

The hallway leading to the door is a softer thing, warmer and inviting in coloring: patterned with herringbone wood, a dark carpet runs down the middle of the hall and mirrors reflect the length and light of the hall back toward the elevator at the other end. Stairs are to either side. Midway down the hall on the fifth floor, a dark wooden door stands in glossy cherry: apartment 519.

Bamboo has been laid down through the front rooms, light shade contrasting the dark cherry of the kitchen twenty feet back. Open to the long room in a flowing sweep of space, the kitchen has black granite counters and brushed aluminum for the new appliances; the walls of the entire space are softly off-white, and the tiles of the kitchen's backsplash are the same shade, accented with intermittent black. A small breakfast bar punctuating the curve of the island counters has become the dining space, although low-backed couches and chairs are nearby. Off the living room, a small hall leads to the right, three doorways branching away for two bedrooms and a bath.

Alyssa emerges looking much the same as she did when she went in, although more damp; her hair has been finger-combed and then braided back, and she moves into the living room to retrieve her pants from over the back of the couch. Thusly dressed, she moves to retrieve her shoes.

RING RING. That is Alyssa's phone. Because Jackson is calling it. He is calling it, in fact, from somewhere in Morningside Heights. Somewhere on Bahir's street! Although he is not outside Bahir's apartment. He is outside an entirely different apartment building, squinting at the number.

Bahir sits forward to ease pants retrieval, barely looking up from the screen. He does, however, look up when Alyssa's phone rings again. It is nothing more than idle, nosy curiosity that prompts the lift of his eyebrows.

"Jackson," Aly explains and answers at the same time, following it up with a "hey," before settling against the back of the couch, her back to Bahir. "You find it okay?"

"I accidentally deleted your text," Jackson says, sheepish expression not visible through the phone but his sheepish tone carrying through well enough. "Erm. What's the street number again? Are you done breakfast?"

Bahir throws paperclips at Alyssa's back, half of which fall between the couch cushions. If he was as smart as he claims, he would've thought that through. But, no: plink, poink, plonk, etc.

Alyssa catches on at teh back of the neck, and reaches to try to ward more projectiles off. It is about as effective as the paperclip throwing exercise in and of itself. "Er," says Aly, then turns slightly to squint down at Bahir. "What's the street number?" Back to Jackson, "Finished up a little bit ago, got a shower."

"Oh. Good." There is a pause, and then Jackson adds: "That you're done, I mean. Not that you had a shower." Another pause. "-- Though I guess that's good, too, if I'm gonna be taking you out in public."

Bahir changes his game, lofting up a trifle higher to send paperclips down the back of Alyssa's shirt. He gives the address again -- or at least, begins, then pauses, frowning, before finishing. He looks mildly annoyed.

Alyssa repeats the address into the phone while attempting to squirm away from Bahir's paperclips. (She could, of course, simply /move/, but that would spoil the game.) She notices the pause, and turns to raise eyebrows at him.

"Oh -- oh! Okay." Right block, wrong side of the street. "Just a minute, then." Jackson hangs up the phone. It is, in fact, less than a minute between this and the sound of the buzzer.

Bahir waves his hand, waiting for Alyssa to finish her conversation, and then leans forward to pick up those paperclips which have fallen near his feet so that he can throw them again. Limited supply. Best to reuse what he can. "I'd prefer it if you didn't give my address out to anyone else," he says as he swings to his feet, crossing over to buzz Jackson in. "Jackson's fine, but -- in general. You know."

Alyssa fishes paperclips out of her shirt and slides them into her pocket. "Oh. Oh, damn, I didn't even-- I knew he'd been to your place before, so I-- no one else. Got it." She toes the ground, waiting while Bahir does the buzzing thing.

Jackson takes stairs, rather than elevator, and so it takes a bit for him to get up to Bahir's apartment and knock briskly on the door. He is dressed for church: dark slacks, deep red button-down shirt, but the clothing is more rumpled than his norm; the fact that his head is shaved, at least, saves him from looking that much /more/ unkempt. Large sunglasses shade the shadows of his eye, but the pallor of the rest of his face is still visible. He is restless outside the door, shifting from one foot to the other and fidgeting with the cellphone still in his hands.

"I moved," says Bahir mildly, glancing over his shoulder. "For a reason." He spends the time waiting by fetching the rest of the paperclips from the couch. Also, change! When Jackson knocks, he scoops up Duha, cat already waking to head for the door. Pinning her against his hip, he leaves Alyssa to get the door.

Alyssa's expression is still apologetic, but she offers Duha an ear-scritch on her way toward the door. "I didn't realize," she's saying as she opens it, still looking at Bahir as she's framed in the doorway. She smiles as she turns back, tugging on the hem of her shirt as she greets, "Hey, Jax."

"Hey." Jackson's smile is warm enough, if rather tired. He flicks a glance past Aly in the doorway to Bahir. "And hey. Are you done with Aly? Cuz I want to steal her." He chews on his lip for a brief second before adding: "I could steal you, too. -- Hm. I don't even know where to get good coffee around here."

"Morning," calls Bahir, jangling a fistful of paper clips. So long as they dawdle in the doorway, he keeps his hold on the armful of fur. B"You can take her, but the better question would be to ask if she is done with me." He glances at Alyssa with half -- no, perhaps closer to a quarter smile, shrugging off the matter of addresses. "There are a couple good coffee places in the area, though, with Columbia nearby. That's the closest," he adds, nodding to ... his kitchen!

Alyssa ushers Jackson in, just far enough that she can close the door behind him, and nod to Bahir -- or rather to Duha. "He's actually not kidding, about the coffee. Did you want to go somewhere, or--" Aly looks like she might be wary about pushing the bounds of this newfound peace treaty between herself and Bahir.

"The closest is -- oh. Oh!" It takes a second for Jackson's rather exhausted mind to follow this, and the quirk of his grin is sheepish for the delay. "Well, I mean, if it ain't no trouble -- or I could take y'all somewhere." His hands spread in front of him -- either/or! His head tilts slightly at Aly. "-- /Are/ you done with him?"

"Thank you," Bahir says to Alyssa, chin tipped up in regal fashion. When the door closes, he drops the armful of fur, who goes over to nose at the door forlornly. It is closed. "I wanted to get some stuff done before taking care of something later, so I probably shouldn't go anywhere, but making coffee here is fine. It's not a problem. By all means, however, do not feel obligated to use up more of my precious stash--!" He waves a hand, indulgent.

"That means if we want Bahir, we gotta stay -- I'll replace anything we drink," Aly makes the you-are-bitchy face at Bahir, "or something." Look at her being indecisive!

Jackson's smile flashes warmer, brighter, and he tilts his head in a nod of acceptance. "Thanks, Bahir. That'd be great." He takes a step further in, though he pauses there to look down at Duha, crouching then to hold a hand out in an attempt to cajole her closer. "I was in the middle of making coffee this morning, but it got interrupted by crazy."

Duha does not require over-much cajoling. After all, perhaps Jackson will open the door again and let her out! She slips over toward Jackson, bypassing his hand to twine around his feet. A small, lean cat, the tabby markings on her face give way to blotchy spots of dark across the tawny gold of her body. Her features are just slightly exotic, and she is a complete flirt, though sparing with purrs.
But she is not the important one! That is Bahir, who tips his head in Alyssa's direction with a significant arch of his eyebrows. Lest this provoke any crazy anywhere, he clarifies by asking, "Same sort of crazy Alyssa was telling me about?" as he heads for the kitchen to make with the coffee making.

Alyssa answers Bahir with an eyebrow wiggle and a half-shrug, one shoulder hitching up as she follows him to the kitchen. "Good thing I didn't spend the night there, then, or I'd still be mumbling."

"Same -- which was Aly telling -- oh. No. Different crazy. Houseguest-crazy." There's a strain in Jackson's words that hints at a lot more to it than this non-explanation, but he doesn't offer as he trails after the others to lean against the breakfast bar. "Things with Eli were okay. This morning, anyway. M'sorry about last night," he adds to Alyssa, as if it were somehow his fault.

Bahir gives Jackson a sudden, suspicious look as he pours beans into the coffee grinder and starts it up. Over the noise, he calls, "I wanted to ask you about the guest of yours, actually. What's going on with that?"

Alyssa is silent on the housegues subject, but her lips compress into a thin line, and she folds her arms over her chest. "Not your place to apologize," she tells Jackson, then makes the same slightly orgasmic god-that's-good-coffee noise she made earlier this morning, as the grinder starts up.

"I don't know. Eli bought him pizza once or something. He was crashing at my place for a bit, but --" Jackson shrugs a shoulder, and chews on his lip, one hand lifting to scrub at his cheek. "Gone now. He had some trouble with people an' they came looking for him. I feel a little guilty for not being -- more upset."

"Neither of you has as much sense as a fucking puppy," Bahir mutters, rattling through his cabinets after mugs. "Do you take anything with your coffee? Sugar, milk?"

"Thought we'd already established that," Aly tells Bahir, her voice vaguely amused. "'least no one's kickin', anymore -- people came /looking/ for him, Jax?" This is somewhat baffling! "Why would anyone want a ca-- nngh." Self-editting, she makes big eyes at Bahir. "Yes. And yes."

"Sugar, please -- no milk." Jackson's nose wrinkles slightly at Bahir's muttering, cheeks tinting faintly pink. "Probably not," he accedes. "He's gone now, anyway, though I don't know what they /want/ --" He shrugs again. "I felt guiltier still for -- it was the first time in a while Eli ain't been freaking out about something or other. I was too relieved at that to be concerned enough about Amadeus's issues."

Sugar comes in two forms: white and raw. Milk is just milk, 2% fat and 100% cow boob juice. After getting it out, Bahir goes to deal with the rest of coffee preparation, and then waits. Brew, brew, brew. "How's he been? Do you know if he followed up at all on that name I gave him?"

Alyssa's eyes light up at the sight of the raw sugar; she awaits Jackson's answer just as eagerly, focusing on the coffeemaker as it brews. Mmmm.

"Not yet -- but he was thinking about it. I think he might soon. He's been --" Jackson hesitates, head tipping downwards before he admits: "I'm worried. Like -- /really/ worried. I hope she can help."

"She's good." Shutting down on that, Bahir rolls his shoulder in a shrug. Brew, brew, brew. "If you're worried about him, then do something about it. Help him get help. Get help /for/ him. I've always believed in action over speech."

Alyssa is quiet through this, shifting vaguely closer to Bahir in her investigation of the coffeemaker. Bump.

"The way he flipped out at Aly -- he does that pretty much always, now. Over -- totally nonsensical things. Like accusing me of trying to steal his sketches to start my own fashion line. Or wearing a wire so I can spy on him." Jackson's arms cross over his chest, fingers picking restlessly at the fabric of his sleeve. "Norah'd been joking earlier -- before it got /so/ bad -- about brain cancer, but that ain't really sounding so funny anymore. I'm gonna make sure he sees her soon but if it gets any worse -- maybe -- maybe get his head checked in an -- /actual/ way."

"Ah--mm." Bahir quiets, reaching over to pick up the pot of coffee as it finishes so that he can pour three cups. He adds nothing to his own, taking it and drifting out of the kitchen and around the counter to take a seat at one of the high stools by the breakfast bar. He leaves the other two prepare their coffee as they like.

Alyssa takes her first sip before she puts anything in, purring slightly over the bitter brew. Even black, it is /good/. She adds sugar and milk to taste, then puts the milk back in the fridge. "I didn't realize you were worried about --" she waves her free hand to indicate her head, then makes her way toward Bahir.

"Thanks," Jackson says, for the coffee, as he spoons raw sugar into his own mug. "I didn't -- at first I just thought it was a lot of other things. Maybe it /is/ a lot of other things. There's certainly enough else to be stressed about." He quiets, then, too, slipping around to take a seat to one side of Bahir, cradling his mug in his hands and inhaling deeply.

"If it helps, no abnormalities appeared in the scans we did back in December, when he participated in the clinical trials. If Elias needs it, he can have copies of those records," Bahir offers. He sets his mug down, letting it rest on the counter. "I've got the facilities for MRIs at the lab, but I'm not qualified to diagnose any real problem. Access to the recent scans might help, though, if-- er, you know."

"Did mine say anything interesting about /my/ brain?" Aly asks, less than helpful all around. She continues to stand, sipping carefully at her coffee.

Jackson nods, a tired smile ghosting across his expression. "Thanks. It's the -- suddenness that worries me. Things were normal and then just --" His fingers flick out and up, spreading wide -- this, apparently, is meant to indicate sudden-onset insanity. "If he has a /rectangle/ in his brain I think it's the universe gone crazy and not Eli," he adds, nose wrinkling as he looks down into his coffee.

"Enhanced activity in the occipital lobe as compared to a baseline sample in response to visual stimuli," Bahir says promptly. "About what you'd expect, in other words." He grimances in Jackson's direction. "Talked to Norah, then? Adel's going to visit her later today. It's probably stress, with Elias. Some kind of breakdown, maybe. If he won't listen to you, and get help, then like I said before: get it for him."

Alyssa processes this, grinning to herself. "Huh," says the Aly. "Neat." She considers her mug for a while, then adds, "Look, I don't know if I in any way ... like, contributed to this. But if I did, I'm sorry."

"I've gotta go see her soon. An' I will." Jackson fidgets uncomfortably on his chair and takes a sip of coffee before answering Alyssa uncertainly: "Maybe. Maybe we both did. But also the show and -- the end of the /world/ --" He fidgets again, and then, with a sudden brighter flare of curiosity (and maybe a touch of subject-changing) he adds to Bahir: "You've studied mutants a lot, right? D'you know if it's possible for someone to be /allergic/?"

There is an edge to Bahir's smile, and to his low laugh. He shakes his head, and puts on his innocent did-not-fuck-with-Ryan face. "To mutants in general? Probably not. It's possible that some mutants might produce allergenic compounds as a part of their mutation, but we'd have heard of it before if the X-Factor generally encoded for the production of something that people were sensitive to." He siiips his coffee. "Anyway. It doesn't matter whose /fault/ it is. What matters is what you do to fix it."

"...weird," is all Aly has to say on this subject. La la.

"We're working out our issues. Now just the -- getting him other help part." Jackson takes a longer drink of coffee, exhaling a contented breath afterwards. "It seemed weird to me. Maybe that guy says 'allergic' but he really actually means 'repulsed'. Unless I'm an allergen!" He sounds rather intrigued by this concept.

"I still think it is unlikely, but interestingly, he does /not/ react to all mutants." Bahir eyes Jackson curiously, glancing over at Alyssa to make sure that, in relative silence, she is not causing trouble. "Do you know the guy's name, by the way? Ryan something? Or how to get in touch with him?"

Alyssa wiggles her fingers at Bahir, when he looks over. Nope, no trouble here! She does, at least, appear to be intrigued by their conversation.

"In the bar the other day I think he was saying he was reacting to me -- but then again," Jackson muses thoughtfully, "I was hardly the only mutant there -- maybe just the only one he knew about so I got the glaring." His lips twitch into a dry smile, and he shakes his head. "Sorry. I only met him cuz I ran into him while he was on his way to go paste up posters telling people who I am an' where I live. You could join CPAM!" The teasing cast to his tone makes this suggestion far from a serious one.

"You can't blame them for being afraid, even if they are morons about it." Draining the last of his coffee, Bahir wrinkles his nose at Alyssa. "Is he a member of that CPAM group?"

Alyssa wrinkles her nose right back. "I have no idea who you guys are talking about," she explains, because some seems to be necessary, "so I'm just drinkin' my coffee."

"Yeah -- but seriously, what am /I/ gonna do? I realize I have a horribly vicious an' violent temperament, but when I really lose control, I -- y'know. /Glow/ at people." Jackson's tone is amused, though, as he adds: "I glow very /threateningly/. An' yeah. He is. Maybe I'd be, too, if I had /mutant allergies/." As an afterthought, he supplies, rather unhelpfully for Aly's (non) benefit: "Some guy."

Bahir gives a shake of his head. "You glow, she blinks. Harmless as that is, it could still be deadly in the wrong circumstances, and there are a lot of mutants who aren't that harmless. You have to acknowledge that there is a reason for their fear before you can really do something about it." He sounds ... not amused! After all, he /is/ a dangerous mutant.

Something loosens in the way Aly stands, and she blinks at Bahir -- not that blink, just a normal, everyday one -- before reaching out to prod a finger at the back of his neck. << And you think, >> she thinks very loudly, << and hear. >> She withdraws her hand, and says out loud, "I guess, sometimes -- maybe having gone to Xavier's didn't actually do us any favors. In terms of, you know, not really /getting/ it when people are freaked out by mutations."

"No," Jackson answers Alyssa suddenly, lips thinning as he looks down into his coffee. "I /get/ it." His posture tenses, and he tries very hard /not/ to think -- not out of uncomfortableness with the telepath but out of consideration: rather unpleasant memories that he would rather not surface. His fingers tighten around his coffee mug. "I didn't mean to make light," he says to Bahir. "I think what they're doing is totally wrong, but I understand where it comes from."

<< I think very well, too, >> Bahir answers Alyssa with a thin note of quiet humor. "In terms of favors done, Xavier's probably does more good than harm for young mutants. When mutants get freaked out by their own mutations, bad stuff happens." He taps his fingers against the side of his coffeemug, eyeing Jackson. He tips his head. "I don't agree with what they are doing, either. I registered. I still wouldn't want my name on a poster."

Alyssa smiles into her mug, the expression all for Bahir. "I didn't know until this morning," she says, looking up at him on the sly. "I don't get it," she admits after a moment, "because my parents, they weren't freaked, you know? They've apparently known all of my life, and then Jean Grey showed up at our door with brochures, and it was like, oh, well, okay. And the stuff that'd started to happen made more sense." One shoulder lifts, then falls. "I didn't register."

Jackson's tight expression softens with a brief flicker of a quiet smile. It fades into solemnity as he looks up, Bahir and Alyssa both reflected in the lenses of his sunglasses. "I wouldn't want your name on a poster, either." He finishes his coffee, though he keeps the still-warm mug cradled in his hands. "My folks were freaked. I was freaked. Pretty much everyone I knew was -- I mean. Mutants are sort've freaky."

Bahir stares at Alyssa somewhat blankly. "You-- wait, what? You didn't know? Adel didn't--." He looks flustered, and then annoyed. He says, "Well, fuck." Scratching at the line of his jaw, he eyes her in mild exasperation, before twitching half a smirk at Jackson. "That, they are. Anyway, I'm not trying to chase you guys out of here, except that is exactly what I am doing. I need to finish reviewing some articles. Let me know if I should send over the MRI info from this winter for Elias."

Alyssa rolls her eyes. "Please. Like Adel ever told me anything." She can take a not so subtly delivered hint, though, so she reaches around him to collect his empty mug, then heads toward the dishwasher. "Thanks for lettin' us stay," gets offered, "and, you know, the coffee and whatnot. Let me know what you get, and I'll show up with some some other time." She eyebrow-wiggles at Jackson, then jerks her ehad toward the 'washer. His cup goes in, too.

"I'll let you know. And yes -- thank you," Jackson echoes, lifting the mug in indication before getting up and relinquishing his cup to be dishwashered. "'specially all uninvited. Next time I'll get you coffee. Only probably somewhere /out/ cuz mine at home isn't ever half so good." He heads back for the door, pausing on the way only to offer Bahir a brief and lopsided sideways hug.

"Fucking /huggers/." Bahir sort of man-pats Jackson's shoulder, awkward. His tone is exasperated-cranky, rather than angry-rageful, and he gives Alyssa a warning look before she can get the bright idea to add the other half to Jackson's lopsided, sideways hug. "You're welcome." Then, he must reclaim Duha so that they can head out without worrying about her making a run for it. "Good luck," he adds, as though convinced they will need it.

Alyssa contents herself with giving Bahir a knowing look, a she'll get him later look, and ruffling Duha's ears on her way out the door. "Thanks," she tells him again, "'cause we'll probably need it."

Amadeus, Elias

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 22:18:44 GMT

Log. Sunday morning. 10 August. Jackson's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 340 |Jackson| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
Unlike its tattooed, pierced, brightly clothed and glitteringly makeup-ed occupant, the decor in this apartment is subdued and minimalist. Black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome. Though the apartment is small, but kept obsessively cleaned and free of clutter to lend it a more spacious feel than its size would suggest.
The tiny entrance hall -- a shoe rack by the door to collect footwear from all visitors (and keep polished floors gleaming) -- opens onto a living room whose back wall is dominated by large, airy windows. To the right, the tiny kitchen, black tile separated from the living room's hardwood floors by black countertops; a breakfast nook sits in back, along the windows, cushioned windowseats in place of dining chairs. To the left, doors open to bathroom and small bedroom. In the far back corner of the living room, rows of shelves and cabinets are laden with neatly organized art supplies; in front of the windows, a large easel is set up with a stool in front to take advantage of the natural light.
A couch, upholstered with black corduroy and facing windows and easel, is the main piece of furniture in the room; a low black coffee table sits in front of it with small end tables at each arm. In one corner there is a computer desk with a desktop set up, and against the wall beside it, a futon. Large black and red cushions piled by the windows provide comfortable pillowing when seated on the floor. Ever-present in the apartment is the lingering smell of painting; turpentine and oil paints mingling in a pervasive caustic odor that never quite fades away.

It's been a long day of hard work, long hours, earning... alright, so maybe Amadeus has just been asleep all day, holding the bag of catnip close to him after he and the bag had been missing for an entire day. There's cat paws all over the kitchin counter and unopened cans pushed on to the floor as if the cat had been trying to open them; Though their cat isn't quite the guilty party, the evidence once again leads to Amadeus, the couch covered in orange and brown fur.

Jackson has been up for a while -- well, really, just hasn't slept yet. What he /has/ done is walked the dogs, showered, changed from work-clothes into church-clothes. Half of church clothes, anyway, as it's early yet; at the moment he is in slacks and an undershirt, emerging from his bedroom to go boot up his computer. While it boots, he heads to the kitchen to grab a drink -- but pauses at the threshhold, surveying the mess with raised eyebrows.

Elias appears from the bedroom shortly after Jackson, wearing a similar ensemble - only boxers instead of slacks and his undershirt is sleeveless. He yawns as he stumbles into the kitchen and leans against the wall, silently pleading for coffee. His attention turns from pawing at Jackson to staring at the kitchen as well. "I didn't do it."

"Damn cars, stop moving; Teenagers with firecrackers!" Amadeus exclaims before he suddenly falls over on to the floor with a loud *thump*, then he opens his eyes, yawning and sitting up. "Hey, I'm home again, I wonder when I got dressed..."

"I'd be very surprised if you'd suddenly developed a taste for cat food," Jackson answers, amused. He flicks a glance from the mess to Elias to Amadeus, and then heads further into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee brewing, pecking Elias lightly on the cheek on the way. "Thankfully," he calls, lifting his voice just enough to carry over the coffee grinder as he grinds fresh beans, "apparently some time before I had to see you /un/dressed."

"We appreciate you desire to be clothed." Elias drawls sarcastically to Amadeus before following Jax into the kitchen, wrapping his arms around him and nuzzling his neck. People watching? Who cares!

Amadeus stands up, wearing his shirt inside out with the tag sticking out of the front, unzipped jeans (but don't worry, there's boxer shorts under), and poorly tied black sneakers. He walks into the kitchen, scratching and yawning. "What are you guys doing? You cooking breakfast? Hey, are eggs vegan? I'd like some eggs."

"Vegan means no animal products and -- um. Chickens are animals." Jackson leans back into Elias's embrace, at least for the duration of the coffee-bean-grinding, though once that is done he pulls away to actually get everything brewing. "I don't normally cook breakfast till after church but I could make you something. If you clean up the mess you made in here."

"Oh, you know. Couply things." Elias enjoys the embrace until Jackson moves away. Then he scowls and moves back, clearing one counter before hoisting himself up onto it to sit. His gaze drifting toward Amadeus as he draws closer.

"Dude, um, totally habeas corpse! A /cat/ did that, you have a cat, you aint' see /me/ as a cat, right? So like, there's no cat body except yours, so your cat did it!" This is how the law works! He then walks closer to the coffee maker, leaning against the counter to inhale the scent of brewing. "And hey, I thought like, pizz-erm, Elias wasn't vegan? So like, don't you eat eggs?" he asks Elias, lifting his head to meet his gaze.

"Sprite didn't do this, man," Jackson says, eye narrowing, but only briefly. He moves over to lean against the counter beside where Eli sits, one hand resting on Elias's knee and his head dropping to rest against Eli's side, rather exhausted after too long gone with lots of work and no sleep. "Come /on/. The least you could do while you're here is have enough respect to clean up after yourself."

"And it's habeas corpus - unless of course you'd rather we had a dead body." Eli wraps his arm around Jackson's shoulder, his fingers rubbing against his fuzzy skull. "And I have eggs. They're down stairs, if Aly didn't eat them all, but you're not getting any until this kitchen is clean. Don't fuck with Jax when he hasn't slept yet."

"Oh fine, I'll clean it up. I just had to go telling all my cat business..." Amadeus grunts, pouts, huffs and puffs, but finally he walks over to the sink and wets a rag, first picking up the knocked over cats of cat food and stacking them, then he begins to wipe the counter where Elias isn't sitting. That's when the bell rings!

Jackson's eye slips closed, and for a moment he doesn't answer, just slumping further, tired, against Elias. "Thank you," he says, lips twitching into a smile though he doesn't open his eye again. He does crack his eye back open at the sound of the buzzer, though. His movements are sluggish and very reluctant as he pulls himself away from Elias to head for the intercom by the front door and answer: "Hello?"

Elias releases Jackson reluctantly as he sighs, turning his eyes to Amadeus. Yep. Nothing to say.

Amadeus continues cleaning, and the person on the intercom says, "We know Amadeus is in there, so send him out, say we have some money for him." in a scruffy not-very-convincing sarcastic tone. One can just /hear/ the grin on the guy's face.

Jackson frowns at the intercom, releasing the talk button so he can talk to Amadeus without being overheard outside: "Yo. Amadeus. Did you catch that? I -- have this weird feeling he don't /actually/ want to give you money."

"What the fuck?" Elias hops down from the counter and inches toward the window, peeking out but possibly not having a view of the front of the building. "Call the police now. Report suspicious individuals outside." 'Cause you know they'll be here any second to respond to that.

"Shit shit shit, hell!" Amadeus drops the rag and walks into the living room, looking around for something he can use as a weapon. No guns, well, that sucks. "I know what kinda guys they are, they'll bust in here if we take too long. Maybe if there's like a fire escape, I can climb out and run, then you guys can say I ran and they'll try and find me." he suggests, at least that's the /theory/ of what'll happen.

Jackson's brow creases with worry at Amadeus's response, and he is nervous as he looks at the intercome, as if /it/ perhaps will suddenly attack. "Fire escape's there," he says, head tipping in a nod towards the large windows along the back wall. "Are you gonna be -- do you have anywhere to /go/?" His hand scrubs against a cheek that has rapidly gone from pale to paler.

"Go. And don't come back." That came out a little more harshly than intended (perhaps). Elias heads back to the bedroom to find his pants. "Go up to the roof and wait 'til they come inside then." He returns a moment later with pants and a sheet. Exciting.

"Don't got anywhere to go, I'll just lay low as a cat for a while." Amadeus decides as he quickly makes a run for the window, opening it and climbing out. "I'm coming back for more of that expensive catfood though!" he calls back through the window, climbing down the escape. Suddenly there's gunfire and the sound of a bullet bouncing off metal. "You think we're stupid?" the tall scruffy guy wearing an old bowling shirt says as he aims his pistol up for another shot.

Jackson flinches at the sound of the gunshot, and the light in the room shivers unstably. At first he shies back against the door, but then makes the sign of the cross and creeps over to the windows to try and see outside without being seen, gaze flickering down to the street.

"Good fuck, don't you realize that they know where to find you now?" Elias is flabbergasted, grabbing Jackson and pulls him away from the window, protectively. He looks around for Amadeus as he digs in his pocket for his cellphone. "You think I'm paranoid now?"

When Amadeus is close to the ground, he suddenly jumps the rail after another gunshot, making the transformation into a slender Tortoiseshell cat. He almost begins to run, but then another guy jumps out from behind a dumpster, this one is shorter, bald, and doesn't seem to have much meat on his bones; He grabs the cat by the scruff, holding it up and laughing. "Boss was right, he /is/ a mutie. Let's get 'em to the car and in the cage." With that, the guys run off, getting into an 84 convertible parked in the alley if Elias or Jackson knows anything about cars.

"Oh --" There might be a profanity that was meant to come after that, but Jackson's mouth clamps shut tight on it. "No," he admits to Elias, though his gaze is still locked on the window as Amadeus is dragged off to the car. "They /took him/." For a second he tenses in preparation for movement: it seems almost like he might follow right out the window and down the fire escape, but the impulse is aborted.

Elias dials up the police department and asks for: "Mutant Affairs, please." While put on hold, he shakes his head, eyes following Jackson as he peers out the window. "Did you see the license plate?"

Jackson sinks down to sit on the cushions by the window, head dropping to rest against the glass. "Yeah," he says, tired, and rattles it off to Elias, his mutation printing it in black characters on the glass pane along with his words. He scrubs a rather shaky hand against his eye. "What do you think they'll --" he starts, but doesn't finish, instead just looking back out the window.

"No fucking clue. Ah. Yes." Apparently, the phone picks up because Elias changes topic. "I need to report the kidnapping of a mutant."

Amadeusnapping.

Alyssa, Elias

Sun, 10 Aug 2008 09:03:07 GMT

Log. Saturday evening. 9 August. Jackson's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 340 |Jackson| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
Unlike its tattooed, pierced, brightly clothed and glitteringly makeup-ed occupant, the decor in this apartment is subdued and minimalist. Black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome. Though the apartment is small, but kept obsessively cleaned and free of clutter to lend it a more spacious feel than its size would suggest.
The tiny entrance hall -- a shoe rack by the door to collect footwear from all visitors (and keep polished floors gleaming) -- opens onto a living room whose back wall is dominated by large, airy windows. To the right, the tiny kitchen, black tile separated from the living room's hardwood floors by black countertops; a breakfast nook sits in back, along the windows, cushioned windowseats in place of dining chairs. To the left, doors open to bathroom and small bedroom. In the far back corner of the living room, rows of shelves and cabinets are laden with neatly organized art supplies; in front of the windows, a large easel is set up with a stool in front to take advantage of the natural light.
A couch, upholstered with black corduroy and facing windows and easel, is the main piece of furniture in the room; a low black coffee table sits in front of it with small end tables at each arm. In one corner there is a computer desk with a desktop set up, and against the wall beside it, a futon. Large black and red cushions piled by the windows provide comfortable pillowing when seated on the floor. Ever-present in the apartment is the lingering smell of painting; turpentine and oil paints mingling in a pervasive caustic odor that never quite fades away.

Hangover or no hangover, Jackson still has a job to get to -- two, really, and he is rather relieved to be /finished/ with one of them by the time he gets home. Too little sleep and too much alcohol is not the best way to get through the work day, and it /shows/ when Jackson arrives back at his apartment -- posture slumping and face pale and haggard, eyes shadowed when he takes off his sunglasses. A shift at work also means plenty of time to brood over the previous night's events, and /that/ shows, too, in his rather stony silence as he enters, leaning heavily against the wall to take his shoes off.

After everyone else has come and gone, Elias is still in bed, a plate of toast near by and plenty of water. He lies rather still, aside from the way his left hand clasps and unclasps, his eyes fixed on it. When the door opens, his gaze slides in that direction, but he still does nothing. Pasty pale and sweaty, he stuffs the left hand back under the sheet and pretends to sleep.

Jackson is still silent as he heads first to the kitchen to get himself a large glass of water and fill the animals' water dishes as well. He downs his own water in a looooong gulp, and refills the glass once more before grabbing a packet of vitamin powder and heading with both to his bedroom. He lingers in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe and watching Elias steadily.

Elias can only pretend to sleep for so long before he starts casting glances around to check his surroundings. With Jackson moving as silently as he is, Elias is shocked to find him in the door way. He still makes an attempt at pretending to sleep, but it only lasts a second before he recognizes the futility. He turns it into a stretch and a groan, with both hands pressing to his head.

"I should just pour this onto your face," Jackson says, with too-bright cheer. He, of course, does not do this. He pours the vitamin powder in and shakes the glass gently to let it dissolve, and then pushes himself away from the doorway to offer the glass out to Eli.

Elias eyes Jackson suspiciously but reaches out to take the glass. His hand is rigid and claw like as it moves over the mattress, but it doesn't get half way before it curls into a fist. Eli stares at it and squeezes it before stretching it out and squeezing it again. He brings brings his right hand out and covers the left, both shaking a little as he looks up at Jackson. "Not sure I can hold anything."

"Huh? -- Oh." Jackson's eye flicks to Elias's hand, a trace of worry crossing his face. "Here." He seems somewhat reluctant in his movements, but goes to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching out a hand to slip beneath Elias's shoulders to try and coax him upright.

Elias shies away at first, eyeing Jackson suspiciously, but his attention is soon drawn back to the drink and he acquiesces, leaning into Jackson's arm and shuffling up against his body.

Jackson's nose wrinkles slightly as Elias moves closer, but he says nothing. He lifts the glass to Elias's lips to let the man drink.

Elias drinks carefully, vitamin water sloshing over his cheeks. He finishes as quickly as he can and waits for Jackson to pull the glass away before he starts to lay down again.

Jackson stands again once Elias is done, and his fingers tap restlessly against the side of the glass. His lips thin as he looks down at Elias. "What have you eaten today?" His words come out rather stilted and uncomfortable.

"Um. Nothing." Elias curls back up into a ball hands rubbing the heels into his temples. "Look, I'll go. Okay. I'll just... um, leave and be hungover down stairs. You don't have to worry about me." Fumbling fingers start to pull the sheets away to reveal a man wearing a sleeveless undershirt and boxers.

"I'm pretty sure I'll worry about you no matter where you are." Jackson's eyebrows hitch upwards. "An' it ain't like I'm gonna /keep/ you here, but you /know/ taking off isn't going to fix anything, right?"

"She was just so... soft," Elias reflects as he leans against the wall, fingers rubbing against his temples. "It was only one kiss and it wasn't anything but friendly. She hates me now anyway. I'm sorry." Knees draw up against his chest as he rubs, jaw setting. "Don't want to hurt you."

Jackson leans back against the doorframe, hand scrubbing against his face. His shoulder slump, and for a moment his expression /does/ hold an impossible amount of hurt. His gaze drops to the floor, and he takes a deep breath. "I think you really need to apologize to her."

"I will - but you're more important." Eli is quiet as he looks at Jackson's feet.

"I doubt /she'd/ think so," Jackson says with a wry twist of an entirely humorless smile. He flicks a glance up to Elias again and then looks away with a badly repressed shudder. He squeezes his eye shut, pressing the palm of his hand against it.

"What?" Eli looks up stunned.

"It's just -- really bad timing, Eli." Jackson's words hitch in the middle, the latter half exhaled on a decidedly shaky breath.

"Bad timing? What the hell. Bad timing. Fuck. So, what? If I had kissed her two days ago, it would have been fine? Instead of driving her from my apartment because she was being all weird and freakish and cookie bringing and I'm the best person in the world?" Eli snaps as he shakes his head. "I don't give a fuck what she thinks about you."

"Bad timing because just yesterday afternoon she'd gone off on me about how I'm a horrible boyfriend and I treat you like --" Jackson hesitates on one word, head shaking. "Treat you badly," he continues, unwilling to repeat profanity. "And you should've dumped me ages ago because I suck. It ain't that it would've been okay otherwise, just -- that it sort've compounds the sting."

"She did what?" Elias frowns, shaking his head. "That just ... can't... I don't - what?" He rubs at his temples before grumbling, "Come here."

"I ran into her in the afternoon," Jackson explains tiredly, moving back to sit on the bed again, posture just as slumped. "She just -- was saying how I -- treat you bad an' you should've -- kicked me to the curb ages ago and --" His head shakes, and he rubs at his eye again, unwilling to let fall the tears that brighten it. "So I don't -- just was already feeling kind of --" His shoulders hitch up in a jerky shrug. "And then the whole kissing thing --"

Elias moves away from the wall and wraps his tired, twitchy body around Jackson's, mouth resting against his shoulder (so he doesn't have to smell it). "Look. I was just - fuck. Doesn't matter. I can't believe she did that. Look. She's not dating you. I am. So you should just care what I think, right?"

"Yeah," Jackson says quietly, reluctantly, his body tense against Elias's. "But it's hard to know -- I mean, you're her friend -- you talk to her -- she wouldn't've just said that if there weren't something /wrong/ that she'd heard already." A brief pause, his brow furrowing. "Or, well -- maybe she would've, I don't know. But I just -- feel like there's a lot of improvement I could make an' I don't know if --" He shrugs again, one shoulder lifting and his words hesitant. "Going out with me an' kissing other people don't exactly speak to -- being really happy with things between us, y'know?"

"I freaked out at her because of the thing with Aly. Good fuck. I was worried about her and hadn't seen her in days and you don't talk about her anymore - but I don't know how that -" Eli talks around the ideas, his eyes closing as he buries his face in Jackson's back. "Gah. She's driving me crazy. She won't say out loud that she likes me, gets upset when I kiss her, but tries to destroy my relationship by giving you hell?" Eli hugs Jackson a little tighter. "I won't let it happen."

"Oh." Jackson takes a moment to process this, and he relaxes -- veeeery slightly -- in Elias's arms. "So you don't -- you ain't -- I mean, with how stressful everything's been -- an' then everything she said on top of it -- I've just been so worried I make things /worse/." He shifts position, turning to face Elias and resting his head against Eli's chest.

"Fuck, Jackson - if I didn't want you, why would I be here?" Eli wraps his arms around Jackson's shoulders and looks around behind him, fingers convulsing into the muscles. "Even if you got me killed, I'd probably stay with you."

"I don't --" Jackson tenses again at this, shoulders stiffening beneath Elias's arms. "I know things are -- scary with -- those posters and -- /everything/. But you -- I wouldn't /never/ give anyone your name or -- or /anything/, okay? Just -- just know that. M'trying to stay out of trouble. I don't want to make any trouble for you either."

"Oh, I know. I just have to worry about them following you home and killing me without your knowledge." Eli almost sounds chipper about this, holding Jackson closer and pressing kisses to his head.

"Eli -- /don't/ --" Jackson's voice is ragged. His face turns to press against Elias's shirt, and he takes a few deep steadying breaths. "I get so scared sometimes, of -- anything happening to you."

"You should be," There's absolutely nothing reassuring about Elias' response.

Jackson answers this with silence, face burrowing further into Eli's shirt.

"We could have sex, but my head hurts too much, my body's fucked and my breath smells." The offer is implicite anyway. He sighs and rubs Jackson's back, eyes drifting to the doorway suspiciously.

Jackson laughs, though the sound is strained and ragged too. "I'll get you something for your head. An' the aches," he murmurs, though he doesn't immediately seem to want to move. "You'd -- you'll -- talk to me, if there are really -- if we're having -- if I'm doing things really /wrong/, right?"

"I'll tell you. I'm an asshole, remember? I don't /not/ tell people things. You do have to stop being so fucking submissive outside of the bedroom though," Elias tosses in a hint of criticism in to prove his point, eyes squeezing shut to ward off the pain in his head.

"Okay." Whether this is acceding to the criticism or simply acknowledging Elias's response to his question isn't certain. Jackson pulls back slightly and presses a kiss to Elias's temple. His lips quirk into a lopsided smile. "Should I make you get your /own/ headache remedy, then?"

"We're in the bedroom, asshole," Eli replies, a hint of mirth in his grumpy visage.

Jackson laughs, and this time the sound is just a hint easier and more genuine. "I'll hafta leave the bedroom to get you tea. Or aspirin. Whichever you prefer." He kisses Elias again before detaching himself to slip off the bed. "So I'll have to -- head out the doorway an' /then/ turn around and make you get it yourself."

"Fuck." Eli crawls off the bed and heads for the door. His legs don't seem to want to work properly, since, as he starts moving across the floor, they collapse out from underneath him and he has to start crawling. Which he does. He doesn't head for the kitchen or the apartment door, but to the bathroom.

Jackson winces, and stoops to loop an arm under Elias's shoulders and help steady him. "I would've actually gotten it for you, y'know," he says, the worry in his expression undercut by the hint of amusement in his tone.

"My feet are asleep. I have to use the toilet." Embarrassed and annoyed, Eli continues to stumble, even with Jackson's help. "You are not holding my penis so I can take a wizz." He aims for the toilet and pulls his boxers down, sitting to pee.

"Oh," Jackson says with an apologetic dip of his head. "Aright. Let me go heat water for tea. D'you want aspirin, too?" Despite not using it much himself, it /is/ present with the rest of his first-aid supplies!

"Yes." Eli remains where he is even though he's done relieving himself. His hands slide up to his head and rubs against temples again. "More vitamin powder too."

"'kay." Jackson's fingers brush brief against Elias's shoulder before he slips out of the room. He sets a kettle on the stove to heat first, then refills the glass and mixes another helping of vitamin powder before returning with it to Elias.

Elias manages to get his boxers up, the seat down on the toilet and a toothbrush (with paste) into his mouth while Jackson is gone, still looking very much like roadkill. He brushes slowly, his hand still straining periodically.

Jackson sets the glass down on the sink's counter and then leans against it, watching Elias. "I've gotta take the dogs for a walk once the water's boiled. I won't be super long. Are you feeling up to dinner?"

"I should eat something -" Eli admits, sighing, the words garbled by foam. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs some more before standing slightly and spitting into the sink. He rinses quickly, then finishes it off with the vitamin water. "I don't know if I'm ready though."

"Alright. Well, I'll --" From the kitchen, a low whistling starts, steadily increasing to a shriek as the water boils. "-- I'll make your tea an' then take the dogs out an' maybe by the time we get back /and/ I have time to throw some food together, it'll have settled you enough to manage some."

Elias nods slowly, taking his aspirin with a dose of water. He then moves to the shower, taking off his tank then the keys on the chain around his neck and finally his boxers and ring before climbing into the bathtub. "Okay. I'll... work on being ready then."

"I'll be back soon." Jackson moves to the tub to kiss Elias on the cheek before he slips out of the bathroom. The whistling shuts off and there are some sounds from the kitchen before the skittering of dogs' paws on the hardwood floor and the quiet jingle of collars and leashes precedes the door opening and shutting behind him.

Elias fumbles with the water controls and stops up the drain, allowing the water to pour out of the shower head to land on his shoulders while the tub fills up with water. It takes longer for the tub to fill this way, but Elias enjoys it more. He doesn't exactly participate with soap at first, but eventually does, scrubbing everything as quickly as his hands will allow him before curling onto his side in the tub and getting comfortable. He only moves when the water level rises enough to interrupt his breathing, then again when he turns off the water because the tub is full.

It doesn't take all that long before Jackson and the dogs return, and he unleashes them before going to pick up the mug of tea from the kitchen -- still steaming, but steeped, now, and cooled off somewhat in the ten-minute interval. He brings the mug into the bathroom, sitting on the closed toilet seat and cradling it between his hands. "Should be cool enough to drink," he says, lifting the mug in indication. "S'the bath helping?"

Elias pushes the shower curtain out of the way and looks over at Jackson, studying him for a second before taking the mug and resting it on his chest. "I could blow you, you know. I don't think that would strain my hangover and you'd know how much I appreciate you."

Jackson's blinking at this is hidden by the fact that he put his sunglasses back on for the venture outside, but the bafflement in his expression is plain enough regardless. Eventually his lips twitch into a slight smile. "I ain't sure I want to test your gag reflex 'fore dinner," he says with a thread of warm laughter in his tone. "Is sex a bribe to make up for kissing Natalie?"

"Eh. It's better than testing it after dinner," Eli admits with a sigh, moving onto his back as he takes a sip. "Just keep pumping me full of vitamins and I should be fine." He takes the second thought into longer consideration and, after a few more long sips, answers. "Nothing will make up for that, but I can reassure you that you're still incredibly attractive to me and I enjoy sucking on your cock. I'll even rim you - cause no one would do that outside of love."

"If the bathrooms at work are any indication, people also do it under the influence of enough drugs an' alcohol or --" Jackson breaks off abruptly, under the sudden realization that that was, perhaps, not the /point/. He blushes, and slants a glance sidelong at Elias. "Um." His expression is clearly conflicted: desire, yes, but hesitation as well. "You don't hafta -- I mean. Not that I don't want --" His blush deepens, and he slides off the toilet's lid onto the floor beside the bathtub, resting his arm over the edge and pillowing his head on it, fingers trailing in the water. "Maybe I am making this more confusing in my head than it should be," he mumbles.

"Well, I wouldn't do it under the influence of drugs or alcohol. All anyone's gotten from me is a kiss." Elias finishes his tea and sets it down on the ground as best he can. "But fine. You don't want to pressure my free and open gift, then don't." Eli grows sarcastic and closes his eyes again.

"How about if you an' /me/ got drunk together?" Jackson teases, "Then would it count as doing it under the influence?"

"The fact that I'd rim you sober should speak for itself." Eli says before allowing the bottom half of his face to sink below water. He looks back at Jackson sheepishly.

Jackson laughs again at this and leans over to kiss the top half of Eli's face. He pushes himself to his feet with a smile that is -- bright enough, save for the still obvious stress and exhaustion in his expression. "M'gonna throw together some dinner, hon. You jus' try an' feel better."

Elias nods and continues to bathe, quietly.

Jackson slips out of the bathroom (also quietly!) to go make dinner.

After a while, Eli pulls the plug on the drain and tries to get out of the tub. The movements are careful and calculated, but his body still does not respond the way he'd like and soon there's a crash and a thud as he lands on the floor, towel rod ripped off the wall.

The crash draws Jackson quickly, eye wide with worry as he abandons whatever he is whipping up in the kitchen to hurry back towards the bathroom. "Gosh -- Eli, hon, are you okay?" He crouches by Elias's side, teeth gnawing on his lip ring and his eyes flickering over Eli for signs of damage.

Elias will have a nasty bruise on his shin later and one more on his hand (but you know those never surface very well), but for now, he's not bleeding. He is, however, angry. "Fucking go away," He growls as he tries to collect his limbs and start using them normally. "I slipped is all. Fuck off."

"Woah." Jackson's eye widens further, though this time it is with startled hurt rather than worry, and he backs off to the doorway of the small bathroom. "You don't hafta -- sorry. I just heard the crash an' got worried."

"You worry about everything. Oh, Eli's dying again. What the fuck." Elias gets to his feet, completely ignoring the fact that he's naked. "He slipped and fell. Let's get him a walker. Oh, I know. It's his fucking mutation draining him of the will to live. Let's /never/ let him drink /again./ Fucktard can't take care of himself."

Jackson's hands lift, palms out, and he takes another step back. His eye narrows, hurt fading slightly as brief irritation flickers fleetingly across his face. "Woah -- Eli, I didn't -- /anything/ like /any/ of that." His hands drop to his side, shoulders squared and uncomfortable. "I -- you don't gotta take my head off. I'll just -- get back to cooking." From behind him, the one-eyed beagle slips into the room, attracted by the noise too, tail wagging as he sniffs around Elias's feet curiously.

"Do that." Eli snaps again. He grabs the towel and shakes the rod out from inside it, cursing at the dog for being in the way as he stumbles out of the room. He goes directly to the bedroom where he crawls across the mattress, face buried in the surface as he grabs his pants and puts them on sans underwear.

Jackson's gaze is incredulous as it follows Elias out of the bathroom, and he shakes his head as he returns to the kitchen. The dog follows Eli into the bedroom, tail still wagging as he rears up to put his forepaws on the mattress and watch Elias.

Elias lies still for a while, seething. He glares at the dog and rolls his eyes before getting to his bare feet and heading for the door. He uses the wall a lot, though one hand confirms that his apartment keys are in his pocket before heading for the exit.

Jackson peers around the divider between kitchen and living room as he hears Elias leaving. His expression, now, is puzzled. "Eli, what's wrong?"

"My head fucking hurts and you're nagging. I can't do anything fucking right with you and so, I'm going. I need... more drugs or something." Elias is referring to simple otc pain killers, but he's in no mood to explain. He rests his hand on the door knob and leans against the wall.

"I'm --" Jackson's mouth clamps shut abruptly, and his head tips in something that might be a nod or might just be hiding his expression. "Okay. Um. I guess I'll -- see you tomorrow, then."

"Fucking pathetic submissive attitude," Eli responds, turning to glare at Jackson.

"What on earth do you want from me?" Jackson answers sharply, looking back up. "If I offer help you say I'm nagging. If I don't, you --" His fingers flutter in a rather flustered wave towards Elias. "Whatever on earth /this/ is."

"You didn't /not/ offer to help. You turned away and accepted whatever bullshit this is." Elias straightens. "You can't fucking handle me. Admit it."

"I've /been/ trying to help all afternoon," Jackson answers tersely, "and you storm out because I'm /nagging/. What /is/ this, then? I have no idea where this came from all of a sudden."

"You know, maybe I'm just sick of how you handle things." Elias' eyes half lid in an expression of supreme annoyance. His hand grips the doorknob tightly as he leans forward. "You didn't help me in the bathroom, you just stared at me and worried I was bleeding."

"You /told/ me to get out!" Jackson splutters incredulously. "You went on about how I was acting like you couldn't take care of yourself!"

"And you believed it. I can barely stand now and you're going to let me walk out of here, take the stairs and break my neck. I hope you like it. I'll probably get raped in the hallway outside my apartment before the stupid fuckers take my keys and steal all my belongings from my apartment." Elias turns to open the door, but fails.

"Would you prefer I carried you up to your apartment?" Jackson asks with a lift of his eyebrows. "Or maybe chained you to the bed to stop you leaving?" Jackson slips across the room to cut in between Elias and the door, eye narrowed on Elias suspiciously. "I have no idea what this is about all of a sudden, Eli, but we clearly need to talk."

"About time you stood up for yourself." Eli spits the words as he lowers himself to the ground again, hands balled up against his stomach. He glares at the ground and gnashes his teeth. "You think you could fucking carry me anywhere?"

"I'm stronger than you are," Jackson says blandly, leaning back against the door and folding his arms loosely over his chest as he looks down at Elias. "What's going on? Things were okay before you got out of the bath an' then you explode."

"You wouldn't fucking take my peace offering." Elias is hurt, hands rubbing against the soon to be bruised shin, his gaze fixed on nothing. "Obviously want to hold this over my head for some time and be passive aggressive."

"This is because I didn't -- have /sex/ with you?" Jackson is disbelieving.

"This is because..." Elias falters, scowling up at Jackson. "You confuse me." This is not a follow up to his previous attempt. It's a separate statement all together.

"Yeah, well -- just about now that's pretty mutual." Jackson looks down at Elias's shin, and then pulls away from the door to head back to the kitchen and open up the freezer.

"You freak me out." Elias admits, quietly, anger underlining his admission. "Can't fucking figure you out." He ignores how this is mutual and just rubs his shin before resting his forehead on his knee. "I understand you when we fuck, but you've been withholding."

"Not on purpose. I ain't really been feeling lately like you /want/ me much." Jackson returns from the kitchen with a bag full of frozen peas, wrapped in a dishtowel. "Here," he murmurs, crouching by Elias to hold the makeshift ice pack against the developing bruise. "How do I freak you out?"

"I fucking told you I wanted you. You just laughed at me." Elias grumbles as he bats away Jackson's hands half-heartily as he grabs the bag himself.

Jackson relinquishes the bag to Elias's hold and moves to lean against the door again, seated on the floor this time with his knees tucked up by his chest. "It didn't feel right," he says quietly. "You said it was so I'd know you appreciated me. I don't -- don't need /sex/ to know that."

"Right. Doesn't feel right because I kissed some girl." Eli reaches up to rub at the bridge of his nose, his fingers widening to rub his eyes next. "It's never going to feel right again."

"It had nothing to /do/ with Natalie," Jackson says, a touch too sharply. "I just didn't want -- sex to be some kind of --" He flounders, hand gesturing helplessly. "It sounded like you felt you /had/ to. It ain't an obligation."

"What? Because I wanted to convince myself it was okay as much as I wanted to give you something? Huh? Well, fuck me, what was I thinking?" Elias is snippy as he tosses the bag aside and slumps against the wall.

"No," Jackson says in some confusion, and then, "yes. Sex isn't some kind of --" He flounders again, and sinks back against the wall. "I don't know," he finishes tiredly. "It ain't like I don't want you. I just don't want it to be out of some weird idea of -- making things up to me or -- convincing yourself things are okay. /Sex/ doesn't /make/ things okay."

"Fine." Eli's voice is heavily dripping with sarcasm as he moves to get up again, heading to the kitchen this time, leaning against the walls. He starts searching cabinets and counters for his vitamin packets.

"I'm not /angry/ at you over Natalie." Jackson pushes himself to his feet, heading for the kitchen, too, to pick up where he left off with dinner preparations -- vegetables are getting sliced and chopped, some of them sitting in a pan on a burner that hasn't yet been turned on.

"You're doing a craptastic job of showing it." Elias gives up his search and exits the kitchen again.

"I'm /worried/." Jackson slices his vegetables with a touch more fervor and a touch less attention than he really should have while weilding a very sharp knife. "About things between us. I feel like maybe she's right and I'm doing everything wrong but I don't know -- how to start fixing anything."

"Come Jax," Elias states as he leans against the doorframe. "If you're not fucking me, I get the terrible feeling that you're fucking /with/ me." He turns around and narrows his eyes. "Or does your worry make you impotent?"

"I'm not!" Jackson protests. "Not /screwing with you/ -- I just have no idea where -- things went wrong all of a sudden. Unless it ain't sudden and I just -- just can't --" His words cut off in a sudden, sharp hiss of pain as his knife comes down across fingers rather than vegetables, slicing a deep line across the backs of two of them. He jerks his hand away from the food with a strained "ngh" as blood starts to well from the cuts.

"There's nothing sudden except your sudden inexpertise with a knife." Eli crosses the room again and grabs Jackson's hand, drawing it closer to examine the cuts. "C'mere. We'll run it other the water while I go get some bandages."

The cuts are deep, and Jackson curls his fingers loosely against his palm to stop the flow of blood from dripping onto the floor. "Then talk to me, Eli." After the initial surprise, Jackson seems to be fairly well ignoring the hurt, eye fixed instead on Elias intently. (He does edge towards the sink to turn it on, though: ignoring the pain, perhaps, but not the /problem/.) "I can't fix problems you won't talk with me about."

"I told you that I don't like it when you're so submissive - but then you go and remain submissive while you continue to withhold sex." Elias moves toward the bathroom, the urgency of the moment giving a little more steadiness to his limbs. He shouts from his current location. "Sex doesn't fix things, but it is part of a fucking relationship and when that's not going well, then it generally means something else is off." What? Eli doesn't say. He does return with the first aid kit and rummages through it for bandages.

"I can't be a jerk, Eli," Jackson says, sounding almost sad about this. "You seem to equate being nice with being submissive an' if you want me to not be nice -- /I/ can't do that." His jaw tightens, eye fixed on the stream of water, which turns vaguely pinkish as it runs down over his fingers. "What else is off?"

Elias pulls out some sterile strips and leaves them by the sink as he watches Jackson's hands. "No. You could politely tell me to shut the hell up or firmly inform me that I should lay down. I'm not asking you to be anything than yourself - but it seems like no matter what happens you refuse to be the commanding one. Good fuck, it's annoying." He turns away to grab a towel.

"I do tell you you should lie down," Jackson answers, shutting the water off and getting a towel of his own to press against his fingers, squeezing to put pressure on the cuts. "And then you yell at me for nagging you. This past week especially I just -- no matter what I do it's the wrong thing. Eli, if you're not -- not happy with -- if we're not --" He swallows, head bowing, and doesn't finish.

"Fucking hell. When you're done being a fucking submissive pessimist, let me know." Elias doesn't bother helping with the first aid process. In stead he heads into the bedroom for his shirt and heads for the door once more. He's still forgetting his shoes, but that's hardly of any concern to him just then.

Jackson doesn't stop him. He stays in the kitchen, squeezing at the towel around his fingers and glaring at the knife lying on the counter as if perhaps it is to blame for everything.

Elias rests his hand on the door and waits. When Jackson doesn't come immediately, he rests his forehead on the door. He waits silently for a few more seconds before he bangs his head against the door with a loud thud.

The thud does draw Jackson out of the kitchen, spots of red showing through the towel now. He looks at Elias, eye narrowed. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to think of a way to get through to you." Eli grumbles turning around. He stomps back to the kitchen. "Can't you fucking see that I'm trying? Can't you get it through your head that I love you? You're so thrown by some stress and a fuck load of bitterness that you can't just trust that I want you. Sweet hell. It's only a fashion show and the end of the world. Why are you trying to quit me?" He grabs Jackson's hand forcefully and peels the towel away to take a look. "Do you have a salve you want on this?"

"It's just a cut. It'll be fine." Jackson's fingers start bleeding again when the towel is peeled away, but not as heavily as at first. "I'm trying, too, Eli," he says quietly.

"You seem to give up a lot too." Eli's anger is still present, but it's calmed quite a bit. He grabs a bandaid and wraps it around the first finger before grabbing a second and doing the same. He squeezes the hand and looks at Jackson seriously. "Stop giving up on me."

"Trust me, Eli," Jackson says, a touch wry, "if I'd given up on you for even a second, wouldn't neither of us be standing here talking to each other right now."

Elias nods slowly, drawing closer to Jackson as he kisses the bandaids, remaining quiet.

Jackson wraps his other arm around Elias's waist, pulling Eli closer in to him. His head bows, forehead resting against Elias's shoulder. "I do love you," he says softly. "I just wish I knew how to make things easier for you."

Elias rests Jackson's hand against his lips, nuzzling his palm quietly. "I wish I did too. This is just - well, the first fashion show. Maybe they'll be another before the world dies. Just... well, learn from this one?" He rests Jackson's hand on his other shoulder as he reaches down to hold him close.

Jackson nods, and his fingers tighten around Elias's shoulder. "I'll help out more at your office?" he offers. "Summer semester's ending this week an' business is --" He wrinkles his nose, tensing slightly, briefly, before he shakes his head and continues: "I got more time, during the days. Maybe it'll -- help."

Elias nods slowly and moves his hands down Jackson's back resting at his hips. His lips press against his neck as his eyes close.

Slowly, tension eases from Jackson's form, though he is less /relaxed/ and more just exhausted. The sigh he breathes out at the kiss is -- approaching happy, if not quite there yet. His head tilts so that he can press a light kiss to the corner of Elias's mouth.

Elias tilts his head to make contact with Jackson's mouth, kissing him softly to start before deeping the kiss and holding him tight. His arms move from his waist to his shoulders as he leans against him.

Jackson presses into the kiss, mouth full against Elias's and his body pressing into the older man's. His hand trails down Eli's side to rest at his hip, fingertips curling into the waistband of Elias's pants.

Elias turns and leans Jackson against the kitchen counter, kissing him gently as he closes his eyes. He's wearing an untucked green dress shirt over well fitted black trousers. His feet are bare and his face as unshaven as when Aly saw him in the morning. He's leaning against Jackson, interrupting the food preparation, but by the vegetables, there's a couple drops of blood. On the other counter, by the sink, there's a first aid kit. "Do you have any burners on," Eli asks softly.

"I didn't even finish getting everything /ready/ to cook," Jackson says with a slight wrinkle of his nose. He steals another quick kiss before rubbing his knuckles against his eye (too darkly shadowed in a face far too pale) and turning slightly to look at the knife he abandoned, bandaged fingers flexing slowly. "I'm tired. Would it be terrible if we ordered in?"

Keys in lock, door open, smell of food: chinese takeout, from the smell of it, that swings in bagged boxes as Aly pops in. "Dunno who's home!" she carols as she slips out of her shoes, juggling bags and keys and a sketchbook, "But I brought enough to share!"

Elias is up and about, very much unlike last time she saw him. He peels away from Jackson slowly and shrugs. "Can you take the night off?" All conversation is interrupted when Aly comes in, his attention turning toward the door. "Apparently, Alyssa has granted your wish from on high. Aly. In the kitchen."

"It's Saturday. Busiest night of the week." Jackson perks when the door opens, leaning out across the counter to peer towards the door. "'lyss! You're a lifesaver. I was /just/ talking about how I do not want to finish cooking an' just wanted to buy some food."

"Good thing I always buy extra and stash it in the fridge," proceeds the slender brunette; the sketchbook gets dropped off somewhere on the way, so she's just waving bags at them by the time she reaches the kitchen. "Did someone throw a pillow at me, this morning?" Aly questions them both, eyebrows climbing as she sets the bags on the counter and starts pulling out boxes of takeout. "I could have sworn someone threw a pillow at me at ass-o'clock in the morning." Her hands thus freed, she can finally turn toward the boys and demand: "Hugs, as I have saved you from foodlessness."

"Lark did. You were snoring." Elias remains rather upbeat as he slinks forward for the first hug, since he's in the way of Jackson moving anywhere. He wraps his arms around her torso and holds her close before pressing a kiss to her cheek. He holds the posture for a little longer than a standard hug before releasing her and grabbing a box. "Now, if I knew how to bartend, I'd beg you for a job. I'm afraid it'd take me forever to take classes." This is directed at Jackson, of course.

Jackson breathes out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he moves to hug Aly, lopsided with one arm. "I took exactly no classes," he informs Elias. "Just showed up an' interviewed. There was eventually a test after my training shifts, though, but it was easy." He shrugs and leans against the counter. "If I could hire you, I would. My boss is kind've a jerk, but if you want a job I can put a good word in. -- What'd you bring?" His gaze flickers eagerly towards the boxes, and he moves to get silverware. No plates, though.

Alyssa curls into Eli's hug, then Jackson's, her expression /content/, of all things. "Ah, there's some bean curd thing, and some eggplant thing, and noodles and both kinds of rice -- I dunno all the names of everything, but it's /food/ and it all sort of smells amazing." She does some complicated sort of eyebrow dance at Jackson, then tips her head ever so /slightly/ at Elias before moving to grab a box of her own. "Just ... dig in."

Elias pops open a box and grabs a fork, since it's faster to shovel food in with a fork. "Well, tonight then. If I don't kill your boss for looking at you sideways." Eli's tone holds equal parts of mirth and murderous intent. He looks over at Aly and frowns. "Wait. What was that for?" The look requires explanation.

"You'll come in with me, then?" Jackson perks slightly. "I can go early so's you can talk to him 'fore my shift starts. We're kinda always hiring cuz, well, not many people can put up with --" He gestures vaguely with his fork, blushing as he selects a box. His eye meets Aly's, and he answers the eyebrow-wiggling with a slight and uncomfortable shrug as he chews on his lip, which is maybe not the most helpful reply on earth.

Alyssa makes an 'ah,' noise, which could mean anything, and waves a fork at Elias. "I was totally trying to find out how the bar-club-thing went, since I was all kinds of boring and did not join in on any of the fun."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Eli snaps as he forgets food and stares at the two of them. "What the hell is this? 'Secret messages in front of MY FACE' TIME? Just fucking ask out loud." Instead of simply finding a nerve, Aly has managed to perform an entire root canal with no anesthetic. His eyes narrow. "I got drunk and kissed a girl, so Jax got drunk and we took a friend home. No sex. Just taking care of her while she was high. Thanks for asking."

Jackson flinches at the outburst, though the fact that he looks more tired than surprised at this sudden shift of mood speaks volumes about circumstances lately. "Eli, stop. Don't yell at /Aly/ now. She didn't do anything but bring us dinner."

"Woah, Eli, hey," Aly holds up her hands, attempting to placate. "I just wanted to know if anything wildly out of character'd happened, or, like, if it was a conversational topic that should be avoided. I didn't want to, like -- you know what, nevermind." She drops her hands, and moves to set her fork back down on the counter. "Y'know, I deal with assholes all the time, at work. I don't really feel like getting jumped all over 'cause I'm just trying to make conversation at home." That said, she moves to leave the kitchen.

Elias' eyes narrow again when Jackson speaks up, turning his ire on him. "What are you going to do? Actually make me, or back down like a pussy again?" He glances in Aly's direction before turning on Jackson fully. "So. Is my kissing someone wildly out of character?"

"/Stop/ it," Jackson says, not harsh, but firm. He doesn't lean against the counter anymore but stands up straight, his jaw set; he is shorter than the other man and thus has to look up at him, but this doesn't affect the unflinching set of his stance. "Seriously, Eli, I know you're stressed as anything and I'm going to try and help you get through it but this is /my/ home and you can't just -- lash out at everyone."

"Oh for fuck's sake," Aly mutters under her breath, still determinedly moving out of the kitchen; it looks like her eventual goal may be the front door.

"She's been ignoring me for weeks! Bahir told me." Eli yells back at Jackson, gesturing wildly toward Aly. "And then she just waltzes back in here like nothing's ever happened and I'm the asshole for being rejected. And I'm not allowed to lash out? Fuck that."

Something in Elias's words makes Jackson tense further, and the brief glance he shoots towards Alyssa is pensive. His expression sets again, though, when he looks back up at Elias. "Not like this, you aren't," he answers tersely. "You have a problem, you /talk/ about it. Not yeling an' screaming an' /attacking/ people."

"I haven't been /ignoring/ you, I've been /here/ and at /work/ and --" Aly's in the living room as she turns around, as she flashes a worried look at Jackson, and a moderate to severely pissy one at Elias. "Jax, if you need me, call me, but y'all need to work this the hell out, and I'm going to -- go." She scoops up her sketchbook, her shoes, and bolts back out the door.

"She runs off and tells Bahir about stuff she won't tell us." Eli grumbles, his anger dwindling as does the strength in his legs. Completely out of adrenaline, he slides down a cabinet to the ground and turns his face away.

Jackson's expression is mostly just hard, even when he looks back at Alyssa. "You don't get it. There's nothing to work /out/." He is distinctly unhappy as she leaves, and slumps back against the counter once more, saying nothing.

Elias finds a corner to rest in and stares over at Jackson, his expression blank. "You really think that?"

"I think that whatever is going on here is so far beyond something /we/ can work out --" Jackson's hands spread helplessly in front of him. "We /do/ have a lot that /we/ need to work out -- I just don't see how it -- whatever's going on seems a lot bigger."

"You think they'll put me on anti-anxiety medication? I ... don't know what else they'd do." Eli breathes heavily, his face contorting in worry. "Is it really coming to that?"

"I don't know, Eli." Jackson moves over beside Elias, arms wrapping around the older man again. "I think --" His expression darkens with worry, too, and he takes in a deep breath. "I don't know what I think. I think I care about you a whole lot and if there /is/ anything more going on I want you to be able to get help with it."

"You're going to be late for work," Eli replies, mechanically. He leans against Jackson though, eyes closing. "Maybe I'll go in with you tomorrow."

"I'll be fine," Jackson says, arms tightening around Eli. He brushes a soft kiss against Elias's neck. "I love you."

To which, Eli responds, "Oh, fuck. I'm nuts."

"The world might be ending," Jackson answers. "I think a lot of us are going a little nuts."

Elias turns his face in toward Jackson and closes his eyes, clinging to him.

Jackson's arms stay strong and steady around Eli. "We'll work this out," he murmurs. "I ain't going nowhere."

A little conversation, a little crazy.

Bahir, Elias, Illyana, Jason, Lark, Matt, Natalie, Percy, Ryan, Vincent (part three)

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 08:42:08 GMT

Log. Friday night. 8 August. The Doghouse.

Third. It's Natalie's third, and she takes it without hesitation just as the music fades into a sudden burst of familiar, aged strains that, despite their slight cheese, excite a flurry of interest on the dance floor. "You're not taking off your shirt--" Natalie begins before suddenly she perks and turns, hand reaching for Elias' to tug him away from the bar. "Okay, you can't /not/ dance to this song," she begs.

"You just don't want him to change his vote!" Bahir calls after Natalie as she moves to steal Elias away. Third. Whatever. He still has his first.

"It depends. Nipples pierced?" Elias replies, appraising Bahir once more. "Or how about wearing a glittery bronzer?" As if Bahir would need it. He knocks back his second shot as he is dragged away. "Consider it. We'll be back when the song's over - barring any other gems."

Jackson heads back inside, too, after lingering just long enough to see Ryan get into his cab, and his hurried steps take him quickly back towards the bar, too, rather purposeful as he searches for Elias. (He does so without running into anyone, at least not in the literal sense.) He slows as he sees Natalie dragging Eli away, teeth sinking into his lower lip. Instead, he turns a thoughtful glance up towards Bahir. "Do /you/ dance?"

"You like pierced nipples?" Natalie baffles, glancing back over her shoulder at Elias as she tugs him along through the crowd. "And gli-- oh." She abruptly remembers Eli's taste in boyfriends and cuts off before shaking her head and running her free hand back along hair she is not accustomed to wearing loose. "Er. Nevermind. Do you dance? I didn't even ask. Surely you dance, right? What with the whole model scene?" She's rambling a bit, her tongue loosened by alcohol, emotion, and nerves.

Bahir looks mildly horrified. "What? No!" The shirt is of fine enough weave that, if they /were/ pierced, all the dim bar lighting in the world couldn't prevent the spread of such knowledge. He folds one arm across his chest, protecting it from imaginary needles. Scowl dark, if patently false, he bites the straw to take a sip of pink alcohol. As the pair leaves, the expression fades, and he gives Jackson a briefly amused glance. His chin lifts as he swallows, answer coming with a self-deprecating wiggle of his hand. "Ish. Not often."

Still lingering surreptitiously a few feet away, in a way not unlike that employed by /stalkers/, one long-haired brunette watches Jackson approach Bahir with a slightly narrowed amber gaze beneath dark lashes, weight balanced back back on one heel. Drifting a few paces forward, he interposes himself; not physically, but on the approach, and with words pitched to carry despite the, uh, music. "But it has been known to happen."

"Eh. They're fun to play with, but not a requirement," Eli admits with a grin and a glance in Bahir's direction. "And yes! We danced at Norah's party, remember?" He grabs Natalie's hand and gives her a quick twirl before the confines of the dance floor get in the way.

"Has it?" Jackson (whose shirt makes it rather obvious that /his/ are pierced. He has no hint of glitter anywhere, though, at least) turns slightly, head tilting thoughtfully at the brunette's approach, brow creasing with niggling familiarity before he looks back to Bahir, cheerfully hopeful. "Dance with me? Just this song!"

"That's just very weird to me," Natalie admits before she's twirled, something that has her wobbling a little given her heels, and she latches tight to Elias' hand before grabbing at his shoulders and leaning into him for balanced support. Her breath caught, she returns the grin and looks up at him with a breath of laughter as she reminds, "I was kind of drunk, I forgot-- I'm going to be drunk again real soon. Play nice!"

Steadying herself on the convenient shoulder of a complete stranger, Lark finishes her trek to the bar. She switches to something lighter for her order this time, but the same basic alcohol. "Vodka cranberry!" Considering her neighbors at the bar as she wait for the drink, she discovers that she has joined Vincent once more. "Hello again," she greets brightly. "What's the phonebook for?"

"Fine, less spinning." Elias does not want to be vomited on. He does play nice and a bit cheesy (especially since the song is so inspiring), dancing her around some of the other couples but trying to stay in some semblance of free space. "Eh. It is weird - just - well, never mind."

"Hm?" says Vincent, half to Lark, and half into the receiver. His eyes are slow to focus, but once they do, his stumpy left hand is quick to act. It manages to flop the phonebook neatly closed in one swift gesture, and he adds on, "Nevermind, I'm actually not that hungry," to whatever phone conversation he happens to be having before thumbing the 'end call' button. "Ordering a pizza," he tells Lark.

"We can spin," Natalie objects instantly, twisting her fingers to lace through his. "Just, y'know, give me some warning-- I like to spin." She moves with him, more points for enthusiasm and pure enjoyment than the moves to go with her outfit. "What, no, nevermind. What's weird?" she insists curiously.

Youre a teaser, you turn em on-- Leave them burning and then youre gone-- Looking out for another, anyone will do-- Youre in the mood for a dance-- And when you get the chance...

Glance toward the newest intrusion carrying a faintly unfriendly wariness, Bahir takes another slow sip of his drink and eyes the baffling brunette irritably. (Believe it or not, he isn't the most /outgoing/ guy around.) As he looks back toward Jackson, his manner is warmer: stranger, strange; Jackson, known. "I--." And then he looks back again, skimming Percy from toes up to the long toss of dark hair. His eyes narrow. He looks annoyed. He does not look in the mood for a dance. Shut up, music. This makes his clipped, "Fine," all the more inexplicable. But first, finishing the alcohol! He sets his glass down with a trifle more strength then necessary and picks up the shot early placed by the bartender so that he can down that, too. Then he gestures. After you, Jackson!

"Excuse me," Percy says, with a sharp smile and a slight dip of his head. He reaches out a snaking hand to catch Bahir's free hand in his own. The low burn of possessiveness totally inappropriate considering respective relationship statuses, it nevertheless informs the golden glitter of amber eyes and prowled step he takes forward. It also informs the hint of growl that informs the low-throated note of his voice as he speaks. All told, not very feminine. "I actually think Bahir owes me a dance."

"But, eating means you get less drunk," Lark informs Vincent. And drunk is of course the point, right? She's certainly well on her way. "Did I introduce myself before? I can't remember. Sorry I ran off, but Natalie--" She frowns, delicate black brows pulling together. "Do you know Natalie? I'm Lark, anyway." Her drink arrives, pink, but missing any sort of frilly umbrella or fruit decorations thankfully.

Somewhat baffled by Bahir's switch in mood, Jackson is nevertheless not giong to turn down the acceptance. A hint of puzzlement creeps into his cheer, but he turns to lead the way to the dancefloor -- that is, until Percy reaches for his dance partner. "Um." The puzzlement is definitely growing, and his brows knit over his sunglasses. "Excuse me?" He bites down on his lip, looking at Percy with a hint of disbelief, until the masculine voice helps the niggling recognition spread further and he rocks back on his heels, abruptly awkward and uncertain. Oh.

"Nipple rings," Eli admits, his brows quirking. He leads her in a couple more partial turns (no spinning), hands just lightly touching her shoulders and hand as they move.

Natalie settles her own hands firmly on Elias' shoulders, although one finds his hip sometime in the midst of a turn. She sends a sudden grin up at him, amusement brilliant in the flash of dark eyes. She bites her lower lip, teeth tugging at it as she tries to surpress a laugh. "Gosh. /Not/ that big a fan, huh? Good. I always thought they were weird. I like my piercings and tattoos in moderation."

Bahir's fingers barely curl before he turns his hand in Percy's, and pulls down and away. "I really don't think I do. Why don't you dance with /each other/," he suggests instead, a bright and brittle aggression making an unfair target of Jackson-the-by-stander.

"Yeah, I know. I just had that exact thought, so." Vincent wiggles the source of his abruptly ended call, and tucks it away into his still-drying suit coat. No pizza for him. "I don't think I know any Natalies, no. Nice to meet you, though." He eyes her drink. Pink.

"I'm dating someone that may be addicted to them. You just learn to enjoy the - um, distinctive qualities your partner possesses after time." Elias does keep the turns going, something ABBA-esque in the way her hair flops upward and outward with each swinging motion.

Familiar strains fade away (dancing queen...) to be overtaken by more contemporary rhythm, energetic and enthusiastic. Pump it-- Turn up the radio-- Blast your stereo--

Natalie can't help a slightly tipsy snicker as she shakes her head. Her hair /sways/, thank you very much, it does not /flop/. As the song draws to a close she swings out and clings to his hand to execute a slightly wobbly twirl before breaking into laughter again. A pause, and then she's moving again, apparently keeping him for at least the /next/ song, too. "I dunno!" she calls over the music. "I might tolerate, but that's not the same as /enjoy/-- hey, how were the cookies?"

"No," Percy snaps back. He glances at Jackson, but barely for an instant. His focus is elsewhere. Dropping his hand when Bahir pulls away from him, he lifts his chin -- so regal -- and glares. With the heels, he is actually of a height with him, if not a little taller. He is a little slurred, meeting Bahir's anger with a sourer, edgier sort of unhappiness. "Short memory," he accuses. "You owe me one. It's my fucking birthday." For all the masculinity that informs the buried growl of his tone, he really is a lot like a fifteen year old girl.

Pink, and tasty. Lark takes a long swallow, and rather than chew the ice shard she end up with, she holds it against her upper lip with the tip of her tongue until it melts. "Well, I introduced myself. If you don't introduce back I'll be worried that you'd rather I go away. Or, maybe you're a spy. That would be exciting." Wavering on her feet, she leans over to lean most of her weight on the bar for stability. "Though, I don't know who you'd be spying on in here. Lots of people I know, but no international jewel thieves or terrorists I don't think."

Elias switches gears easily. "They were delicious, thank you." He does refrain from slutty dancing, but does enjoy the next song just as much. He leans close and utters, "Sorry about then," between one of the heavier beats. And then he's dancing again.

Jackson rocks back on one heel, looking rather intensely uncomfortable at being brought into the middle of this. "Maybe another time," he says, edging slightly away from the pair. "D'you want another drink, Bahir?" Apparently /something/ in the exchange leads him to think perhaps Bahir could use one.

"I'm not a spy," Vincent promises with level-headed sincerity. He is a little drunk, perhaps, but not yet on his way to really being inebriated. "Vincent Lazzaro. I used to be a detective. Now I'm a private investigator." He offers his good hand over after taking a long sip of his pale drink, and sighs. "I actually followed somebody's husband in here, but I lost him. So I had a beer."

Natalie lifts a hand to brace it behind Elias' neck for a moment as he leans in to speak, and then she pulls back, balancing as she shakes her head. "You're stressed," she returns. "I'm stressed. It's fine. We're friends, yeah?" For a moment her gaze is serious and she forgets to dance beyond a distracted sway as she waits for confirmation.

"What are you, thirteen?" Never mind /fifteen/ year old girls: Bahir won't even afford Percy that much emotional maturity. Not looking away from the happy birthday boy, he addresses Jackson: "Very much so, actually. Just ... in a few minutes. Sorry. I'll be back after this." He turns his hand out in apology, only then glancing toward him. He rolls his shoulder in slight shrug and then looks back. Very like grim, he points Percy to the dance floor. "Go. /Happy birthday/."

"Private eye. Almost as good as a spy," Lark assures. "Plenty of good movies though not as many as spy thrillers. Dashiell Hammett!" She remembers the name a little triumphantly, not giving thought to whether it will actually mean anything to Vincent. "Why'd you stop being a detective?" Tact? what? Any chance of that left a while ago.

"Yes. Friends." Eli replies, his hands settling lightly on her hips. There's a second there, in that closeness where he leans a fraction of an inch forward, but a smile - a somewhat manufactured one - interrupts the seriousness and he leans back again, shifting the pause back into dance steps since she's attached to him now.

Jackson nods, and slips back to the bar, slotting himself in by Lark as he leans over to flag a bartender, point towards Bahir to order two more shots of -- whatever he'd had. He leans back against the bar's edge, gaze turned out towards the dancefloor and his carriage still fidgety -- less with uncomfortableness now than simple restlessness. There is music. He is not dancing to it.

"Fuck you," Percy says. Predictably! He catches Bahir by the hips with both hands in a forward step, rather than pursue the dance floor option immediately. Catching his lower lip his teeth, he almost smiles, but not quite -- it reflects in his gaze, twists his mouth more grimace than grin. "Nice pants," he says. Insistent, he winds his fingers through Bahir's and turns to pull him along behind onto the dance floor.

Turn up the radio-- Blast your stereo-- Right now--

"Yeah," says Vincent, who rubs at the bridge of his nose, and then over his brow. "That. I was kidnapped by some psychopaths who found out I was a mutant. They smashed my hand and shot me in the head and some other things, and the department found out that I lied about being a mutant and faked some test results, so." He says it in the same kind of tone he might use to describe retirement, or an error in paperwork.

On the other side of Lark, Jackson's fidgeting stops very abruptly. His head turns towards Vincent, and then he looks down at the ground, jaw tightening.

Agitation /spikes/. Something like the warning of a snarl expressed in a low, irritated noise, Bahir clenches his jaw. A last, longing look toward liquor -- and then he stomps out after Percy. STOMP STOMP STOMP. His clasp is really more of a clench.

There's a second there, in that lean, when habit earns a responding sway forward before Natalie leans abruptly backward, eyes gone wide. Natalie's cheeks warm as she watches Elias, posture and expression both reading suddenly flustered. Her dance steps depend entirely on his lead for several long segments of the song, and she does not reply.

Music ends abruptly, and when it picks up again after a flickering milisecond of silence, the beats are slower, more languid, lazy and thick, and dancing shifts accordingly. Hangin' round downtown by myself-- And I had so much time-- To sit and think about myself-- And then there she was--

"Oh my /god/." Lark breathes, green eyes wide. She sets her drink vaguely down on the bar somewhere, fortunately making it on the bar and not the air beside it. "That's /horrible/." Leaning in a little she runs an hand along his arm in a comforting gesture. "What's your--What do you--?" Her hesitation is not one of inhibition this time thanks to alcohol, but simply that she doesn't know what word would apply. She hasn't noticed Jackson yet, or his reaction, her focus too narrow.

Percy does not say anything. Once out on the dance floor, he finds the rhythm with the practice of disused but capable habit. He does not recognize the song, but sort of flows with it anyway. Of course, his coordination is not the best at the moment, and the stark edge that ripples in the air between them informs each drawn breath. Percy lowers his gaze in a long, sliding blink. He seems a little ashamed of himself, really, more than he is actually reacting to Bahir's fierceness.

Playfulness and musical appreciation dissipates from Eli's dancing style as the next song comes on the speakers. Hands on Natalie's hips, he simply goes with it, drifter closer as he sways with the beat. Eyes lower as his face turns a little more toward her shoulder.

Vincent's peripheral vision is limited, but a flicker of moment prompts him to glance over at Jackson. He eyes him warily for a moment, daring him to say something, and then shifts the brace of his elbow against the bar so that he can plant the side of his head back down in his raised hand. "Teleportation. I teleport."

Coordination yet to be affected by the alcoholic double-dose, it is anger that stiffens Bahir's movements. His eyes remain on Percy's; as amber lowers and shame informs movements, the slow burn of anger heats further. He says nothing.

Jackson doesn't say anything. He bites his lip and slips his right hand into his pocket, and goes back to fidgeting. His head turns as his lopsided gaze does, slipping between Vincent and his drinks and the dance floor.

Natalie hesitates for a moment, stilling in Elias' arms as the music shifts. She casts a glance back toward the bar and, not finding Bahir there, breathes slowly outward and turns back to her dance partner. Her lips press together for a moment as she finds the slow beat and moves with Elias, head tipped back to look up at him.

"You teleport?" Lark repeats almost reverentially, eyes lighting. "That's so /awesome/." She shifts her grip on the edge of the bar, trying her own two feet again for a moment before informing Vincent earnestly that, "I'm not. I mean I'm 100% boring human. Good thing you didn't meet the guy who's allergic. How far can you go?"

Percy stops dancing. He lifts a hand to rest fingertips against his temple, swaying a moment on his feet before he catches himself on a heel, and then lifts his gaze to Bahir's again. For a moment he occupies a pocket of perfect stillness.

Who's that casting devious stares-- In my direction-- Mama this surely is a dream--

As Percy stills, so does Bahir. His hands are loose at his sides. His gaze is steady, with the full curve of his lips compressed to a thin, angry line. When Percy looks up, all the change of expression he shows is slight furrow of his brow. One would expect a very long and involved telepathic conversation. One would be WRONG.

Elias turns his face back toward Natalie's, eyes straining to focus at their proximity. He gives a sheepish smile as he turns her around, dancing front to back for a few minutes. It works with the song. Honest. Besides, Eli's still a little fixated on that bare shoulder.

Vincent is a nice man, and does not at all seem like the sort of man who would teleport anyone in half. He even half-smiles at Lark's enthusiasm once he's swallowed what remains in his glass. It's set down, and efficiently replaced by another of the same. "Depends. Twenty feet. I've never tried to measure it."

Nope. No conversation at all, spoken or otherwise. Confronted by the aspect of his anger, Percy reaches out to take one of Bahir's loose hands in both of his. He tips his head as he lifts it, brushes a kiss to Bahir's knuckles out of a shadow of their history. He closes his eyes, and swallows.

Yeah there she was-- Like disco lemonade-- I smell sex and candy here--

The nostalgic turn continues as the slow beat of Marcy Playground fades out (Mama this surely is a dream) into guitar strains from the same era, only slightly more upbeat. There's every good reason for letting you go-- She's sneaky and smoked out-- And its starting to show-- I never let you go--

Dark eyes narrow with a curl of fingers, and Bahir pulls his hand back. He slaps Percy. It is not a gentle tap, but neither does he put his full strength behind it. History has all kinds of shadows. The change of music which follows cues his exit from the dance floor, wrapped in angry ~drama~. All things considered, the little show doesn't get all that much attention.

Elias' fingers slide from riding that invisible line between hip and back to the one between hip and abdomen. His breath is warm on her bare neck, eyes lowered. He doesn't notice the slap. This is sad.

His weight settled on his heels, Percy stays where he was left for a long moment. He does not glance after Bahir at all. He looks at the floor, the toes of his ladies' shoes, and brushes his fingertips quietly against the sting of his cheek. Dangerous ground, though. At the narrow miss of a collision, he jars back to himself, or semblance enough to leave the dance floor, anyway. And hey. He's in a bar! That's where they keep the alcohol.

"Really? I think if I could do something I would try absolutely everything. Know it inside out. Sometimes I'm definitely jealous of you." Vincent being of course the representative for all mutants at the moment. "It must suck sometimes, but the rest of the time you can go around your life knowing that you're---just essentially amazing." Lark turns to discover where she set her drink and catches glimpse of someone familiar behind her. "Hey, Jackson!"

"It's less amazing when people are in pieces," Jackson says tersely, which will have to do by way of a reply to Lark's greeting. Half his attention is on the dance floor. His expression flickers with a fleeting trace of sympathy, though it fades to blandess soon. As Bahir exits it, he holds up one of the shot glasses in silent offer.

At the warm caress of Eli's breath and the shift of his hand, Natalie stills. It's perhaps fortunate that the music changes as well, covering a flustered moment before Natalie's hand slides down to take Elias' in hers as she spins to face him again, fingers interlaced as the quicker beat demands a touch more distance between them.

"People who shoot lasers out of their eyes or set things on fire with their mind are amazing," says Vincent, who sips at his fresh drink a little delicately. "I'm a cheap magic trick. Anyway, one day I'll probably come back without my head or something, and then..." he gestures blandly. "I'd kill to be normal."

It takes Bahir a moment to find Jackson again, even given the limit on his search of 'by the bar'. An angry flush barely warms dark skin as he approaches, inclining his head. He is not especially given to conversation. He just downs the alcohol, and leaves forward to attract the bartender's attention. MOAR.

Just like that, the nineties are gone, and there's a visible sense of relief among many of the dangers as the fast, electronic beats of twenty-first century music rise again. Baby, can't you see, I'm calling-- A guy like you should wear a warnin'-- It's dangerous, I'm fallin'--

Jackson is, by virtue of having another shot already /there/, maybe quicker than the bartender. Despite the fact that his expression suggests he perhaps wants to be drunk himself, he nudges the second glass in Bahir's direction.

Bahir nudges it back to Jackson. He is not so heartless that he would take another man's alcohol. He broods like a champion as he waits for the next.

In the midst of a second sip, Vincent happens to glance down at the offered baggie, and promptly chokes. Only a little, granted. He manages to cough it off without too much difficulty, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

With a taste of your lips, I'm on a ride-- You're toxic, I'm slippin' under-- taste of a poison paradise-- I'm addicted to you--

"No?" Lark shrugs bare shoulders and tips out one white pill into the palm of her hand. Tossing it back, she promptly washes it down with another mouthful of vodka. "Do you dance?"

Percy, having lost his wig somewhere (or, actually, clogged up a toilet drain with it like a fucking drunk bastard, but never mind), dark hair tousled and a bit of a mess, looks a little unsettling made up but without the hair. He weaves through the crowd, starts for the bar, and then redirects and moves for a /different/ portion of the bar. He crashes up against it, flattening his palm against its surface in a narrow space between a few other people, and hoarsely demands some more liquor.

"Sorry -- it's just. Been a couple of decades since anyone offered." One last little cough, and brows knit, Vincent lifts a hand as if to stop her, but. The pill is down. His hand lowers, and his first instinct is to glance around to see if anyone else saw her /do it/. "Not...very well."

Elias takes Natalie's hand as she turns and pulls her close again, faltering in the transition. There's an awkward moment before he finds the beat again and grins as he jostles a little - one, dancing a little too close for the beat and two, clearly enjoying the buzz the alcohol is providing - before falling into a natural step.

Natalie steps in closer at the tug of Elias' hand, a bit unsteady so that she raises her other to grasp fast at his shoulder. The beat entirely escapes her for a long moment and she simply stands there, one hand at his neck and the other in his, before she closes her eyes and listens to the music to find it again.

Intoxicate me now-- With your lovin' now-- I think I'm ready now-- (I think I'm ready now)--

"We're all dying in a month anyway," Lark declares cheerfully. "Why not? It's not like the fact that it's killing brain cells even matters. Feels amazing. Have you ever--?" She waves the bag to finish the question before tucking it back into her dress. The beat of the music is catching her now and she sways a little in time.

Second shot ignored on the bar beside him, Bahir glances out over the dancing crowd. He is not exactly /looking/ for Natalie, but whenever he spies a brunette, he does stop to watch a moment longer.

Elias pauses as well, when she grabs his shoulder, staring at her long and hard before he leans in and kisses her lightly.

Jackson takes the shot glass back, though he hesitates, not drinking it, his forefinger tracing idly around the rim as he leans against the bar and shifts his glance from Bahir to the dance floor. His gaze locks on Natalie and Elias, and the large sunglasses cannot mask the colour swiftly draining out of his face, nor the sudden tension of his posture. His fingers close tight around the shot glass, and he lifts it abruptly to drain it, setting it down rather too hard when it is emptied.

At some point you'd think the bartenders would cut Percy off, you know? Instead, they pass him another drink, all dark rum and coconut. He is going to make himself sick from all the sugar.

Vincent hesitates, but shakes his head, firm enough in his disinclination to take random white pills. "It's not that I care if you do it, just. A personal preference." He watches her tuck the pills away in silence, and leans to finish off the last of his drink.

Why is Bahir always looking in the wrong place at the wrong time? WHY! The sharp sound of Jackson's forceful lowering of the glass pulls his attention from the dance floor. He leans forward to return the earlier favor of the drink order, flagging down the bartender to get a second for Jackson, and thus restore cosmic balance. And whiiile he is at it, maybe one more for himself, too.

Natalie jerks back abruptly, her eyes flying open at the first touch of lips against hers. She snatches her hand away as if burnt and stumbles backwards, catching herself with a sudden bump against a couple grinding behind her. For a long moment she simple stares at Elias, fingers lifted to rest light and disbelieving against her lips, and then she spins and begins to shove her way from the dance floor.

The last electronic strains of the song sound to be replaced with a new melody. I'm out of time and all I've got is four minutes, four minutes--

"Sure. Your choice!" Lark is willing to forgive Vincent his drug choices, but not his lack of enthusiasm for dancing. She turns away from him abruptly to lace and arm through Jackson's. No sign that she his notices mood, she just says a little plaintively, "Dance with me?"

Elias's expression grows clouded as he watches Natalie's reaction. In the end, he stays where he is, head hanging as he draws in deep breaths. He does not follow, but looks around for some place to crawl into a corner and die. Eventually, he settles on the bar, but far away from where Natalie will end up, by Bahir. SO. By default, he's down by Percy, unwittingly.

That's right. Elias and Percy are in the 'crawl into a corner and die' corner. Percy isn't all that responsive, though. He's halfway through his drink and leaning heavily against the bar, head tipped down and gaze dark.

Jackson looks grateful as Bahir orders another round. Somewhat grateful, anyway. In between his rather numb and pale look. He mumbles a, "Thanks," and stiffens when Lark takes his arm, despite his earlier assertion that he'd love to dance with her. "He /kissed/ her," is not a proper answer to Lark's request, but he says it anyway. His tone is more disbelieving than angry.

"I did not," Bahir says, blanking over at Jackson as surprise startles him from something an awful lot like a sulk. "And she was a man!"

"Okay," says Vincent after Lark. He turns to look where she's headed, sees that the new target is Jackson, and gives him a hint of stinkeye as he pokes paired fingers down into his glass after a piece of ice. "Alright. What's the damage?"

"Who?" Lark asks Jackson in evident confusion. And then Bahir chimes in and she frowns, even more lost. "Who's a man? But, I thought you kissed men." The more important question for Bahir is, "Will /you/ dance with me?"

"/Eli/," Jackson clarifies, turning to look at Bahir. "Kissed /Natalie/." He slumps against the bar, insofar as he can with his arm still hooked through Lark's. "You were totally the hotter one, too," he grumbles.

Even clarified, Bahir does not seem to immediately understand. He asks, "What?"

Natalie's somewhat unsteady path takes her in a beeline for the bar where she left Bahir, and given her state, she makes it in record time, and with no twisted ankles. She shoots Jackson a dark look as she approaches and then leans in to grab at Bahir's hand, tugging him up and away and /out/ without a single word. Or concern for their conversation.

"Somebody better dance with her before she starts humping random legs," Vincent pipes up helpfully as he peels money out of his wallet and counts it out onto the the bar.

If you want it, You already got it-- If youve thought it, It better be what you want-- If you feel it, It must be real just-- Say the word, and I will give you what you want--

"Natalie?" Lark echoes uncertainly. Then that very woman appears to spirit away Bahir and she cringes back against Jackson. In a quiet voice she tells his shoulder that, "It's my fault. I thought it was his fault, but now it's all my fault. I didn't think I could do that and then I did without even--She /hates/ me."

"Elias /kissed/ you?" Bahir could be more understanding and tactful at a time like this, but he gapes at Natalie. "No fucking wonder he voted for you," he grouches, and only then remembers to slant a glance over his shoulder at Jackson with a wince. He bites his lower lip, but with Lark to distract him, he allows Natalie to manhandle off. "Where are we going?"

"Yes," Natalie says, and her voice breaks a little on the single word. "I dunno. Out. Home? Another bar? What do you want?" She is sadly not paying a lot of attention to grouches just /right/ now.

Jackson gulps down his second shot, grimacing at the flavour, and then picks up Bahir's abandoned one, too, looking at it with intent contemplation. "She hates everyone," he reassures Lark. "Except, apparently, my /boyfriend/." His tone is anachronistically amused. His expression isn't.

We only got 4 minutes to save the world-- No hesitating-- Grab a boy-- Grab a girl--

"Gimme a shot," says Vincent to the bartender, pushing along a few extra bills as he glances aside to Percy. "And one more for the tranny."

Elias receives his drink and drinks at least half of it immediately, glancing over at Percy again, lips scowling. He sneaks a glance down toward Natalie and Bahir, glaze skimming over Jackson with a sense of shame. Finally, he tosses back the rest of the liquor and orders another one.

"Yeah, thanks," Percy growls, although there's not a lot of heat in it. He scrubs a hand over his face. He knocks back the remainder of his glass and scrunches his eyes shut, brow crinkling. The bad part of the night has begun in earnest it seems.

"You mean that Elias kissed Natalie?" The event to which Jackson earlier referred is only now becoming clear to Lark. "I should tell you." That made sense in her head, really. "Where is he?"

"Either to hit something, or fuck someone, and I can't decide which so another bar would maybe be a bad idea." Tone over-light, Bahir shakes his hand free of Natalie's. Tugging the tie that binds dark hair free as they fight the crowd to head for the door, he rolls it between two fingers. "I can see you home, but I think I'm going to go sweat this out."

As the strains of Timberlake and Madonna fade (breakdown!), classics return with a distinct opening beat. Sometimes I feel I've got to-- Run away I've got to-- Get away-- From the pain that you drive into the heart of me--

"I shouldn't be surprised. Just this afternoon she was telling me how he should've dumped me long ago and then all -- rubbing herself up --" Jackson is talking to his shot glass, though he looks up at Lark's question. "I don't know. Around. Maybe kissing someone. Let's dance!" This last is abruptly, brittly cheerful, and Jackson swallows down Bahir's abandoned shot on the heels of his words.

"What? What?" Natalie looses Bahir's hand without argument and trails after him, waiting until they reach the door to push forward to stand alongside him again. "Sweat what out?" Because this is /her/ trauma!

"You need me to call you a cab or anything?" Aside from some sluggishness to movement and speech, Vincent remains dishearteningly unfun as he tucks his wallet back into his pants. "Maybe a parade float."

"Yeah, get me a goddamned parade float." Percy puts his head down on the bar and curls one of his arms over his head. He knocks the glass over, and it rolls a little ways, but at least it was empty.

"No, no. I want to find him," Lark shakes her head firmly. She shakes her hair back over her shoulders, running her fingers back through it to pull it out of her eyes, then turns to try and make her way down the bar. Intent on searching for a glimpse of Elias, she forgets to notice if Jackson is following her or not.

"Oh." It takes a moment for Jackson to respond any further than that. He stares at the empty glasses in puzzlement, poking one finger at them to see if perhaps they refill. When they don't, he finally pushes himself away from his lean against the bar and follows Lark, steps wobbly at first before they steady.

"Never mind." The sharp slash of his hand conveying restrained anger, Bahir stops inside the doorway to look back over the milling crowd. "/Kissed/ you." He snorts.

"Yes," Natalie says a touch shortly, turning to study Bahir rather than the crowd in that pause. After a long moment she recalls slowly-- "Shit. /Shit/. Did you see him? Did something happen?"

Elias is at the bar, nursing his fourth double of Tequila. He's definitely in the 'drunk' spectrum of things now, scowling as he stares at the clear liquid.

"It's his birthday, you know." Tangent, what? Without Natalie driving forward and dragging on, Bahir goes nowhere.

Natalie has no intention of letting them stay now that Bahir's talking, and she moves in to take his hand again, several kinds of support in one, and urges him away from the noise. "Shit," she says again, quieter. "I should have stayed. What happened?"

Vincent pushes up off his stool, leaning into the bar for support while he downs the shot. He lingers there for a moment, likely considering another.

Don't touch me please-- I cannot stand the way you tease-- I love you though you hurt me so-- Now I'm going to pack my things and go--

Percy watches the lights reflect off his tipped over glass and thinks vaguely about how sick he is going to feel in the morning.

Once again, Bahir shakes loose Natalie's hand, this time with a further slip on the leash of anger. "For/get/ it," he snaps. "Go fucking find Elias and talk to him, not me."

Finding one person in a crowded room is not an easy proposition. Especially with various chemical substances in one's bloodstream. Probably the only reason that Lark succeeds in her search is that she rightly assumed she would find Elias at the bar. Catching a glimpse of him finally, she approaches with purpose.

One minute passes, then two. But Vincent doesn't order anything else, and eventually sloths off the bar to start navigating his way through the crowd. "Still a lesbian?" is called after Lark in passing without real hope.

Jackson approaches with purpose, too, a pace behind Lark. "What were you /thinking/?" is his question to Elias, incredulous, but not as sharp as it might have been. For some reason he is sulky as he continues: "/Bahir/ was the hotter one."

Natalie doesn't fight the shake, and her hand falls to her side as she stares at Bahir. There is a noticable wince at the curse that follows the snap, and a darkening of her expression to follow. After a moment of silence she asks carefully, "Do you want me to walk home with you?"

Elias stiffens visibly at the first, though the expression on his face confesses he isn't entirely surprised by it. He turns around to face Jackson and finds Lark there too. He holds onto his glass firmly as his confusion grows at Jackson's second comment. "What the fuck?"

Percy wrenches away from the bar in a haphazard stagger. Such is his sudden and vehement force that the heel snaps right off his shoe and it barely slows him down. The look he shoots at Jackson, Elias and Lark encompassed is full of venom; and he's gone off at a haphazard hobble, taking off the shoes as he goes and hurling one of them behind him into the crowd at random.

The music again turns toward mellow, guitars lying over garbled murmurings before the lyrics become clear. I have to block out thoughts of you so I dont lose my head-- They crawl in like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed-- Dropping little reels of tape to remind me that Im alone--

"What the fuck yourself." Lark's tone has the snap that Jackon's lacked. Standing unsteadily in front of Elias she attempts to meet his gaze squarely. "Why did you kiss Natalie?"

"No." Bahir drags a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes and along his jaw. "No, I'm not -- I'm going to go hit stuff for a while. I'll talk to you later, okay?" It isn't an apology, but it is sort of like one. If you squint. In the dark.

"Okay!" calls Vincent. "Bye!" And on he goes, patting over his jacket for cigarettes as he continues to shoulder out for the door.

"You picked wrong," Jackson explains sadly, and he lifts his hand to rub its heel against his eye, tiredly, pushing his sunglasses up to the top of his head in order to do so. He neglects to replace them afterwards, his usual self-conscious washed away by the three shots he's had. "Look, we should -- I should. Go."

Natalie is not quite in the mood for squinting at the moment, and thus the jerk of her head into a nod is less than forgiving, as is her turn away to pace toward the curb, where for a moment she stands and stares down the street, presumably in search of a cab.

Hate me today-- Hate me tomorrow-- Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you--

Elias eyes Percy back with a disturbed look before tossing back his drink and sets the glass down, searching for his wallet. He lays bills on the counter and eyes Lark for a second. "She was close. It felt right. And fuck you, Jackson. If I could have kissed Bahir, I would have. He's far less awkward." Wallet stuffed sufficiently back in his pocket, he eyes the both of them. "Okay?"

Vincent stumbles out through the doors with a cigarette already in his mouth, and a lighter in hand. He's lit up almost before he's managed to catch his balance, but his cell phone clatters out of his pocket onto the concrete. "Fuck."

Annoyance is not long lived for Lark. Elias' reaction sends her back through the spectrum of emotions to a distressed frown and wide eyes and she exlaims, "I'm /sorry/. I didn't mean it." She suddenly throws bare arms around his shoulders and buries her face against him saying again, "I'm sorry."

Jackson flinches backwards, shoulders stiffening. "You picked wrong," he mumbles again, frowning down at his feet. He flicks a glance up towards Lark and Elias, and then turns to head for the door.

"Okay, shhhh," Eli replies to Lark, rubbing her back lightly, giving Jackson while he does. When his boyfriend starts storming out, Eli sighs and speaks to Lark again. "Okay, we need to follow after Jackson because - well, we do, okay? Come on." He starts nudging Lark toward the door without entirely unwrapping her from himself. It's a three legged race!

"Okay." Lark is quite easily led at this point, though she does cling to Elias for a certain amount of support. And observe for no particular reason that, "You smell good."

As people begin to exit, the music becomes abruptly chipper, cheery, even. Soon, the chorus is blaring: My friends say I should act my age-- What's my age again?-- What's my age again?--

Jackson is beelining for the door, with detours only to make sure he does not crash into anyone. Once outside he pauses, rather unsure what to do next, but then heads towards the curb to try and hail a cab for the second time tonight. He squints at the street uncertainly.

Vincent is outside. He is smoking. Also, trying to tuck his lighter into a pocket and bend over after the phone he dropped without falling on his face.

Elias leads Lark outside, starting to look a little green around the gills as well as quite shaky. "Jackson?" His voice is hollow as he glances around, shucking Lark off, if possible, but at least turning away from her as he finds the nearest trashcan and throws up in it. Yay!

Jackson does not immediately see any cabs /on/ the street -- at least not any /empty/ ones, though plenty go by already carrying passengers. He scowls briefly at the street before turning away from it, expression fading from a scowl to bemusement as he watches Vincent. The scowl returns though, when Elias comes out -- but this doesn't stop him heading for Eli's side to steady him when he gets sick.

"Cold," Lark complains again at her second trip outside, but it is only half-hearted. She lets go of Elias when prompted and then proceeds to stand shivering in the middle of the sidewalk. A tiny black dress with barely enough fabric to qualify for the word is really not outdoor wear, even in August. Her skinny frame doesn't exactly help either.

Vincent's fingers scrabble a bit, but he finally manages to get the phone and straighten up without any major disasters. Once the phone is retrieved, it's opened, and he punches in something to speed dial, meandering over to Lark as he goes. "Did you come here with someone else?"

Elias slumps against the trash can when the retching is done, groaning in the back of his throat.

"Naomi. Bitchy first violin. But she came to fuck someone." Lark informs him matter of factly. "It's cold," she adds plaintively, hugging herself and rubbing her arms to try and coax back some warmth. "Do you have a sweater?"

Jackson straightens when the retching is done, lips thinning as he turns away to seek a cab again. This time, he is more successful. "Lark?" he offers first, with a gesture towards the cab. He is -- mostly ignoring Vincent and Elias both, for the moment.

"I'm sure. But I don't have a sweater, no. Here, you can -- yes. It's Lazzaro again. I'm at some place called The Doghouse -- ah. Ok." Vincent shrugs awkwardly out of his suit coat as he talks on the phone, cast and pins presenting some minor sleeve trouble before he's clear of that side, and can fumble the phone into his less mobile hand. "Ok," he says again. "See you in a few minutes." The call ends there, and he tosses the coat to Lark. "How long are you going to be fucked up." It is not exactly a question.

Lark doesn't exactly understand Jackson's question. She just smiles and says warmly, "Jackson. Are you going home?" Fortunately her dexterity is still enough that even distracted she does manage not to entirely drop Vincent's coat. Fumbles, but manages to hold onto. It's big on her, but warm and she shrugs into it gratefully. "I don't know. A while? I don't keep track." She holds up a coat covered wrist, that might or might not have a watch hidden on it, and points to it for Vincent's edification.

Elias falls a little unconscious over by his trash can.

"Yes. Are you? Do you want this cab?" Jackson is patient -- though the cab driver is less so, growing irritable in the front seat. As an afterthought, Jackson tags on, "-- I think Elias just died."

"Ok, so. A while o'clock." That's so helpful, says Vincent's expression. He eyes her for a moment, then looks past her, to Elias, who...doesn't look so good. "Hey. You. I'm taking Lark back to my apartment. My name's...hello? Well, it's Vincent Lazzaro, so..." he trails off, and then catches on that Jackson is offering Lark a cab. He steps in the way, not all that gracefully. "Nooo no no no. I'm not putting some girl who's /tripping on e/ or whatever into a random cab by herself."

"What?" Eli sits up when Vincent starts addressing him, his eyes not focusing at all on the former cop's face. "Whythefuck your apartment?" It's weak, but it is a protest. He glances between the other bodies in the conversation. He squeezes his eyes shut before trying to focus again. "Who's on E?" What?

"Do /you/ want the cab, then? Or -- she can come to my place. I mean, she's a friend. You're a --" Jackson doesn't finish the thought. He moves away from the cab to skirt around Vincent back towards Lark. The cab promptly scoots further up the curb to pick up a different group of people who are not being so indecisive. Jackson's nose wrinkles. "Hey. Lark. /Eli/. Stop dying an' let's go home."

"It's your cab. You should have it. I'm not a cab stealer. I don't steal things," Lark informs Jackson firmly. Then giggles. "Why is Elias dying? I don't think he should be dead." When Vincent moves, Lark decides somehow that he's leaving and she should go too. Therefore, she grabs on his arm and rests her head against his shoulder.

"A /what/, asshole? I've seen how you look at me." Because the looks Vincent gives are so much more flattering, suuuuuurely. He glares, puffs on his cigarette, and finally lifts a hand to his forehead. "Okay. As long as she goes somewhere with somebody I don't care who's apartment it is. I mean." He lifts the same hand to indicate her cuddletime with his shoulder and blows smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Fucking PANT THIEF," Elias supplies when both Jackson and Vincent seem to fail to do so. He's slowly getting his feet underneath him and moving toward the group again, wiping at his mouth with the back of his wrist.

"Every time I see you you glare at me!" Jackson protests. "It's not /my/ fault we got tortured together, you know. I am not a /crazy scientist/. And /you/ are a /pants-stealer/." His face scrunches up determinedly, and he reaches to try and pry Lark off of Vincent's arm.

Lark blinks up at Vincent. "Do you steal pants?" She lets go of his arm readily enough when Jackson pulls at her, but seems uninclined to go anywhere otherwise. Instead she goes back to hugging herself for warmth and watching the three of them with wide green eyes.

"Shut up!" Vincent yells back at Elias. A few other people coming out of the bar give them Looks. "Asshole." Ash is tapped away with neurotic fervor, and Lazzaro gives Jackson another hard look to add to his ever growing collection of them. No reply to his claim that he is not an evil crazy scientist. Just more frowning.

A little ways down the curb, one cab in particular calls out, "Hey, LAZZARO. I don't have all fucking night!" and the ex-cop takes a drifty step back in that direction, jabbing his cigarette at Jackson as he goes. "Go with him. And stop taking pills."

"Pants and fingers," Jackson says, his own look after Vincent rather sulky. He steers Lark closer to the curb to hail a cab of their own. MAYBE THEY WILL EVEN GET INTO IT. He certainly tries to usher Lark inside.

Elias stands for a while, then pitches forward. Instead of tumbling over, he braces his hands on his knees and waits for the dizzy to pass.

"Where are we going?" Second time's the charm, and Lark obediently climbs into the cab this time. She gives the cab driver her address with no trouble and then turns back to regard Jackson. "Are you coming?"

Vincent's expression sours enough in turning that he probably heard the finger bit, but he doesn't come charging back up the sidewalk. A few seconds later, he definitely slams the door of his cab, though.

"Yes, but we're going to /my/ home," Jackson says firmly. "Eli, come /on/." He is not really all that sympathetic to Elias's sick. "Don't make me steal your pants." (From his tone, this is evidently a /dire/ threat.)

Elias moves over to the cab and crawls in with his hands and head first. The hands give way and lower him to the seat, resting his head on Lark's lap while his legs start to curl in underneath him, into the car, and kind of out of the way. A second later, he pulls himself into a sitting position so Jackson can get in as well. He gives his address to the cab driver, since Jackson insisted.

"Elias," Lark recognizes with a delighted smile. She leans down to drop a kiss lightly on his temple and whisper, "I love you." Then she leans back against the seat and is content to stroke her fingers through his hair.

Jackson heaves a sigh of relief as Elias gets in, and finally follows. "If you throw up in here," he warns Elias in a low voice as he closes the door, "you ain't getting sex for a /month/." He slumps against his door as the cab starts moving.

"Love you too." Elias confesses to anyone, slumping down until his head is in Lark's lap again. He reaches out a hand for Jackson's and closes his eyes.

Bahir, Elias, Illyana, Jason, Lark, Matt, Natalie, Percy, Ryan, Vincent (part two)

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 07:35:46 GMT

Log. Friday night. 8 August. The Doghouse.

"All right, all right! I didn't see you have quite as many as all that, dearie-dear." And at that, Jason chilvarously chair-seats. Without any immediate effect. The chair underneath Percy softens unpleasantly, as if it were made of something heat-fragile.

Jackson flashes another smile, warm, at Bahir, before hooking his arm back through Lark's and leading her away from the bar, vaguely towards the dance floor, though he skirts the edges of the crowd. "Er," is his reply to her statement. "I have no idea where to -- look."

Illyana sinks into the chair, her head drooping too, like she just wants to curl up for a nap. "You can--" She gestures the 'go ahead and have fun', since the words aren't coming to her, and her frown line is still there as she tries to breathe.

"Burning -- oh." Ryan's confusion is quick to clear up. "Fireman?"
"Stop that," Percy says to Jason, shifting uncomfortably atop his perch, and dips two fingertips in his dark rum to flick a few droplets of the liquid at Jason. He is really mature.
"So uh, you're not Russian, right?" Barrows says to Jason, since he is dating a Russian girl, and Barrows is pretty drunk.

Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Vincent's nose rankles with the step, and the creases at the corners of his eyes tighten. Quickly, his right hand is on Bahir's shoulder. Before he can escape. "You stepped on my foot," he says, oddly polite.

Looking her chivalrous escort, Lark belatedly recalls Jackson's level of prior experience in such matters. Perhaps not the best escort. "Oh. Sorry, um. I'll be okay. I'll meet you back at the bar?" She waves vaguely back the way they came and slips her arm from his, looking a little more collected now.

"Stop what?" Jason is also very mature. He turns most of his attention toward Barrows as he a-grabs Illyana's shoulder. (This is also helpful.) "Nope! I'm British."

Oh, woops. Bahir can't follow Natalie just yet. He has to cause a scene, first. "Fuck, did I? Didn't see you down there," he answers lightly, tone terrifically civil. The thin thread of telepathy broadens. "Sorry about that."

"Yup," Matt confirms. "L-T with Ladder 26," he supplies a little more informatively, if compacted into jargon and acronyms. "Finally got off a long stretch of duty shifts, what with still having Grand Central fucking with the workload, and I needed a drink."

Natalie turns as soon as it becomes apparent that Bahir is not right behind her, pausing for a moment so peer over the shoulder of a guy who's edging a touch too close and needs to be firmly discouraged. She rises on toes and then blows out a breath of annoyance and shoulders her way back toward the pair. "Hey, are you /trying/ to keep me from getting drunk," she begins to Bahir before glancing over at Vincent, brows raised in query. "Hey."

"Really?" Pigwit reanimates immediately, peering at Jason as though he suspects he will immediately become more comprehensible with this new information. "So'm I! Where you from?"

"Being a /prat/," Percy says, with a slight flare of his nostrils as he tips his chin up and adds, "this is not a room where you want to be aggravating me."

Pigwit peers at Percy and says, "Huh?"

Illyana stops fighting so much, and just slumps in the chair, with the calming influence of Jason's touch still there. "One drink," she says, soft and unsteadily.

The fast rock ends abruptly (get in, get in) and edges into upbeat and chipper, deathly familiar these days. That's great, it starts with an earthquake, birds and snakes, an aeroplane -

"Grand Central -- yeah. I'm glad my work there is finished up, far as we can tell," Ryan says with a wry smile. "Engineer. Trying to keep the place from falling down around you firemen's ears while you were working." A slight shadow crosses his face. "More or less. So here's to the reconstruction effort!" He lifts his drink, only to be reminded that it's gone. He turns and waves to the bartender. Hello!

"Alright," Jackson says with a twitch of a smile. "cuz I totally want to take you up on that dancing thing, when you're ready." He unhooks his arm from hers, angling back towards the bar, vaguely in search of the drink he'd abandoned, though he halts with eyebrows raised to watch the exchange between Bahir and Vincent. His expression is -- perhaps a touch apprehensive. His gaze slips from Vincent to Bahir's pants.

"Chee--" says Matt, belatedly noticing that Ryan's hand is empty as the other man turns to get a new one. With a shrug, he drains the rest of his whiskey, prompting yet more redness to his cheeks, and orders another for himself. "Well, much appreciated. M'girlfriend turned up to do what she could to help too -- she was a different area of the site than me, then."

"You're the lightest weight that ever weighted. Keep on breathing, honey--" Jason looks back toward Percy, his grin so broad. "I suppose you might challenge me to a break-dance duel. That could be entertaining - and I'm actually Welsh, never mind."

It's the end of the world as we know it-- It's the end of the world as we know it-- It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine--

Crackle, crackle. Vincent's temper takes on an unpleasant electric tang, but he isn't doing much thinking at all. The thinking comes only after his hand snaps from Bahir's shoulder to twist into his collar instead, and he has to try to piece a sentence together. Quickly, but again, not as quickly as he should. It comes out through his teeth. "Why is it that people always have to fuck with me? You didn't forget the pants. I know you didn't."

Vincent definitely didn't forget the pants. Or the fact that he promised to take Bahir's legs off, next time. This is obvious because he is thinking about it.

"Strong drink," Illyana decides, trying to smile at Jason. "{/Why/ are you dressed like a girl?}" she asks Percy, unhappily.

"I'd really let go, if I were you," Bahir says, almost /happy/ as his voice drops low. Pain awakes, starting slowly in a build of tension at the nape of Vincent's neck that distracts clear thought. He brings his arm up inside, pushing Vincent's away. "You're holding up the drinking -- and besides, it was an accident."

Percy sets his drink very carefully down on the bar and shifts again, pressing his manicured fingertips to either of his temples. "God, it's stuffy in here," he says. Having trouble focusing, he doesn't quite answer Illyana either, but instead just looks faintly green beneath his makeup.

HAVE SOME AGGRESSION, PERCY. Slowly, it circulates.

"Whoa, hey, what the fuck, man, leave him alone!" Natalie snaps swiftly, moving in to jerk a hand at Vincent's shoulder with far less, y'know, sense of self-preservation than perhaps she strictly ought to have. Her timing is poor, which means that she catches part of Bahir's shove as he makes it, and she staggers backwards a bit before getting her balance again, wobbly on heels.

"That was, like, the shittiest come back ever." Jason squeezes Illyana's shoulder with even greater distraction.

Ryan actually gets /two/ Manhattans: one for himself, one for the woman in the short skirt who surely needs some alcohol in her system about now. "Nice of her to try and help," he says absent-mindedly to Matt. "We sure needed all the hands we could get." He then rises to his feet, gesturing to the little tense group over there with a slight shrug in Matt's direction before he starts over thataway.

Illyana's focus grows ever dimmer, and with it comes a distinct sense of wooziness, of the bar being very fuzzy and unstable, and of it being very hard to breath. In the distance, a small group of college-aged boys watch her carefully. They watch Jason, too.

"Hey--." A sudden, desperate figure jogs Jason's elbow. He him in a low voice, a girl standing half a dozen paces distant trying to look like she isn't with him. "Got a condom?"

Offer me solutions, offer me alternatives and I decline-- It's the end of the world--

"You okay, man?" Pigwit peeeeers at Percy, distracted from the fake Welshman by his friend's apparent predicament. "You're not gonna throw up, are you? Say, I haven't seen you this yucked up since--"

As soon as the desperate figure appears, the boys stir, two moving toward Illyana and a third just sliiiiding in the other direction, to cut neatly between Jason and her in an effort to reach the bar.

Illyana coughs, and then retches, with no real regard for Jason's shoes, unless he steps out of the way. For now, it stays at dry heaves. She presses hands over her eyes to try to shut down the fuzziness. "Home?"

Matt notes the gesture, notes the group, and responds with a grunt and a sigh as he abandons his drink order to go push off the bar and start wending his way through the crowd towards the unhappy knot. "Guess I should go over there in case the bouncers need a hand," he reflects. "Or..." But the other idea remains his. "Good call on the booze."

Those were nice shoes. And now they are splattered. Jason turns a brilliantly taut grin at the elbow jostler. "Got a dick? Piss off." He gives the figure a skinny-armed, irritated shove and without looking at her, mutters, "Yeah, sure, home," to Illyana. "You're wasted."

The familiar tune fades into nothingness of a breath of lyrics (It's the end of the world as we know it-- It's the end of the world as we know it-- It's the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine-- fine--) and then strikes up into a stringed melody. I used to rule the world-- Seas would rise when I gave the word.

"What about you? Got a condom, man? Or change, I'll take change," the man says, stumbling over toward Percy and pal at Jason's rude rejection.

The cut of the third boy is quite pointed and-- well. Practiced. He practically forces himself between Jason and Illyana, complete with a muttered, "Fuck, man, watch it wouldya?"

Vincent's brows twitch down at...something. He doesn't seem quite sure, but the combined buggery of the double shove is enough to snap him out of it, and he steps automatically forward to make two steps up for the one lost, though he has let go. Be. Aggressive. B E aggressive. "Tell your fag hag to back off, or I swear to god I'll take a leg off of both of you and you'll be potato-sack-racing to eternity."

As Ryan walks closer to the little group of mutants, he starts to feel the inevitable dizziness that comes with the involuntarily power-drain as his mind happily hands out extra power to everybody nearby with mentally powered abilities. He pales, swaying a little in place, but manages to focus his gaze on Natalie and stay standing straight -- though he doesn't quite manage to take in everything going on around her. "You look like you could use a drink," he manages to say, through his haze of mental tiredness.

Illyana doesn't look precisely happy that someone's trying to push Jason's hand away from her shoulder, but she's at the passive stage of extreme physical discomfort, and so just sits there until someone moves her.

Nerves twanging from the slow rise of tension and shivering aggression that thicken the air, Percy clenches his teeth, shuts his eyes, and starts killing the juice. Undercutting tension with the false enforcement of chemical calm, in a widening circle from his central point. Already drained from the effort of control throughout the evening, he sits up with faint pallor continuing and pulls his drink back over to him. "Fuck off, buddy," he says, with no attempt at all to sham a woman's voice. "I'm fine, Pigwit."

I used to roll the dice-- Feel the fear in my enemies eyes--

Jackson is startled briefly out of keeping his attention on Bahir and Vincent as Ryan approaches. "You," he says, with more surprise than anything else.

Oops. Poor fellow. This is not the time to bump Jason. The reaction is so immediate that it's practically unconscious. Stomach twists blood-coughing painful, feet turn stiff-heavy like granite, and the young man's jaw lock-jaws. Jason is feeling a bit pissy. He doesn't even bother /looking/ at the guy.

Well, if Vincent /insists/...! (A G G--.) Bahir's response to his surge forward is a sharp that clears space. Physical aggression is secondary to telepathic; pain spikes, paired with dizzying vertigo, as if a migraine were suddenly striking -- and then a little more.

"What the /fuck/-" Natalie retorts, and there's anger flaring bright in her dark eyes in the wake of Vincent's words. Where she might typically look for help (MATT!), tonight she simply steps forward, although she stops just short of actually /hitting/ the man. Bahir's there, after all.

Never an honest word-- But that was when I ruled the world--

Matt is oblivious to things telepathic or mutanty going on. His drink having arrived in good enough time for it to be worth doubling back to the bar to retrieve, he arrives in Ryan's wake, more whiskey in hand, to wonder a vague "Lazzaro? The fuck are you doing here?" off on the fringes of things. And then there's the surging and stepping, and a "Lazzaro? Natalie? The hell?" in a tone more bemused than aggressive.

The fellow stops cold, looking very suddenly nauseous. His buddies, behind Illyana, also pause, staring at their companion in crime with confusion and a slowly-dawning worry.

It's nice of her not to hit him, because Vincent goes pale enough to look like the life has just been sucked out of him. He gasps a little, almost incredulous, and lifts a hand towards his head, though it doesn't quite get there. It poises over his brow, and he just stands there for a minute, trying to shake it off. He does not seem to hear Matt, or Natalie.

Ryan is left cruely spurned by Natalie, sadly holding two drinks in his hands while she glares at Vincent. It's just as well, though, because right now he's kind of struggling just to stand, much less think. There are an /awful/ lot of mutants right near him.

"Home," Illyana says plaintively. A crimson light flickers in the air, near Jason, and then pops out of existance again with a snap. She slumps even more, if possible.

"Hey, man, are you okay?" Jackson wonders, taking a step closer to Natalie and Ryan. "You don't look so good." His hand lifts, halfway to offering support, but drops back to his side, the gesture aborted. "You look like you should sit down, maybe."

Like a somewhat manipulative asshole, Bahir uses this break to pretend as though Vincent has acceded to the wisdom of his point. "That's what I thought, asshole." The pain waxes and wanes, pulsing to the beat of the, by now, quite over-loud music.

Jason shoulders behind the nauseous fellow (while maintaining his nasty, nasty effects and making them just a liiiitttle worse) as he approaches Illyana again. "Taxis work, honey! Hang on just a freaking second."

There sure are a lot of mutants! The tension is seeping out of the air, chased by soothing chemical dampeners that eat away at the hotter sides of emotions. Anger leeches from people in a widening circle, although the further from Percy, the lesser the effect; still, the party in his general vicinity is slowly becoming quite peaceful. Percy looks pale beneath his makeup, and gets Barrows to order him a fruit daiquiri of some kind.

A pretty girl, in a place like this, and with cash to spend has no trouble finding what she's looking for. But Lark is feeling less flustered away from the others and so simply tucks the spoils of her deal down the front of her dress with the rest of her money. She emerges from the dance floor to the area near the bar and pauses near the edge of the group of people she left not that long ago. Everyone is looking kind of tense, but it's not clear exactly why.

Matt's hand lands on Ryan's shoulder, steadying as he wonders a concerned "Need air? You look like you're gonna hurl or fall over, pick both... oh, hey. Glow Boy," he greets Jackson, with a vague nod and a nickname. "You wanna see Ryan here out where it's a little less thick...? Here, I'll take the drink over to Nat for you."

Too late, Matt! Ryan jerks away from Jackson, dimly recognizing even in the haze as his energy becomes more and more drained. The simple motion of trying to step away, however, is the last straw in his overload. Well, it's either that or Percy stepping in on top of everything. He collapses suddenly to the ground, glass crashing underneath him as he drops both drinks, alcohol draining wastefully onto the floor beneath his crumpled form. Everybody can stop enjoying their advantages, now.

Poor Ryan, totally lost in the fuss that is someone attacking Natalie's best friend, who by the way rates far higher than just about anyone else at the moment, no matter how much alcohol they are plying her with. She stands livid next to Vincent, half a step from violence, until very suddenly she finds herself-- calm. Oh, hey, wow. What lovely and relaxing music they are playing. Are those... birds? Gosh, we like birds. She turns her attention away only as Ryan collapses, spinning abruptly to stare in his direction.

"M'fine," Ryan mumbles into the ground, not quite unconscious. Just close. "It'll -- just -- sec." Really close.

It's going around. After her aborted attempt at a portal, Jason suddenly gets an armful of girlfriend, as Illyana's out, though she's enough in the chair she could be propped up to sleep it off if he doesn't want to carry her. To anyone watching nearby, her surrender to the drug is pretty obvious.

"Yeah, I'll --" But Jackson will not do anything, due to Ryan's unfortunate collapse. He winces as Ryan falls, moving to try and pillow the landing but not moving fast /enough/. Instead, he crouches worriedly by Ryan's side and glances up at Matt. "Was he here with anyone who can get him home, d'you know?"

Vincent has not acceded to anything. Fingers curled against an open palm, he reaches back with every intention of breaking Bahir's nose with it. Every...intention. Really. Then, poff. The wee fire that is Vincent's fury is gone. His hand falls, and he registers that there is a man on the floor. Bahir and Natalie are like ~so~ forgotten, and he shoves his way over in that direction instead, not aggressive so much as in a hurry.

"Um." Jason, feeling much less pissy, momentarily forgets to maintain his wicked hold on the bump-guy. He's just rather sedatedly holding Illyana. With slightly trembly arms. He is not built for this.
Never did no harm-- Never did no harm--

The bump-guy finds himself rather abruptly finding it to be a better idea to /go a different direction/, and he does so, swiftly.

"Oh my god," Lark breathes as Ryan collapses. Despite the fact that she's never met him in her life, she is quick to hurry toward someone in need. And Jackson is there already, she discovers, which is all to the good. "What happened? Do you think he needs an ambulance?" she presses Jackson. A cell phone appears from somewhere about her person, though where is not immediately apparent.

"All right, everybody MAKE a SPACE HERE." Matt has good lungs. Matt also has a Trained Duty to perform, with someone up and keeling over on the floor beside him. Joining Jackson in in his crouch beside Ryan, his movements are a little fumble-fingered thanks to not quite three whiskeys and no food, but they're still capable of airway checking, breathing, and feeling for a pulse and other bits of emergency assessment that follow ABCs. "Said he had a babysitter watching his kid."

Bahir breathes deeply, and then releases a low, cranky noise that is more of frustration than anger. As Ryan collapses, Vincent's pain eases slightly, and then eases further as telepathy retracts in pace with withdrawal. He takes a few steps back toward the bar in a blank moment, and then twitches. Waitasec. He marks the glow of other psionic minds -- << What the fuck, Jason? >> -- as he searches, searches ... and finds. Telepathy touches Percy's mind just long enough for positive identification. He looks a little more blank, and eyes Natalie.

Percy is just sucking down his daiquiri as quickly as possible, trying to replenish whatever stores of energy he has already burned hastily through in the course of the night. "Fuck, it's after midnight, isn't it ... /now/ it's my birthday," he mutters to Pigwit.

Natalie is busy watching Ryan and the crowd growing around him, her arms folded up under her breasts as she stares in that direction with a note of horror until the growing group blocks him rather entirely from her sight. Eventually she turns to look at Bahir, halfway to wondering whether it'd be unfeeling to go /buy a drink now/ and by the way what was that when she notes the eyeing and blinks, lifting her brows in slow query.

"Don't know," Jackson answers Lark, and though there is worry in his expression and his tone, it is not /too/ much worry: bartender that he is, he has seen far too many people keeling over in bars. "Too much drink, maybe?" He backs up just slightly, lips pursing. "If he's got a cell phone on him we could call -- someone. Home."

If these mutants would stop being so /mutant/ish and nearby, Ryan might get better. As it is, he remains weak and lying on the ground, his eyes rolling over to look at Jackson and fix him with a tiny, weak glare. He is breathing, and pulsing, and his airway is unobstructed, so there's no easy physical explanation for his sudden collapse. "M'fine," he manages to mutter at Matt, "Just... need a minute."

Jason sort of trriiies to heft Illyana. He's still failing.

Elias arrives eventually, cleanly shaven, brushed and looking a little more dapper than he has the last few days. Today's outfit is a green dress shirt and a pair well fitting slacks. As he walks in, his brow furrows, eyes searching the crowd, his confusion growing. Hmmmmm.

"Is he breathing?" Vincent the beer-stained ex-cop demands, totally professional and not buzzed at all (he is in a suit, so, professional, clearly) once he's cleared through to Ryan. He does not crouch with the others, but wraps a hand around the back of his aching head. "He looks sick."

Illyana is dead weight, hair falling forward to obscure her face. A very...helpful sort of dead weight! The kind of dead weight that's rather sliding towards the floor.

Lyrics fade (And feel like you were there yourself-- Work it out--) and rush fast into a new beat, rising to frantic frenzy. Most the people in the bar are entirely unaware of Ryan's predicament, and dancing continues unabated, as does business at the bar - and other sorts of business in less obvious places. If you feel so angry-- So ripped off so stepped on--

"Hey, do you need help?" Pigwit asks Jason, a half-drunk stumbled step away and then there. "Maybe I can -- haha, get her feet?" The wee Englishman is, ah, /slurring/ a bit. Probably the only man in the room shorter than Vincent.
Percy watches his "date" step off with a gaze gone slightly vague with booze and weariness.

"I'll get you some water, sir," Jackson says to the glaring Ryan, and pushes himself to his feet to do just that.

Superstitious in his refusal to turn the one direction he has yet to look, which /isn't/ actually in Percy's direction since Bahir completely missed him in the wig, Bahir inclines his head to Natalie. "Probably just drunk," he mutters, drifting over toward her as he hastily armors telepathy against the crowd once more. "Which /I/ would like to be. For fuck's sake. What was our tally at, anyway?" Then, in a quieter hiss, he says, "Percy's here. /Somewhere/."

"Oh." Lark is surprised to find that Ryan can talk. And then that the blond guy leaning over him is remarkably familiar. She crouches down beside his prone form as well, deciding that she is exempt from a need to make a space. "Maybe we should get him outside? It's so stuffy in here," she wonders of Matt, frowning.

"Breathing and talking... and like hell you're fine, Ryan," Matt informs the man on the floor with a snort. "You just keeled over in the middle of a bar, and you only had that one beer here. Hospital for you, man, even if it's just observation."

"Forget the fucking tally, I will /buy/ if we can drink," Natalie says under her breath as she steps toward Bahir. The second takes her by surprise, and she pauses in her step toward the bar to blink at Bahir. "What? Where? Are you-- do we need to---?"

"Yeah, yeah, hurrah for help. I need her outside so I can order taxi delivery," Jason mutters - briefly scanning the crowd as if for someone.

"I don't know. No." A slight crankiness sharpens Bahir's tone. "Get me something sweet." Grudging, he adds, "I'll get the next. We'll call it even."

Laughing drunkenly, Pigwit fumbles for Illyana's feet. Picking them up, he sort of stands there like he can't figure out what comes next. "Poor kid, she's all wiped out," he says.

Vincent is so professional that he...decides to let Matt handle it once he's determined that the guy isn't dead or anything. It's delegation. Delegation is professional. By chance, or terrible coincidence, he pushes his way back for the bar. Oh look, a pretty lady. He leans in to gesture to the bartender to replace the beer in his casted left hand and glances sidelong to Percy next to him. "Buy you a drink?"

The pressure releases on Ryan a bit as Bahir shields up again and some of the mutants walk further away, and he blinks hard to clear his head. He's still clearly weak, but at least some of his mental faculties are slowly returning. "No, I've got -- the babysitter. This has happened to me before. It'll go away."

"It'll be okay," Natalie encourages, turning to place a hand on Bahir's arm and lean up to press a friendly kiss to his cheek as her fingers squeeze support at his arm before she rocks back. "We'll drink, then we'll dance. I'm doing a shot or two-- stay here. I'll be right back." And so said, she disappears toward the bar.

Percy cocks an eyebrow sidelong at Vincent, and reaches to tug at the flare of his skirt around the cross of his legs at the knees as his glance flicks away again, smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Thanks," he says, laughter caught in his low voice. "But you'd probably regret it. I'm told I'm pretty high maintenance."

Elias remains daunted by the door for a few more minutes before steeling himself and heading into the crowd. A delightfully superficial smile graces his lips as he starts moving through the crowd. Given that he is directionless in his search, he heads to the bar first.

"I know, it's tragic." And with this, Jason heeeefts Illyana's shoulders. "Come on."

Bahir stays. Good Bahir! He remains determinedly facing the same way he has been, as though there are monsters lurking behind him which will attack if he looks.

Water does not take any mixing, and Jackson manages to obtain a bottle, still capped, quickly; quicker still given the explanation that it is for the man who just collapsed. "Here," he says, upon returning with it, offering it out to Ryan. "Y'sure you don't want to at least -- get some air?"

"You ever get it checked out before?" Matt wonders, backing off of producing an ambulance and EMT crew from his pockets, but not backing off entirely, as he remains crouched on his haunches. "And I mean, at least let us get you a cab, man. You just DFO'd."

Pigwit is all too happy to make his stumbling, fumbling way with Jason and his Russian girlfriend out of the bar. He probably is not looking for a threesome, though, just saying.

Natalie is shuffled and jostled, and she bumps sideways into Elias as he moves in on the bar. A quick glance sideways doesn't pay a ton of attention beyond basic courtesy, and a whirl of loose, dark hair half-obscures her gaze as she murmurs, "Sorry," and then demands shots for her and sweet for Bahir from the bartender.

You're not the only one-- Refusing to go down-- You're not the only one-- So get up-- Let's start a riot, a riot-- Let's start a riot--

"Oh yeah?" Vincent manages a tired smile for the bartender, who grins at him like an idiot when she passes over a beer, and another of what Percy's drinking. Weirdo. "In what way?"

Lark lays a concerned hand on Ryan's shoulder, offering him her other arm as help to sit up if he wants it. "I can get you a chair pretty easily if you want someplace to sit before you try and do anything else," she says, nodding to the bar.

Jason will turn him into a real pig if he does, oh ho ho. And a-stumble, a-stumble-bump they go.

Illyana never has had much meat on her frame, but there's a lot of muscle there, and she's tall, so she's not exactly that light. But she would be extremely grateful! If she were awake.

Ryan manages to sit up with Lark's help, leaning just a little bit against her and smiling. The smile fades, however, as he takes the offered bottle from Jackson. He eyes Jackson and it suspiciously, checking the seal to make sure it is /uncompromised/ water. It could have mutant cooties in it. "I'm allergic to mutants," he offers to Matt by way of explanation, sneaking yet another glare at Jackson. "Always get sick when I'm around 'em. Cab outta here would be good, though."

Let's start a riot, a riot-- Let's start a riot-- Let's start a riot, a riot-- Let's start a riot--

"Natalie." Eli's volume is enough to be heard, his expression falling serious as he recognizes her. He takes a step after here, before glancing around again. She's buying enough alcohol for two.

"Now -that's- fuckin' weird," is Matt's appraisal of mutant-induced allergic response, delivered in a tone more of idle interest than judgement. He offers a hand up, ready when Ryan wants it. "D'you get, like, hives and shit?"

The bottle is, indeed, sealed, and Jackson's lips thin after Ryan takes it, though he backs away. "I'll go grab you a cab, sir," is all he says, voice somewhat tense as he turns away. He notices Elias in his turn, though, and detours the few feet out of his way to sneak a briiiief hug in before /actually/ angling for the door.

"Elias!" Natalie spins again, swiftly, her eyes gone wide for a moment as she faces him. She is rather-- ah. Let's just call it 'slutted up' and have it over with, shall we? Her skirt is short and black, showing off an impressive expanse of smooth thigh, and the shimmer of her silky shirt - scarlet - shifts in the light. Alliteratively. For a moment she looks intensely self-conscious once more and her arms fold under her breasts as she studies him and then wonders abruptly, "You drinking? I'm already buying for Bahir, I'll toss one in for you if you want."

"Pass out, throw up," Ryan explains, tipping a hand vaguely. His shoulders relax as Jackson steps away and he takes a relieved breath. Fortunately for those near him, he does not seem in imminent danger of the latter. "Get dizzy and have trouble thinking. Doesn't happen all the time, but -- I'd guess there's more than one around." His eyes track suspiciously around the bar, and a faint shudder runs down his back. He does not open the water, sealed though it is.

"Weird," Lark agrees with a confused look. She gathers her weight over her bent knees, so that she can stand as Ryan does and support him through it as well. Alcohol prompts her to assure him that, "I promise I won't make you sick. I'm safe." Looking up to Matt with a smile she adds a cheerful, "Hi, Matt!"

"Better ask my date," Percy says, skimming a glance over the bar generally. "He's around somewhere--" He breaks off suddenly, and closes his mouth over whatever might come next. There is Bahir, more or less in profile, since the direction he's not looking in is the wrong direction! Percy arches a look back at Vincent, head tipping. "Thanks for the drink," he says, affectation thinning from his voice. "You might want to take it yourself, though." Poor Vincent. He is talking to a man.

After the screaming force of the last song, the next is almost a relief, mellow and nearly aucostic. The dance floor slows to a quiet sway in time to the music. How many special people change?-- How many lives are living strange?-- Where were you while we were getting high?--

"S'New York City. Some days, it seems like there's someone on every street corner," Matt philosophizes. "Although you ever get tested for that? Like, find out if there's some mutant-specific allergen or something? Could be interesting." Neutral, with an undertone of little boy fascination still colouring a not-yet-thirty-something voice, he falls silent after that, a smile spreading at the sounds of the next song. "I ought to go find someone to dance with and hope my girlfriend doesn't mind," he muses. "Since it looks like the kid's handling your cab."

"Your date?" Vincent asks, brows all incredulous until...something. Sooomething clicks. Maybe it's the adam's apple. Whatever it is, Lazzaro looks Percy's face over with all the investigative intensity that he can muster, and...his face falls. Yeah, he is talking to a man.

"God, yes?" There's a drive by hugging and then Natalie has his full attention. "Where is he?" He turns to looks around and then smiles at his friend. "You look festive."

Ryan tries to not lean on Lark very much as she helps him to his feet. "I haven't really," he answers Matt. "Might bug a doc about it sometime, though." He takes a deep, steadying breath, and then offers hand for Matt to shake. "Hey, thanks." To Lark, he adds, "I think I'm okay to get out to a cab on my own, if you've got friends here waiting on you."

Natalie stares behind Elias as Jackson-- drivebys. She blinks after him, gaze beyond baffled, and then looks back to Elias with brows that lift upward in dark arches. She turns back to the bar, sweeping her hair forward over bare shoulders and rubbing a hand across the nape of her neck, where sweat has gathered in a dim sheen, as she seeks the bartender's attention again. She gains it when he returns with shots - two for her - and sweet for Bahir. "Tell him what you want," she suggests before glancing sideways at Elias to admit, "I wanted to get drunk. Been here an hour and I haven't had a drink yet. We had a bet - whoever managed the hottest bought the first drinks." A sigh, a pause, and then Natalie admits, "Bahir won." And she's even wearing heels. They do /lovely/ things for her legs!

"Yeah," Percy says, and glances away again with the hook of an elbow against the bar. He presses his lips together, fighting off a laugh. "Good luck," he tells Vincent kindly. "You're very charming." Then he pushes himself unsteadily to his feet, catching his balance with imperfect grace and a flick of long chocolate hair over his shoulder.

Cuz we don't believe-- That they're gonna get away from the summer-- But you and I will never die-- The world's still spinning around we don't know why--

Jackson wends his way through the room and to outside, where he -- hails a cab. It is terribly exciting, really.

"Waiting for me? More like abandoning me to run into people who hate me all on my own." There is a suggestion of a pout to Lark's lower lip. Indeed her escort for the evening, whoever that might be, has not been seen in quite some time. "No, I'm happy to walk you out. Maybe I'll stay out for a quick smoke." She smiles, still hanging onto Ryan's arm, though not really for his support anymore. "My name's Lark, by the way."

Bahir continues to stand there, trying to be subtle about searching the crowd. About so tall, short, dark hair...! There are lots of people matching the outline, but strangely, none match the rest of the requirements. He starts to look annoyed. Arms folded across his chest, he taps his fingers, once, and then twice, thrice again against the skin which stands darkly golden against the brilliant white of his shirt. Sleeves rolled and cuffed, he is not /nearly/ as skanky as Natalie. All he has that strives for sluttish territory are leather pants, which admittedly lie happily wanton in fit. After a fourth tap, he glances over to see what is keeping Natalie, and his eyes widen slightly. Ah. And so he crosses over, leaning past Elias and Natalie both to claim his drink. Sandalwood and spice cling close to his skin as he invades personal space to get to the important bit: alcohol. "Hullo," he greets, retreating. "Did I just hear you admit I won?"

Vincent nods distantly to that reassurance. After a moment spent looking down at his beer, he sinks onto the barstool Percy just vacated. So ronery.

"Have you considered bottle service?" Elias leans in at the bar and orders two tequila and looks back. "I want to know what the bet was, now that I've seen the wager." He does cast a glance at those legs, a brow raised in admiration. An eyebrow rises as he looks at Bahir, his smile growing. "She just admitted you won."

"Well, I'll leave you to keep an eye out for him, Miss," Matt relents, giving Ryan and Lark a vague bow that would be courtly if it were a few more drinks on. "For now... I think I spotted one of my stationmates over there."

"No, no, that was the bet-- Bahir." Natalie turns to glance at him with a sheepish smile, still most certainly Natalie despite the clothing. Which is not /skanky/, thank you. It's just-- sexy. In a totally classy sort of way. "No such thing. I was just saying that Elias should cast the final vote. He swings both ways, so it's totally fair," she points out, tilting her head toward said Elias with a slow smile even as she reaches for one of her shots. A pause, and then she tosses it back, then promptly winces and coughs, rubbing the back of her wrist against her mouth.

"See ya," the engineer says to Matt with a wave, before turning with Lark towards the door. "Lark? Pretty name." It takes him a moment to realize he should offer his as well. "My name's Ryan. And you know smoking's going to kill you someday, right?"

Music fades out on a repetitive refrain (Where were you while we were getting high?-- We were getting high-- We were getting high--) to be picked up in a slow snap of fingers.

"This is a really suspicious sort of pink," says Bahir as he pulls his drink closer for investigation. He pushes the short straw around the rim with the tip of his finger, touch sliding along glass. "What the fuck did you get me?" But then there are further fun and games: his gaze lifts from alcohol at Natalie's last, with his smile flashing, quick and bright. "Pretty sure I heard you admit I won," he says to her in a low voice made throaty by carefully suppressed laughter, "but, if you insist, I'm sure Elias will cast the /right/ vote." He drops his hand in a sweeping gesture, indicating himself.

"Yes. But, the asteroid is going to kill /every/body, first." Lark frowns as she comes to a crucial realization, running her free hand down the side of her clinging dress to illustrate it to Ryan. "Damn. I didn't bring a pack, or a lighter. Not much place to put them." She giggles, in a way that if sober, she might find undignified. "And I forget them, because I quit, because of the whole dying thing. And then I picked up because of the other whole dying thing."

Natalie looks very pointedly at Elias, backing up a touch so that she can shift her weight to one leg, letting her hip jut outward as she rests one hand lightly on the curve of it and lifts her chin, dark hair a thick tumble over her bare shoulders.

"Make the next one a crown and water," Vincent mutters, not bothering to raise his voice against the music. His head is back in his hand again. "Christ."

It doesn't mean a thing-- If you haven't got that ability to swing-- The ability to swing--

Elias blinks at Natalie and then glances over at Bahir, looking him up and down for a second, taking in the very nicely fitted pants. "Huh." A long absent smile covers the man's face as he glances between the two, his brow furrowing. He turns around to grab both of his shots, tossing one back immediately. He relaxes, laughs a little, gives Bahir an apologetic expression before looking back to Natalie. "You win by shear quantity of skin shown."

"No, you really don't have much place to put them," Ryan agrees, running his eyes briefly down Lark's dress as she demonstrates the lack of cigarettes. He takes a moment to mentally berate himself -- a bar full of beautiful women barely dressed, and he /passes out/. Manly. "You've got a point, though. If I'd ever smoked, I'd probably pick it up again."

Bahir eyes Natalie sidelong at the shift to his side. His eyebrows cock with a slight smirk curling at his lips. He mouths the word, 'Skank,' to her and then answers Elias with the upwards turn of his middle finger. "Way to go for /easy/ over /classy/," he says, the laughter that earlier threatened freely expressed.

Having trailed through the crowded bar half-tracking his ex, Percy has also completely failed to locate Pigwit. He circles back in a slow stride for the bar, slinking between people and narrowly avoiding collision in fluid motion. He pauses a few feet away from a rather familiar trio apparently taking advice from Madonna (STRIKING A POSE, OK?). Pursing rose-dusted lips, he tips his head slightly, adjusts the loose dark fall of his shimmery chocolate wig. He gives Natalie a long, slightly baffled look from beneath his lashes, amber eyes glinting -- likely more in amusement than in appreciation, from a man out of practice with lechery.

Natalie looks instantly triumphant, and she lifts her voice to call toward a bartender, "Another for me, and on /his/ tab!" with a thumb jutted at Bahir before she turns a laugh toward Bahir in response to is. "Don't be a sore loser," she accuses, leaning forward to claim her second shot. "Someone still has to dance with me, after all--" She breaks off as a sweep of her gaze catches /amusement/ from the eyes of a very attractive woman, and she bristles, frowning.

"You could join--" No, Lark, you don't have cigarettes, remember? She giggles again, then shivers as she and Ryan pass out of the humid heat of the bar's interior to the cool summer night outside. "'s cold," she murmurs in protest. "You sure you'll be okay going home? You're not going to pass out in the cab, are you? I've heard that they aren't very nice about it if you do that."

Everbody' talking-- talkin' pretty loud-- Everbody lookin'-- to stand out from the crowd--

Outside, Jackson waves Lark and Ryan over -- he has detained a cab and holds it against the line of other people /also/ attempting to grab one by virtue of -- who knows. He doesn't linger long, though, posture uncomfortable with Ryan's proximity. "I'll be -- back at the bar," he tells Lark, leaving the cab for them and veering back towards the door.

Elias grins and cradles his second shot before looking over his shoulder at the subject of Natalie's glare. It's obvious from his expression that he's expecting someone else entirely. When he takes in the lovely brunette, he smiles and nods (no recognition here) and turns back to Natalie with a 'ex-girlfriend?' expression.

"Yes, I'll be okay," Ryan says, some color finally returning to his skin as they step clear of the bar. He takes in a deep breath of the cool air. He is at least as uncomfortable with Jackson's presence as Jackson is with his, merely giving him an uncomfortable nod before getting into the cab. "Take care," he says to Lark, before shutting the door of it and giving the cabbie his address.

Now it's a ruin-- The joke has worn thin-- And it isn't cool to abuse-- the ability to swing--

When the bartender brings Natalie's second shot, Bahir leans forward to ask for one of his own, paying for both. Pointing at his drink, he says, "Whatever the base of this is," and leaves the details to those paid to know such things. Sliding the depleted fold of bills away takes a minor bit of effort given close fit -- but only minor. /Classy/, not /skanky/. He eyes Elias with a mild scowl. "Sheer quantity of skin," he repeats from earlier. "What if I had taken off my shirt?" (The pants, though? They stay on.) Percy who? Percy what?

Vincent has procured a phonebook from the bartender, and a cell phone, from his pocket. He is on E, for Escort Service.

"You too," Lark tells Ryan. She watches and waves as the cab drives off, then makes a quick dash for the door to the bar. Shivering hard, she ducks gratefully back inside and heads straight for the bar. She catches a glimpse of Natalie in her path and reverses direction suddenly to avoid any chance of running into her again. So, instead she runs into Percy, in the more literal sense of the word. "Sorry, sorry," she apologizes, trying to recover her balance.

Bahir, Elias, Illyana, Jason, Lark, Matt, Natalie, Percy, Ryan, Vincent (part one)

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 07:32:35 GMT

Log. Friday night. 8 August. The Doghouse.

The Doghouse is, perhaps a bit unfortunately, something of a themed bar, proud of its heritage as one of those places with solid booze and solid, steadily rocking music and a crowd not afraid to enjoy itself. The tables have seen better days, some of the chairs are a touch wobbly, the long bar that stretches across the entire front of the place is worn, much-loved wood, and the walls are painted a dark, steel grey. They're covered with a variety of paraphenalia that includes, every now and then, trinkets like dog collars and tags that read 'Killer' and 'Fifi'. Just enough to make the point that the place doesn't take itself seriously - not like those sleek, ritzy strobelight clubs - but not /quite/ enough to reach kitsch. It's difficult to see any of it at this time of night, when the lights are dimmed save for the crazy crawl of colored spots that sweep the crowd as it moves from 'drinking' to 'drinking and dancing and by the way Friday'.

It's evening for bar-goers, night for everyone else. Edging past eleven, the bar is already full, and several of its patrons are already drunk. Good, solid beer is a common favorite, as are straight shots of /real/ drinks, like whisky. The music that pumps out is part rock, part rocking country, and the dress varies from rhinestone-studded jeans to straight out skank club-wear. It's loud. The entire place seems to move with the rhythm of pumped in music, a vast beast that's almost alive as Friday night begins.

Illyana is tagging along with Jason (actually a little in front of him, since he was taking so long), looking confident in her lack of ID, apparently opperating on the assumption it will just be taken care of. Her eyes are bit a wide with a gawking sense to them, and she's even dressed up, wearing a bodice, though it looks more legit than most of the bustier-type tops visible out on the dance floor.

Jason is dressed up, too. Of course he is. Pale grey suit-tux, complete with tails. Sharp, polished leather shoes that click faintly with every off step. His hair is proudly half-afroed over his forehead and he's whistling to himself as he thoughtlessly trails Illyana. And, of course, makes sure her ID is /perfect/ with a flip of his thoughts.

Why is Vincent at The Doghouse. This is a question he is likely asking himself. He is in a brownish grey suit and seated at the bar, with his cast-bound left hand studded by two or three protruding wires. His ring, pinky finger, and thumb are free to gesture for another bottle of beer to join his growing collection. His right hand supports his bald head, which has only just now soaked up enough booze that the pulse of the music is no longer giving him a headache.

On the skanky end of the spectrum of patrons is a thin young woman with long dark hair. Putting aside her usual fresh and pretty look for the evening, Lark is wearing a slip of something that just qualifies as a dress, that hugs all the right places and gives the illusion that her skinny frame actually possesses a certain amount of curve. Standing at the bar, she tosses back a shot of vodka in one quick, practiced motion, adding to her growing tipsyness. With a hand on the bar's edge to steady herself she turns to scan the room for someone, presumably the someone who she came in with.

The bartender, one of a trio desperately trying to keep up with the flow of the crowd, cracks open the cap of another bottle. She slides it in Vincent's direction. It tiiiiips.

By the time Robert Barrows and his ... date, sort of, arrive at this particular bar on Friday night, they are already pretty drunk. His fresh, pale face is flushed, his blue eyes a little too bright. He wears a collared shirt in crisp black, open over an undershirt that is, for some reason, bright pink, and dark jeans, too new to be really as battered-looking as these pretend for the sake of fashion. His date is much too tall for him; where he is five foot six inches even in his cowboy boots (which we must report that he is wearing), in two inch heels she bucks six feet.

Of course, she is not really a /she/, but between the filmy flow of her little black dress, skirt flared in a swirl around her knees, the waxed legs, the long, shimmering chocolate of her brunette wig, the gold hoops at her ears, the expert makeup job -- a little rose pink there, a little gold dust there -- she is hot enough for the pretense. Also, it's at least their third bar.

Whoever Lark came with, they are not immediately apparent! Instead, she finds herself subject of attention from a certain distance, where a dark-haired young man (and it is only charity that keeps one from calling him a /youth/) regards her nervously from a knot of similarly collegiate nerds. They are clearly trying to encourage him to go hit on her, pushing him in her direction ungently. Men are so supportive!

Illyana brushes her hair out of her face and drops back a little to grin at her own date, tilting her head to the bar. "What you--do you suggest?" she asks Jason, frowning a little at the colorful variety of display bottles. She's relaxed and happy, and he accent is slathered thick, even though her grammar is at the good end of her personal spectrum. So far.

"You're asking the wrong guy. Buy whatever looks most magical or something. Ho!" Jason raises his fingers and snaps snaps toward the bar. "Let's have the most urine colored drink we got."

"What'd you want? An Alien Urine Sample?" calls over one of the bartenders to Jason, picking up on certain key words. No, really. It's a drink.

"Fantastic. Slide it over." Why, Jason snaps his fingers again.

It requires mixing. When the drink appears, it is a lurid blue hue and tastes of raspberries. It is also expensive. Surprise!

The beer tiiiiips. Tips, and glug glugs foamy beer across the bar, and onto Vincent's pants and coat when he botches a last-second attempt to keep it from falling. "Damn it--" There is a minor commotion when a jolt out of the way sends tripping off the side of his bar stool.

Finding appreciative eyes on her, Lark smiles. When taking in her admirer reveals that he is both male and far too young, she just smiles wider and winks at the poor youth. But her attention is pulled away before she can do anything more, as beside her Vincent is covered with alcohol. She steps back unsteadily on her heels, then forward again on an impulse to help. "You okay?" she asks him automatically.

"Me too," Illyana says, much enamored of the blue hue of Jason's drink once she sees it. Once she receives it, and befor she can drink it, however, she reacts with a fighter's twitchy nerves to the commotion just down bar from her, shying more than one might expect. She blinks at Lark, searching for recognition.

As karma enacts revenge upon Vincent, Bahir misses the sweet, sweet vindication. He is out of sight, just one dark head among many on the dance floor. With his hand on Natalie's elbow, sweat a faint sheen on dusky skin, he begins to pry and elbow his way out, forming a path and dragging her behind. "--fucking grabbed my ass, which I think counts as a vote for me, by the way," he is saying as they make their way forward, ever so painfully slow in their progress.

'Me too,' at those prices, provokes a quick response from the bartender, and the quick flash of a smile in Illyana's direction. The bartender is a blond who would not be out of place on a farm, but here he is in New York City, passing out urine samples.

"Nonono, seriously," Barrows is telling his companion with expansive gestures as he shepherds her somewhat ineffectually through the crowd toward the bar. "Fifteen thousand pounds. Over the moon, I'm telling you, I didn't even think she liked me."

"Oh look," interrupts his date in a low, mellow voice whose affect leaves her gender in doubt, if not her accent -- that's as English as his. "Someone has had an accident." Pointing with one finely manicured finger, she smirks a bit. "Schadenfraude."

"Is that a drink?" Barrows asks in some distraction, craning his neck to get a look at a woman with much larger breasts than Percy's.

The wink provokes where the youth was otherwise retiring, and grasping his beer by the neck, he takes a deep breath. Scuffing forward, he approaches Lark, then draws back upon seeing her speak with Vincent. He looks dismayed. Hot chick taken by old guy?

Jason tosses money over the bar with complete and typical carelessness. "Drink up!" he all but brays in Illyana's direction.

Not so very long after Jason flings money about, the bump of a stumbling, giggling redhead leads to a caaasual pat at his side. Wallet, wallet, wallet--! "Oops, excuse me!" she coos.

"I'm ff--fine. I'm /fine/." Flustered by his own stammering, Vincent lifts his gimpy hand to stave off Lark's advance while he regains his balance, and...drips. His damp sleeve is shaken to little avail, and he's trying not to get angry. Really, he is.

"He was just pushing you out of the way," Natalie retorts, a dark head near Bahir's as she leans in close to hear her companion's words in the midst of pressing bodies. She stays close, footsteps careful in the rise of heels that she'd never subject her feet to in regular circumstances. "I've had at /least/ three guys stare at my boobs." And it even looks like she has some today! A sleeveless red top shimmers its silken fabric, cut a touch loose rather than tight, but with a clinging, swaying touch and a neckline that dips down, down, to tease with glimpses of dark skin with every movement. "How'd you hear about this place anyway?" she shouts forward toward her companion.

Having lived in a world with no actual drinking age for so much time recently, Illyana knows how to toast properly. But then she sips carefully at first. She makes a face at the sweetness, coughs, and takes a better swallow, only to see another woman brushing against him. She glares, and her hand goes to where her sword should be, but isn't.

No wallet. How unfortunate. Jason's probably one of those people who keeps his money in his socks. The giggly bump draws a condescending grin, though. "Well, well, aren't we sloshed."

"Little bit," the redhead confesses. Lack of wallet lets a happy pinch at Jason's butt, and then she flashes a fox's smile at Illyana before bumbling-stumbling down the line. Oh, hellooooooo, Vincent. Wobbling in her high heels, she tips forward -- rather like the beer bottle.

Illyana forces her hand to drop, smiles back the kind of smile aimed to hint at her personal body-count, and then sets her half-empty drink on the bar to give Jason a quick kiss on the lips. Not exactly subtle! Then she steps back and gives him space again, not needing to make-out at the moment. She glances over the dance floor with idle curiosity.

"Oi!" Pushing and elbowing his way up to the bar, Barrows pulls Percy along. He wields his elbows like a longtime pub crawler, apparently heedless of the fact that she is looking a little vertigous. "Flaming B-52s! Four of them!"

Percy neglects to point out that there are only two of them, but instead slants a look at falling over drunk people a few spaces over from beneath long, dark lashes. "Oh God," he says suddenly, still in his girl-voice, and grabs at Robert's biceps with sudden intensity. "Pigwit. How is your Russian?"

There's the briefest of pauses in the music, marked more by a shift in the rhythm and direction of the searching spotlights (blue now, then yellow) than any real silence. It picks up again with a steady, driving beat that's soon joined by lyrics, appropriate. Who's to know if your soul will fade at all-- The one you sold to fool the world--

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Vincent has evidently counted to ten or /something/, because he draws in a deep, slow breath, and lowers his arm out of its defensive set while Lark napkin-pats at his sleeve. He even reaches for a napkin of his own to pad it ineffectually over his freshly beer-scented pants. "Good luck finding a place that isn't." Oh, boobies. He pauses in his patting, and glances at them. It is perhaps a long glance. "Crowded. A place that isn't crowded."

Grin flashing over his shoulder, Bahir pulls past a knot of girls to briefly pause so that he might switch places with Natalie, and shove her ahead and off the dance floor. "You wish. You're just mad that would put me ahead." He trails after the path cleared by her stumble, retaining a grip on her elbow so that the whole affair doesn't end in broken ankles. "One of the girls at the lab. She's here, somewhere. No idea where."

Oh, more boobies! The redhead crashes into Vincent, and clutches at him. And his pockets. And, if she can find it, his wallet. "Woops!"

"I know, right?" Scintillating club conversation. Lark looks up with interest and a smile as the sloshed redhead arrives, but quickly loses interest as the other woman starts to get handsy with Vincent. Instead she asks him, working to be heard above the music, "Can I buy you another?"

Natalie is the picture of beauty and grace! Especially when one matches the very short black skirt she has found somewhere to match the rest of the not-Natalie ensemble. "Oh come on! Leather pants do /not/ make one a skank. Did you /see/ the skirt that I'm wearing?" She shoves her way through the crowd without much concern for others as they make their way from the dance floor and toward /drinks/.

"I think I will dance," Illyana tells Jason, glancing back hopefully, but still finishing her drink and moving away when it's clear he won't be joining her just yet. She moves away from the bar, standing hesitantly more or less entirely in the way, stopped as she is in the clear corridor between the bar crowd and the dance floor crowd, tall and slim and blond.

"Maybe you're right." Bahir's eyes drop as he contemplates the untamed expanse of Natalie's thigh. "You're pretty whorish."

Tsk. Hasn't anyone ever told Illyana not to leave half-empty drinks sitting around in public? A brush past the bar whilst Illyana makes her attachment to Jason /perfectly/ clear means that, given an hour or so, the now-dancing girl will be having a /very/ interesting night.

Matt is not a skank, and -he- has leather pants. Chaps, anyways, and worn over jeans in a style and paired with boots that says less fetish wear, and more not wanting to lose skin in ill-considered motorcycle hijinks. He is wearing his favourite dark blue cotton shirt with orange flames all over it, too. He is -stylin'-. He is also heading towards the bar, visible for being a half-head taller than most of the crowd, and he's got "Whiskey, please, god, whiskey" on his mind.

Natalie's elbow nudges back toward Bahir's side, rather ruining the effect of the smooth, untamed thighs he is so admiring. Admiring, right? "I'm taking that as a declaration of my victory. I want something that'll get me drunk, please."

Vincent is beer soaked, and so a damp person to clutch at. Rather than looked particularly /pleased/ at this rapid acceleration of the state of his relationship with this random woman, he steadies her with his good hand and looks at her as if she's crazy. Or seriously drunk. Not that he's looking completely sober himself. "Jesus, lady. Watch it." Vincent has a wallet. It's in his back pocket, and if she clutches at /that/, his brows lift towards the ceiling. "If you...want!" Is then called around her at Lark.

Ryan pauses in the doorway of the bar, looking warily inside. He hovers there until a nudge from behind reminds him not-too-subtly that he's holding up those behind him who have already decided that they want to enter. He shoves his hands into his pockets rather defensively, he makes his way direct to the bar, calling out to the bartender promptly for a beer.

"That girl over there," Percy is explaining, insinuating between people to lean his palm on the bar without a care for whose personal space he might be invading. "She's Russian." Apparently it's hilarious that she's Russian, too, because he keeps almost but not quite laughing as he speaks. "I know her."

With Ryan's order thus simple, it is a bottle of the cheapest sort of beer that he receives. The bartender barely waits for payment before going to take care of other orders.

"Watch it, bitch," one of those Percy shoves out of the way snaps over in New York City welcome. It is a woman, who regards this intrusion with clear dislike. Percy is /prettier/, and her date notices, flashing a shy smile. Hiiii.

Someone pushes past Illyana, really thirsty after dancing for so long, the damp state of the back of their shirt suggests. She pulls herself out of her indecision and leaves aside the dance floor for the moment, and goes to smile at Lark. "Hello," she says hesitantly in her accent, friendly.

Nodding to Vincent, Lark leaves him to the attentions of the redhead to try and catch the bartender to place another order. She doesn't use elbows to keep her place at the bar, but rather friendly arms around shoulders or waists and she is deceptively strong, too. When she can she calls out for another of what Vincent didn't get a chance to drink and a double of vodka. It takes her a moment to notice Illyana, quiet as the blond girl is. "Hi!" is friendly, but a little startled.

Matt just so happens, in one of life's little coincidences of bars having only a limited surface area, to be near Ryan and his beer. Raising his whiskey glass to him in a vague toast, he opines that "You're gonna need to drink a lot more of that before you quit noticing the taste."

Lark's order is easy, too! Thus, it comes quickly, and the blond male delivering it takes a moment to contemplate the illusion of curves with cheerful appreciation.

Percy flirts a smile with irreverent carelessness over his shoulder, uncaring as to whether it is directed at the woman he has directed or her date; the gleam of amber eyes one of warm and idle arrogance. Flicking some of 'his' hair over his shoulder with a turn of his wrist, he returns his attention to Pigwit, and knocks back a shot with a certain complacency. "It's not my birthday, sweetheart," he says lightly. "Never mind about the blondes. Citizenship is the question, isn't it?"
"Ahhhh," Barrows exhales. They don't have any more shots, so he scowls good-naturedly at the busy, busy bartenders. "God bless America!" he says, cheerfully, drunkenly loud. "God bless you all."

"Hey, hey. Hey," says Vincent to the red head, right hand held firmly at her waist when she tries to squirm past. He tacks on another, "Hey," just in case, or something. "Just a minute. How'd you get here? Did you drive?" He is serious in the way that tipsy people try to be serious, brows at a hard level to emphasize...his seriousness.

Ryan dutifully pays, though he looks skeptically at the beer. He takes a sip and, suspicions confirmed, winces a little. "Probably," he says to Matt in agreement, but manfully swigs more down. "I'll work on that."

Jackson is rather unflamboyant -- for him, at least, in a button-down shirt (white, with faintly shimmery strands shot through) and fitted black jeans. The couple he enters with is, to varying degrees, more flamboyant, though they are also more female so it is perhaps acceptable. The two women part ways with him somewhere halfway into the room, one tugging the other towards the dancefloor; Jackson surveys the scene idly from behind his sunglasses and in the end opts to thread his way through people over towards the bar.

Illyana is horrible at small talk, especially in this volume of background noise, but she tries. "You here for dancing? You like to dance?" Her attention keeps getting dragged away by movement, an impulse to check for threats, and she finally sees Barrows' "date". She looks past first, and then comes back to stare in confusion.
"No-oo," the redhead drawls, as if somewhat uncertain of this. She glances around in, 'Help, help!' fashion, and then attempts to wiggle her arm from Vincent's with a bright smile as a large man in a really unfortunate white-and-black splotched shirt comes up behind her to play the intimidation game so she can get away. "That's my boyfriend," she chirps, giving up her attempt on his wallet. "Sorry about that!"

The music rises to a peak, swelling into the final chords (You're such a hypocrite!) before the beat fades into something momentarily dreamy. A voice shouts out (HEY DJ!) and then the beat picks up again, stronger, a deep bass that practically /begs/ to be danced to. Tonight Im seein stars-- Tonight..stars--

Matt takes a moment to respond. This is because he is first tipping back the whiskey shot, and then repressing a surprised cough that suggests he is, perhaps, not inclined to taking whiskey by the shot. Cheeks flushed an insta-red which is blossoming across his nose as well, he sighs, slams the shot glass down in approved bar fashion, and allows that "Looks like a good place to do it in anyways. Misery, company, all that shit."

Progress toward the bar silent as they move past a pair of speakers, it is a moment or two later that Bahir picks up his conversation with Natalie. "Wrong. We could tally people at the bar," he suggests, drawing the back of his hand across the dark sweep of an eyebrow. "Official-like. Before the loser buys the other their drinks."

Lark accepts her drinks with a smile for the bartender, but no return of appreciation. "I'm definitely here to dance," she tells Illyana. "But, I'd better hand this over first." She lifts the beer bottle in explanation before realizing that Illyana is no longer listening to her, but staring instead. She follows the look to it's object and grins. "Nice drag."

"Yeah, pretty much," Ryan agrees. "World going to hell and all that." He pauses, eyes sweeping the bar. His gaze lands on Natalie and lights with a faint, vague recognition -- or maybe he's just staring at her current outfit. "Although at least I oughtta go out drinking good beer. Next round, I guess." He drinks again, managing not to make a face this time.

Natalie rolls her eyes, but it's good natured, and she's grinning as she wiggles next to him and loops her arm through his as they advance on the bar proper, drawing up rather near to cops and redheads, and not all that far from firemen. "Alright, sure, fine. Poll the bar. I bet /I/ can get more than just /your/ free drink out of that!"

Worldly as she is, Illyana still has odd pockets of naivete, and understanding only dawns after Lark actually points out it. She flushes. "Oh!" Then she frowns again. "Familiar--"

Progress to the bar is slow, but Jackson eventually makes it; his scan of the people there is perfunctory and cut short as soon as he notices Lark, and he angles her way with a smile. "Lark! Hi! -- Oh, and Illy!" The latter gets a wave and the former a one-armed hug, both greetings cheerfully friendly, if the cheer is slightly strained.

Strobes start up, lazy rather than headache inducing as the pounding music encourages. Dance all night to this DJ, dance all night to this DJ...

"Oh, hey, is that your Russian chick?" Barrows peers past Percy at Illyana and Lark, cheerfully geared up to take advantage of whatever female attention his particular hanger-on can garner him.
"What?" Percy looks back from where he has been trying unsuccessfully through a series of fingersnaps and flicked hand movements to get the attention of a bartender. "I don't actually have personal possession of any Russians," he adds.
"I'll say hi. What's hi in Russian," Barrows says, nudging at Percy's shoulder. "Hi?"

"You take a taxi? Or...oh." Yes, there is indeed a large man behind the redhead. Not excessively large himself, Vincent gives the guy a once over. "Ah, okay. Yeah -- I just wanted to make sure." His hand lifts neatly away, and he turns his head to seek out Lark again. He wasn't touching her, seriously!

"Hey, you got 'til February for that," Matt counsels, with black-edged good humour and a flash of a grin, equally sharp. "Plenty of time to get your hands on some good scotch and find a good beach to sit on....fuck." Matt, turning to follow Ryan's gaze, has a case of recognition that's less than faint. "Natalie?" he wonders, eyebrows lifted. "...Did you lose a bet?" is wondered next.

"Fuck you." Tone cheerful, Bahir casts a glance over those nearby so that they might begin their competition. Recognition on Matt's part causes him to point and say, "Whoever that is, he's disqualified because he knows you," as though Matt can't hear him -- or at least, sort of hear him.

"Hello," Illyana says with a brief smile for Jackson, she points to him, a little teasingly. "Do not tell my brother." Then she goes back to her frowning at Percy. "I am sorry--" she excuses herself to Lark and Jackson, and tries to weave her way over to get a better view.

Throbbing bass fades off into the distance, (dance all night to this dj...) just as the first strains of rocking country fill the air, a guitar tugging on the strains before a female voice begins in to a sudden rush of activity on the dance floor. Right now he's probably slow dancing with a bleach blond tramp...

"Was he hitting on you, sweetie?" Steering the redhead away toward more crowded quarters, the large man in the unfortunate shirt clears a path elsewhere, where they might find pockets less closely guarded.

"Jackson!" Lark exclaims delightedly. She is rendered unable to return the hug by the two drinks in hand, and a wish to avoid imitating Vincent's earlier accident. "You know--eachother?" Illyana's full name escapes her for the moment. "Here, I'll leave you two to catch up and go deliver this real quick. Just a sec!" Lifting the beer in a wave type thing, she twists away from Jackson and Illyana to try and make her way the couple feet toward Vincent.

Natalie turns at her name, dark eyes (minus glasses and made up with both mascara /and/ eyeliner) widened with a brief moment of horror that fades as they fix on Matt-- and then returns as her stomach twists and she leans into Bahir. "It's /Matt/," she hisses toward her best friend. Her fingers dig against his arm, a touch painfully. To the fireman himslf, she does not reply.

"Babysitters are already hard enough to find /now/. I see my opportunities for alcohol going steadily down from here on out," Ryan complains at Matt. "Got to take advantage of them while I can." As Natalie's attention is drawn over by Matt's call, he freezes. If he doesn't /move/, she can't /see him/. Right? Of course, being frozen in awkwardness does not stop him from staring. Just a teeny bit.

Some fruity little drink cause she can't shoot whiskey...

"Ooo." Bahir's eyes, similarly dark, are quite untouched by cosmetics. He wears no eyeliner; leather pants are quite enough. He studies Matt curiously, glancing past him after certain buxom brunettes. Finding Ryan, instead, he elbows Natalie sharply. "I bet he'll buy you a drink," he says, ruthlessly pointing him out. "You want to start polling?"

"Yup!" Jackson affirms brightly to Lark, leaning into the bar when she moves to try and catch a bartender's attention for his own order -- a terribly uninteresting cranberry juice. His head turns, gaze idly following to see where Illyana and Lark are headed; his eyebrows raise when he sees Vincent and his head turns quickly to pass over him and study Percy thoughtfully instead.

There is the suggestion of familiarity about Percy's face, despite gold dust and rose pink, the touch of lipstick, dark eyeliner, tand the long, shimmery dark of his chocolate wig. (The earrings are not dispositive. He wears those when not in drag.) His amber eyes, the casual arrogance of his lean against the bar. Of course, the smooth cream of waxed legs is a little unusual for him...!
As Illyana circles closer, also, Pigwit gives her a huge friendly wave, like he actually knows her. "Hi!" he bellows brightly. "I don't know hello in Russian!"
Percy makes a face and looks the /other/ way. Then he goes very still, for a heartbeat's measure, says "Oh, /fuck/," and angles one prettily shod foot to stomp on his friend's cowboy-booted toes. Hard.

Matt squints at Bahir, but while there is recognition there, too, it is not nearly enough to offer a name, much less fashion commentary. Ryan doing his T-rex Avoidance routine sadly gets no help from Matt, who favours Natalie with an eyebrow arched over one dark blue eye, and then goes back to talking to him. "Well, the kid's got to sleep some time, right?"

Vincent is a short, stubbled bald man in a bear-soaked suit who typically looks cranky but now looks more perplexed. That chick totally grabbed his ass. Like, /grabbed/ it. He has to shoulder his way through a couple of people to get back to Lark and friends. He starts to smile -- it's the polite thing to do -- then recognition sinks in on a hint of a delay. Not as fast as it should, anyway. His face goes a little dark, and he looks back to Lark, lifting a hand for what he presumes to be his beer. "Thanks."

Natalie glances briefly toward Ryan, brow furrowed and then smoothing before she sighs and glances up at Bahir, unleashing him just a /touch/. She /can/ stand on her own, after all. Even in heels. "Fine," she mutters, and then paints a very careful smile on the curve of red lips. "Hi, Matt. I did not lose a bet, I'm trying to win one."

"I forgot. Are we betting on who is hotter or who is skankier?" asks Bahir in quick clarification to Natalie. His undertone is not so under. "Because I hadn't quite realized just how short that skirt of yours was until we danced."

"{Hello,}" Illyana supplies, in that blank way people will answer easy questions without thinking when they're too surprised to think better of it. "I know--?" She still hasn't managed to put everything together, but now her confused regard goes from Percy to Pigwit.

Bodies press together on the dance floor, rocking to the beat of the song. Lyrics push onward -- I might've saved a little trouble for the next girl-- 'cause the next time he cheats -- and voices raise to intone with Carrie, "It won't be on me!" as the song winds to a close and then is replaced with instantly familiar strains of something old school.

"Yeah, but I don't like to keep alcohol in the --" Ryan begins to explain to Matt, before cutting off as Natalie and Bahir approach the fireman. Suddenly, he is very involved in drinking! Also, eavesdropping.

A collective groan rises up, followed by a few audible boos, and from somewhere there's a cackle.

"{Hello}!" Barrows repeats this with a sort of mangledly pronunciation, and then yelps. "Do you /mind/?" he squawks.
"Not at all," Percy says sweetly, studying his fingernails. "If you could just stand about six inches to the left."
Barrows obeys this request unthinkingly, and turns his attention back to Illyana with a crinkle to his brow. "We haven't met or anything!" he shouts happily at her. "--What the fuck," he adds, as the familiar strains of the music catch his attention.
Percy looks back at him blankly.

"Niiiiiiiice," says Matt to the music, a smirk firmly in place until curiosity tugs it loose. "Do I even wanna know what kind of bet's involved in a getup like that?" he wonders back to the Snark Twins.

Jason is paying attention. Really, he is. He's just leaning against the bar and twirling a discarded straw between his fingers.

"Gee, /thanks/," Natalie mutters with a sideways glance at Bahir, but her expression remains good-natured as she slides an elbow toward him once more while her gaze moves back toward Ryan, curious and absent before she decides, "Hotter. I'll still win." She shifts slightly, letting one hip jut out to show off the long expanse of legs that looks even longer given the benefit of heels and that short black skirt. She directs a roll of her eyes to Matt. "Oh come /on/. This is not /that/ skanky. It's just not jeans!"

The music changes almost instantly, halting a few bars into the song to be replaced by a heavy beat that carries so loud that melody is almost nonexistant, and quiet lyrics wisp above it. You let me violate you-- You let me desecrate you--

Slowly, Illyana begins to find herself feeling rather... relaxed. /Really/ rather relaxed, in fact, far more than what the alcohol she's had warrants, although the blame is easily laid there.

His own laugh of recognition caught behind the light bite of his teeth at the curve of his lower lip, Bahir intercepts Natalie's elbow to hook her arm in his. "Dream on." Alas that, while black leather does very nice things to lean and athletic limbs, they are entirely the wrong sort of shape to get Ryan's vote. "You know each other, so you don't count--" Matt thus dismissed, Bahir leans to address Ryan. Yes. The one hiding. Helloooooo. "Who is hotter? We're sampling -- what, seven?" he looks to Natalie for verification. "We each have two."

"You know I am Russian," Illyana points out, to Barrows, and then waits for an explanation. Her attention slips back to Jason every so often, even if he's going be lame and stay sitting, and she grins at him each time. This time, the grin is even wider, and continues when she turns back to Barrows. "{I do not think my appearance is that obvious,}" she says.

Surrendering the beer to Vincent, Lark gives a cursory look for the redhead missing from his outfit. "Careful with this one," she teases him, then notes his change in expression and wonders, "Something wrong?"

Ryan is one of those who rolls his eyes as the bar gets RickRolled, though he refrains from groaning. He stops hiding when directly addressed, even going so far as to straighten up and act like he's interested in the conversation. "She's hotter," he says, definitively, eyes flickering down her legs as she shows them off. He pauses as the bar's music changes once again, looking up to the speakers. "They have an ... eclectic playlist here, don't they?"

Jason waggles his fingers at Illyana, acknowledging, really. His head cants toward the rather rapey talk from the song box and he quietly crumples that straw of his.

Matt rolls a shoulder, but as this is part of a general standing-still not-quite-headbang as 'Closer' becomes more apparent for what it is, it may not mean all that much. "So how're you picking your sample sizes?" he wonders, from his position as disqualified. "I mean, for all you know, this guy here might think -he's- the hot one, and doesn't want to say." Congratulations, Ryan, you are 'this guy'.

"Oh no, that was /not/ in the rules-- Matt can vote!" The burn of Natalie's dark-eyed gaze on him says that he /owes/ her this one, and he'd better live up to it, thanks. A pause, and then she turns her eyes toward Ryan, brows arched neatly upward in expectation before his pronunciation earns a sudden vivid smile, spreading wide across her strong features. "One for me!" she choruses, with only the /briefest/ of flushes for the glance at her legs. It's mostly hidden by the warmth of the room and activity, which has left skin with a faint sheen of sweat regardless of efforts to look perfect and cool. She shifts a touch and glances pointedly toward Matt. "Oh no. I believe your friend is /honest/. Right? You're honest, right?" she wonders of Ryan.

Vincent has gone back to eyeing Jackson with one black eye and one brown while his grip is adjusted /securely/ around the base of his new beer. If he spills again, he...won't be happy. Not that he was happy the first time. But he may as well point a finger right at poor Mr. Holland for all that he then says, "Everything's fine. I'm Vincent, by the way."

The beat drives up and louder, harder as it pounds its way through the dancing crowd before easing off a bit, lyrics ringing briefly clearer. You can have my isolation; you can have the hate that it brings--

Illyana smiles happily, and gives Jason a wave back, one that's a little bigger than the situation merits. Easily attributable to the alcohol indeed.

Bahir scowls at Ryan. Wrong answer! Matt's point wipes the frown from his features, replacing it with the crooked twitch of a smirk that settles in, lopsided and smug. "Yeah. You're probably right," he agrees, inclining his head. "He meant the opposite, but was just flustered. Right?" he asks, /entirely/ ignoring any pointed glares on Natalie's part.

"To a fault," Ryan answers Natalie promptly, hand over his honest heart. "There's honestly no comparison." He shakes his head at Bahir, smirking a little. "No offense intended to you, but she is the clear winner here." His glance sneaks back briefly to her legs, but only for a half second before he remembers his manners. "And I've only had half a drink, so it's not beer goggles, either."

Barrows gives Illyana a look of happy incomprehension. "I have no idea what you just said!" he tells her. "My friend here," and he slaps Percy companionably on the arm, "knows you apparently. If probably not usually in a dress."
"You are spoiling the game," Percy says in a long-suffering tone. "Hey, buddy, I'll give you twenty bucks if you give me that barstool." He really needs to buy better high heels. Ones that don't plague the hell out of his feet.
"Give him twenty bucks and a blow job," Pigwit tells Hummer, who does not dignify that with a response.

"Whoa, wow," Natalie says with a sudden, amused laugh and a glance toward Bahir. "I kind of think I just got a little /insulted/ there." A pause and then she rushes to add, "Still counts, though."

Jackson shifts slightly with the feel of eyes on him, and his head turns to look back towards Vincent, posture uncomfortable but sunglasses hiding his expression. His lips twitch slightly in an abortive attempt at a smile, and he turns his back on his cranberry juice to look away from Vincent and back out at -- anything else.

Oooh yes, /relaxed/. Relaxed and easy-going, with no trace at all of anxiety. Illyana is just feeling... good. Uninhibited.

"Well, if I -can- vote," drawls Matt, leaning an elbow on the bar, and himself on his elbow, eyes skimming briefly over Bahir and lingering on Natalie with another crooked smile and an eyebrow twitch for her look after he manages to detatch his eyeballs from the cut of her shirt, "Then I admit I'm gonna have to go with Nat here." Raising his recently-arrived tumbler of whiskey (No more shots.) he toasts her, and then leans even more comfortably against the bar. "So, you two here to bet, drink, or dance?"

The voice finally gives Illyana enough to get it, and while there is no jaw dropping, she does stare frankly at Percy, and then she bursts into giggles. "{No!}" she protests. "{It's not you!}" Lack of inhibitions leave her itching for someone to be touchy with, and so she slides towards Jason too, not quite breaking the conversation with Percy.

"You know, I don't think I like him." Bahir points at Ryan. POINT. "I think he insulted us both. We are scratching his vote, although you can keep Matt's, and looking for a woman." Who, statistically speaking, will surely pick him, right? He looks one way, but spots no one near enough to harass, and then turns the, where Vincent's little knot lurks. Dark eyes alight on Lark, marked mostly for the fact of her curves, well before any recognition. "Hey-- oh, /fuck/, I know you. Lesbian, right? This is unfair."

Jason raises his arm so dramatically before sliding it around Illyana's neck in the press. It's probably a bit uncomfortable. "Well, well, if it isn't just my little Russian snigger-box."

"All three," Natalie replies to Matt. "I win the bet, I get the drink, I find a dance-- oh /no/ you don't," she answers Bahir, already turned away to follow him toward another crowd. One that earns a swift shutting-down of her expression. "We'll find someone else," she tells Bahir's ear, quiet as the music makes able. "/Now/."

Ryan looks puzzled. "What? I didn't --" He mentally tracks back, trying to figure out when he was insulting. "I didn't mean -- sorry --- you look /great/," he assures Natalie. "And I think my vote ought to count."

"Don't mind them," Matt counsels Ryan, with a rather amused look as he stumbles over logic. "I gave up long ago trying to figure out what makes her bristle, and if he's with her, he's probably the same way. Or he's up for sainthood."

Jackson perks as his gaze lights on Bahir, his smile brightening and his tone warm -- "Bahir! Hey --" Though warmth stutters to a halt as he notices Bahir's companion. His smile is -- less bright, but, "Hi, Natalie," is still polite. "You know Lark?"

The heavy beat draws to a close and on its heels comes something mellower, melancholy and aged, and the shift of dancers on the floor becomes almost trancelike as they sway to the new melody. All around me are familiar faces -- Worn out places, worn out faces --

"Oh," Percy adds, glance following gigglish Illyana to her target. Having secured the barstool, by a narrow margin and an extra five bucks, he sits on it in a flare of skirt, reordering himself as he crosses long, creamy legs. "It's Jason. Hello, Jason. Pigwit, why have you not bought me another drink?"
Pigwit glances at Percy's legs for a moment, and then remembers who they belong to. "What? Another drink. Another drink! Hey! Grasshoppers!" He whistles shrilly for the nearest bartender. Poor bartender.

Vincent sips his beer, seemingly unaware of precisely how uncomfortable the whole staring thing is. When he finally looks down, it's as if he's decided something, but then Jackson addresses Bahir, who is apparently calling Lark a lesbian. "What?" says Vincent, tone already promising tactlessness. "You're a /lesbian/? Seriously?" He is in a bar full of women and somehow so far none of them are available. Then he doubletakes at Bahir. His eyes narrow.

Illyana keeps laughing, not at anything in particular, but just at life, it seems. She leans into Jason, pulling the trick where you lean more and more of your body-weight on someone to see at what point then have to stumble-step to get their feet more braced. She tells him something low-voiced in Russian.

"I was going to say," Ryan says, and shakes his head, looking after them. "And what was her name again?" And then, at least trying to keep up the appearance of politeness, he adds, "And yours? I'm Ryan." A hand is extended for a handshake.

"Bahir? Hi!" Lark is still pretty tipsy and the sudden appearance of more people is a bit of an overload. She blinks and shakes her head. Finding things a little more settled, she smiles apologetically over at Vincent. "Sorry, he's right. Lesbian through and through." Then the woman in Bahir's wake resolves herself into a familiar face and Lark's smile freezes. She pales visibly, too. "Na--Natalie?"

"And it's Percy! What a surprise. You know," and Jason juts his thumb toward the strains of music, which is kind of impossible since it's maybe close to sourceless. "The trouble with covers of this particular song is that it lacks the same despairingly manic energy. Everyone's so /low/ nowadays. But we aren't, are we, dearest!" He turns his head aside to peck Illyana's forehead. "Look at our total chipperness."

"I need to be drunker," is what Percy has to say to Jason's total chipperness. So ladylike!
"I'm working on it, baby," Pigwit carols. He is actually half /on the bar/ at this point, pointing at bottles, shouting garbled instructions, and generally enforcing the bartender's nightmare.

"Matt," is offered, along with a handshake that's got the firmness of a large hand used in daily heavy labour behind it. His free hand still holding his drink, he gestures out towards the crowd, and by extension Natalie with it. "And that's Natalie out there. Dunno who the guy is, although I think I've seen him around. But Nat and I--" Omit sordid soap opera here! "Go to the same judo classes."

Illyana murmurs back a Russian endearment Percy should get, at least. "/My/ world not ends," she points out, smirky. "And you come." She squeezes her arm around Jason, making it clear that's who she means. She still leeeeeeans. He hasn't stumbled yet!

"Sort of," says Bahir absently, gaze dragging around to Jackson, and upon noting him, grinning. "One gay woman, one gay guy: poll them both?" he asks Natalie with a brief glance before looking forward again. "Hey, Lark, Jackson: who's hotter?" What, she's mad? Huh? HE IS OBLIVIOUS. His easy manner makes his first glance at Vincent pass on -- but rather as the older man does, when he comes back, it is with a sudden sharp narrowing of his gaze. Awkwardness for everyone!

The song is a short one, and it gains a driving beat to match the lyrics as it goes. Look right through me, look right through me-- It fades back on an echo, very eighties, very /now/. Mad world. Mad world. Mad world. This time there /is/ a stretch of silence between songs, long enough for a bit of an uncomfortable shift on the dance before the sound of laughter cackles across the system, joined swiftly by the electric strains of a guitars before steady, rhythmic vocals override it. Yeah here we go for the hundredth time-- Hand grenade pins in every line

"Yes, yes. Poor Percy. Look at him." Jason gestures back-handed at Percy. "He's given in to the directionless of the times! He wants to be effete, because it's easier."

"Judo?" Ryan asks, eyebrows raising. "Huh." He sneaks another glance at Natalie before looking down at his drink. It may have been foul tasting, but it is now gone. He glances over at the bartender, weighing the amount of time it will take to flag down their attention and getting another drink. Too much, it seems. He lapses into a somewhat awkward silence, observing the people around the bar with a cautious expression.

"Hi, Lark," Natalie manages, in a tone that says /very/ clearly 'buzz kill.' Her gaze shifts slightly and she draws in a breath to add, "Jackson," politely, before she shoots a narrow-eyed glance at Bahir and says, "We need to hurry this up. I need a drink /desperately/." She's subtle.

Vincent has so many fine friendly friendly friends. Jaw-clamped and stonefaced, he continues to eye Bahir. That his eyes diiip down towards his wasteband -- than means nothing.

"That a 'weird' huh, or a 'I have nothing to say, so here's a noise' huh?" Matt wonders, apparently voluble as he gets another finger of whiskey inside of him.

Illyana gives Jason a baleful look. "What is-- F-feet? What?" No fair using hard words! She giggles. "He is dressed like girl." Illyana is observant!

Beyond relaxation, Illyana starts to find herself a little-- droopy. In fact, her muscles seem a little slow to obey her commands. And the crowd is pretty crowded, y'know? That's probably why it's a bit difficult to breathe.

"Huh?" Pigwit, tall frosted green glasses in hand, turns a puzzled look in Jason's direction, and gives Illyana a mildly disappointed look. Darnit! Boyfriend!
Percy relieves him of one of the drinks. "Yes, I am," he says to Illyana, "funnily enough. It has been known to happen." He takes a long swallow of oversweet liquor and then rolls a dismayed glance at Pigwit. "Where is my paper umbrella?"
Pigwit sighs. "High maintenance," he says.

Jackson laughs quietly as he pushes away from the bar, cranberry juice forgotten, and wanders closer to Bahir et al. He is momentarily tense again as he looks briefly at Vincent, but awkwardness fades into an easy smile as he turns to study Bahir and Natalie both, critical, his forefinger tapping against his cheek. "Bahir," he judges after a moment, amusement colouring his tone. "Don't think I've ever seen you in leather."

Drink. Right. A brilliant idea. Lark remembers that she has a large amount of alcohol in a very small glass already, and tosses back the vodka all at once. She breathes out slowly, riding the burn that follows. "Anyone want to dance?" she wonders faintly. The color has not returned to her cheeks and she carefully looks at Bahir and not Natalie.

"That is because Percy experiences gender confusion," Jason chatters on so merrily, apparently not noticing Illyana's droopy. "He is a woman trapped in a man's skinny body. If he had boobs, he would be happier, but his family couldn't take the scandal."

"A little bit of both," Ryan answers Matt, absently. "Don't hear much of people taking Judo. Usually it's tae kwon do or -- something." He shrugs. "My kid's got a little extra energy he doesn't know what to do with. Would Judo be any good for a four year old?"

Illyana gets a little frown line between her eyes, and now she /needs/ Jason to be able to stand up. Her hands clutch a little. "Jason?" she says, dragging in a breath afterwards. "We sit?"

"Try it." Syllables cut from glass, Bahir is all sharp, brittle edges as he gives Vincent the very slightest of smiles. Telepathy wiggles free, shields shaking loose so that he can extend a tendril of attention in Vincent's direction. A telepathic finger rests on the pulse of his thoughts, just in /case/. He straightens, pointedly, and slants an arch look downward with lazy contempt in the snap of his gaze back toward Natalie. "Two at once," he says, striving to recapture earlier lightness. "Goes twice as fast." Dark eyelashes shiver in the most muted of winks in Jackson's direction, cheer slowly pooling in place of chill. "Adel's," he admits, before eying Lark. "Does that mean you pick me, too?" He holds out before agreeing, bribing for the tally.

"Jason is high," Percy adds, kindly. He flicks a glance at Illyana, and takes a breath of the air. He grimaces and glances away again, lifting two fingertips of his free hand to rub at his temples. (Well, THAT was a bad idea!) "Breasts are really inconvenient. I'm quite happy as I am."
"Here," Pigwit says, thrusting a fist beneath Percy's nose with a pink paper umbrella sticking up out of it, "is your goddamned umbrella."
Percy disapproves: "It's pink."

Natalie glances briefly at Bahir and then over toward Vincent - unfamiliar! - with a confused frown that, thankfully, distracts her from the other two. "Yeah, well, you'd better hurry it up or I'm going back over there and making that one guy buy me a drink anyway," she chirps.

"I should've guessed," Jackson says, head angling slightly down as he eyes the pants before lifting his gaze back up, Bahir and Natalie reflected in his glasses lenses. "You wear them well," he adds with a bright smile, more statement of fact than flirtation. "An' I rarely say no to dancing," he adds, cheerful again to Lark.

"Could be," Matt offers, with a shift in the angle of his lean to pop a couple vertebrae. "S'defensive rather than offensive, mostly. Not as much with the crazy-ass kicking and punching that I know I would've had more fun with as a kid. But martial arts in general, it's a good thing, I figure. Gives 'em something to do, teaches 'em how to settle down and listen."

"What? Oh, I suppose. My Russian tiger lily! Look how sloshed you are." Jason sounds ever so faintly irritated as he shoulders Illyana higher on his arm. Very helpfully. Not at all reluctantly, really. "I do hear breasts get in the way. A bit like - having a thick vest padded with stiff styrofoam. And I am not high."

"I--" Lark flicks a look between Natalie and Bahir, not really looking at what they're wearing. "Sure," she tells Bahir, nodding. Rather than answer Jackson directly, she slips an arm through his and leans a little of her slight weight on his support. To no one in particular she declares, "I think I need to find something stronger," then glances around the edges of the room, looking not for a friend but for a certain type of person.

"I am sorry," Illyana says sincerely. She tries to take a few steps for the bar. "Please--I just sit---" She doesn't manage to let go of Jason, though, apparently afraid of falling.

Vincent's thoughts are fractured and jagged, with something like static crackling along with slight shifts in attention. His line of sight is dulled down to half capacity, and his hearing is nearly as bad. Bahir's, 'Try it,' is naturally understood. An appropriate reply is laggard. He can't find the word he wants, and so starts to get angry. BUT he doesn't try it. He counts to ten. And keeps going.

The driving mood of Linkin Park carries the tune swiftly forward, and the dancing moves to a breathless frenzy as lyrics move to repetition. I bleed it out digging deeper-- Just to throw it away-- It ends in a smattering of applause and then breaks instantly into a riff of guitar and drums that takes awhile to make it to lyrics, but when it does, they're fast and rhythmic. I, I'm driving black on black-- Just got my license back-- I got this feeling in my veins this train is coming off the track-- I'll ask polite if the devil needs a ride--

There are /all kinds/ of certain types of persons happy to help Lark.

"Defensive is good," Ryan says, thoughtfully. "Really don't want him feeling like he can go out and pick fights anyway. Not that he'd be likely to end up the class bully, of course --" He catches himself before rattling on further about his child, and smiles apologetically. "Sorry. You hang out enough with the soccer moms at the park and you think everybody wants to hear all about your kid."

Natalie's gaze settles and lingers on Lark for a moment before her expression twists in disgust and she looses her arm from Bahir's, pushing forward past the small group to demand in a tone of forced cheer, "Two more."

Attention split between game and threat, Bahir matches forced cheer to brighten at Natalie, "I think that puts me ahead. Are you changing the rules for a larger sample size?" As he trails after her, he is not above oh-so-accidentally treading on Vincent's foot in passing. Close quarters and all.

After an exchange of expressions, Pigwit's bordering murderous and Percy's on the edge of a laugh, Percival flicks a gleaming, dark-lashed smile back in Jason's direction. He takes the pink umbrella and taps it lightly against the side of his glass, lifting it for a delicate sip. "Where /is/ your sense of chivalry, man?" he asks, showing no sign at all of relinquishing his seat.

"You disqualified one of mine, so I have to!" Natalie calls back over her shoulder, tone /oh/ so light. "Here, there!" A nod jerks toward Percy and Pigwit. "Guy and girl, one of each. Final tally, and then you're buying me two shots of /something/."

"I do more of the carrying soccer moms out of burning buildings," Matt admits, with another crook of a smile and a brief laugh. "They generally aren't thinking about martial arts for their kids, time like that."

Alyssa

Sat, 09 Aug 2008 02:14:12 GMT

Reassurance, ish.

Elias; Natalie

Fri, 08 Aug 2008 20:30:52 GMT

Log. Friday morning. 8 August. Elias's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 230 |Elias| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
On the left of the entry way in this studio apartment is a small sitting area complete with a love seat and an arm chair strategically situated around a television on a stand filled with a small dvd collection. A short railing divids the living room from the bedroom, two steps up on a small platform. The bed is a queen sized mattress with a dark wood headboard. Similarily dark, short dressers serve as nightstands. Curtains hang from floor to ceiling at the three of the four corners of the bedroom platform, used to close off the sleeping chamber from the rest of the apartmen at the owners will. The section directly in front of the main portal is a work area. A large, heavy-duty table sits with two sewing machines on top. There's a single rack for hanging clothes, half full and other collapsed and stuck behind the wall. An shelving unit, open on both the front and back sides, holds bolts of clothing, a few sets of books and some messy stacks of patterns.

To the right of the entryway, the wall juts out four feet before leading to a hallway. The kitchen lies off this hall, with a half wall, complete with barstools for eating off the countertop, dividing it from the work area. All of the kitchen appliances line the wall, leaving a decent amount of space to walk while cooking, but creating a cramped feeling. Opposite the kitchen is a closet, sliding doors keeping the contents from being seen. At the end of the hallway is the door to the bathroom.

It's Friday and since Eli has not received any calls about work yet, he feels perfectly justified in staying in bed and nurse another hangover. He doesn't bother getting out of bed at all, a second day's growth covering his face as he buried in his pillows. Yep. Fun day.

It is late Friday morning by the time Jackson comes down to Eli's apartment, although the fact that he brings hangover-alleviating things /with/ him is evidence that he likely stopped by some time much earlier. He himself is neat and clean-shaven, dressed in his tight black flame-embroidered jeans and a red-and-black tank top designed to look like a corset. For all he is washed and presentable, he doesn't look much /healthier/ than Elias, though his pale-and-haggard is born of simple exhaustion rather than anything alcohol-fueled. He slips out of his shoes by the door and heads for the kitchen to mix a packet of vitamin powder and a glass of water before even stopping by the bed.

Elias is about as dead to the world as possible, but in this state, some of the smallest unexpected noises start to cause him to stir. This is not Jackson's normal arrival time. There is not supposed to be water running in the kitchen. He turns his head in that direction and tries to open his eyes. It's a slow process.

It is much later, again, than Jackson's normal arrival time, having not stopped by after church -- but there he is, and there is water, though it shuts off quickly. He carries it and a mug, again, of hot tea from his apartment, back to the bedroom, setting both down on the dresser. "Morning, sweetie," he murmurs quietly. "Y'don't hafta get up. Jus' thought I'd keep that there for whenever you were ready for it."

Eli groans and digs his hand into his pocket to pull out a card. It contains a therapist's name and office information. He hands this over to Jackson, body curling into a fetal position as he looks up at the remedies.

Jackson looks the card over thoughtfully before setting it down on the nightstand. "Just come from therapy myself," he says with a hint of a blush. "I don't really like my therapist, though, an' he's like the -- fourth one I'm one." He reaches out to brush fingers lightly down Elias's arm. "Y'gonna check her out?"

Eli nods slowly, reaching out and taking Jackson's hand, rubbing at his eyes with the other. "I don't know though. I guess I should go for stress management. Everything else..." he doesn't say. Eyes simply squeeze shut again.

Jackson's fingers curl through Eli's, and he sits on the edge of the bed, squeezing Elias's hand gently. "It might help, hon. I know yesterday you were -- saying I was just -- trying to make you feel crazy -- but I /ain't/, Eli, I just -- I know everything is really stressful and I don't know how to help." He leans in to kiss Elias's cheek softly, just beneath one closed eye.

"I think I know that, most of the time." Eli admits after the kiss, body still. "I have to keep my friends close - I'm regretting yesterday."

"It's okay." Jackson slides onto the bed properly, looping one arm loosely around Elias's waist. "I mean -- between one thing an' another -- the end of the /world/ -- it ain't like it's /weird/ that it's getting to you."

"It's like I can't ignore it right now." Eli sighs and slides in closer to Jackson. "Sadly, the drinking helps."

Jackson holds Elias closer, hand running slowly up and down Eli's back. "It's hard to ignore," he admits quietly. "S'been tempting to --" He breaks off, shakes his head, kisses Elias on the forehead. "It's hard," he says again instead.

Eli doesn't ask about what Jackson stumbles over, preassing a kiss to Jackson's chin a second later.

"You know I love you, right?" Jackson's tone isn't affectionate or playful. It's rather matter-of-fact.

"Most the time." Elias pulls back a little so he can get a look at Jackson's face.

"That's a start." Jackson's face is drawn and tired, but he manages a slight smile as he looks back at Eli, and brushes the backs of his fingers down Elias's cheek. "I love you even when you don't remember it."

Eli can't respond, eyes humble and face contrite. He sighs as he lies still. Another breath is taken before clothing his eyes, "I should drink something."

Jackson sits up to grab the cup of water and bring it close to Elias. "Here. You should. An' maybe then rest. I don't got no appointments today so I'll be -- around. If you want me around."

Eli moves into a position where he won't spill as he finishes the water, laying down again. He eyes the tea, but doesn't move yet.

Jackson watches Elias to make sure the water is not triggering any unpleasant gag reflexes, and takes the empty glass when Elias is done. "D'you feel up to some of the tea?" he wonders gently. "It'll help feel better. Then maybe you can rest easier."

"I guess." Eli squishes the pillows up against the headboard as he gets ready. "I'm looking forward to the sleep."

Jackson picks up the mug, holding it out for Elias. "Yeah. I can -- imagine. Anything else I can get you?"

Elias shakes his head slowly, fingers wrapping around the mug. "You do whatever you need to in order to get ready for work tonight. I'll be here. Promise."

Jackson laughs quietly. "T'ain't even afternoon yet. I've got a long while before work. Might actually /try/ to get caught up on some of my class-work, though. But I'll be around." He leans in to kiss Elias on the temple, and rises. "Get some rest, sweetie. I'll see you soon."

Elias is quiet as Jackson gets up and leaves. "Later."

"Later." Out of respect for hangover-symptoms, Jackson is quiet, too, as he slips out and shuts the door behind him.

(at least until the next morning.)

Log. Friday afternoon. 8 August. Wee Book Inn.

=NYC= Wee Book Inn - Greenwich Village - Manhattan
Warm and cozy, this place is well-named. The walls are a simple white and the carpet is an average blue, for most people never give them a second glance. What attracts attention are the shelves upon shelves of books that fill this store, overflowing with literature -- all used but in near-perfect condition, for the Inn has high standards. You want it? They probably have it. They sell harlequin romances, young adult novels, fiction and non-fiction, thick historical books, horror and mystery and erotica, roleplaying guides, children's picture or activity books, and the Harvard Classics and individual collections of all the authors therein. At the back is the reading area, only reached by passing the counter with the owner and his register, ensuring that only those with their own novels or ones that have just been paid for are brought in. The reading areas has several couches, armchairs and lamps, and is where the Inn's resident rumpled tabbycat -- Milo -- spends most of his time, curled up in the lap of whoever will let him sleep on them. An addition to the back area, a coffee bar serves coffee, iced drinks, cookies and scones.

Friday's lunchtime finds the bookstore with a fair amount of business -- many of the seats in the reading area are occupied, and there is a small line at the coffee bar. Jackson has been occupying the former, a just-purchased book set aside in favour of his sketchpad, but at the moment he has abandoned his comfortable armchair to wait in line for caffeine. His messenger bag is resting on his hip and his fingers drum against it absently, but his forgotten book -- a volume of psychology dealing primarily with stress and anxiety -- is still sitting on the arm of the chair.

In the meantime, Natalie has claimed a seat with lightening-quick reflexes, staking her area out as another departs by wiggling deep into the cushion and flipping a notebook open. She hasn't bothered with coffee - she's here for the space. Nevermind that several other chairs - including Jackson's - sit within spitting distance.

It takes a bit for Jackson to get to the front of the line and buy a ridiculously overcaffeinated drink, but once he has claimed it (and poured alarming amounts of sugar into his coffee) he returns to his armchair. He slips his bag off his shoulder and onto the floor and is sitting down when he notices Natalie nearby; his eyebrows lift from behind the rims of his mirrored sunglasses, swift and startled. "Natalie."

Natalie looks up at her name, first startled and then clearly a touch-- perhaps not /annoyed/ exactly. But certainly not /happy/. She does, however, manage an entirely civil and patient, "Jackson," in reply, and after a moment's thought adds a "Hi."

"Hi," Jackson answers, shifting rather uncomfortably in his seat. His fingers tighten around his coffee mug. "How're you?" His tone is no less uncomfortable than his posture.

"Stressed," Natalie says bluntly, eyeing Jackson and /his/ discomfort, as if he has no right to it. "You?"

"Alright," Jackson says, though his face his drawn and pale. "Have you -- you saw Eli the other day, right?"

Natalie's eyes narrow instantly on Jackson. "Yes."

"Did you notice anything -- I don't know." Jackson's brows knit, and his head tips down as he looks into his mug. "He's been -- I've been really worried. About him."

"/You/ are worried about him?" Natalie's voice raises a touch incredulous.

Jackson looks back up at her, leaning back slightly away from her, into his armchair. "Yes, /I/ am worried about him," he says, bemused. "He ain't really been -- himself."

"No," Natalie agrees levelly. "In some ways, he's been rather more tolerable. More honest, anyway. Clearly stressed out beyond what he's used to handling, but I cannot imagine that /you/ do not know /why/ that is."

"In some ways," Jackson echoes in agreement, "but -- there's something -- I don't know. More than just --" A faint blush colours his cheeks, and his head shakes. "Things between us or -- he frisked me for /wires/ the other day. Who does that?"

"More than just /what/? The incrediably /stupid/ situation you guys got yourself into and the way you're treating him after the fact?" Natalie wonders bluntly. "You're lucky. If it'd been /me/, you'd be kicked to the curb by now. I think he's being damned patient with you, and I have no idea why." A pause, and then Natalie lifts her brows. "Oh, right. Because there's never any reason for suspicion in New York?"

"The way /I'm/ treating him?" Jackson asks, incredulous. "You don't even see what --" His lips press together into a thin line, and he looks down into his coffee mug again. "There is something /wrong/ with him and I have been trying to be there for him but it's like he just -- gets so paranoid or -- /mean/ and --" He lifts his coffee to take a large swallow, and his voice is tense. "And I just don't know what to do anymore," he finishes helplessly, quieter.

"Oh, what he does?" Natalie supposes, brows rising even further. "Oh, no, Jackson, please. Sit down. Tell me all the ways Elias Covey has wronged you. All the things that mean that something is /wrong/ with him because he's /irritated/ with you. Or because he won't roll over and do what you want all the time."

"It's not /like/ that so stop twisting my words," Jackson says tersely. He lifts his free hand to scrub at his eye (or rather, the socket where his eye once was), the sunglasses pushed up briefly in the process. "I don't /want/ anything from him. I'm just worried."

"Yeah? How is it?" Natalie wonders, leaning back in her chair with a twist of her lips.

"It's just -- everything. The -- incredibly /stupid/ situation we got ourselves into and -- his show coming up and he's been having trouble with that and -- and the /asteroid/ and the end of the world --" Jackson's hand turns up in a helpless shrug. "He's just -- more stressed than I've ever seen him and we talk but I don't know how much good it -- you're his friend, I just thought --" He swallows hard, head shaking. "I don't know. Maybe you'd know better'n me how to help him deal with it all."

"Here's a novel idea," Natalie suggests with an incrediably sweet smile and an incrediably blunt tone. "Stop giving him shit. Elias isn't you, Jackson, and he's never going to be, no matter how much /tofu/ you shove down his throat. And thank heavens for that."

"I /haven't/ been /giving him/ --" Jackson's voice sharpens, but he cuts his words off abruptly with a disbelieving snort and gulps the rest of the coffee down in one long swallow, wincing at the heat. "Just because you can't stand me doesn't mean everything I say is automatically wrong. He needs --" His hand waves again, vague and helpless as he rises, collecting his things to leave. "I don't know. Keep an eye on him. I think he might need it."

"No? Really? Not at /all/?" Natalie's tone doesn't even bother with doubtful - it skips straight on to a mocking that says clearly 'I know better'. "Oh, yeah, I see. This is about you and me now. Clearly I'm just saying these things to piss you off, huh? Making 'em up. Definitely."

Jackson's posture is rigid, and his jaw tightens, but his tone is soft and even. "It's about Eli, Natalie. Just -- look out for him." His head bows, shoulders squared and tensed as he leaves the reading area.

"Then maybe you should start looking at /yourself/ a little more honestly," Natalie returns, and her tone is /not/ soft and even. She remains where she is, seated in her chair, and stares after Jackson with clear distaste for a long time after he's gone.

Unproductive worrying.

Lark

Fri, 08 Aug 2008 08:08:33 GMT

=NYC= Apt 340 |Jackson| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
Unlike its tattooed, pierced, brightly clothed and glitteringly makeup-ed occupant, the decor in this apartment is subdued and minimalist. Black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome. Though the apartment is small, but kept obsessively cleaned and free of clutter to lend it a more spacious feel than its size would suggest.
The tiny entrance hall -- a shoe rack by the door to collect footwear from all visitors (and keep polished floors gleaming) -- opens onto a living room whose back wall is dominated by large, airy windows. To the right, the tiny kitchen, black tile separated from the living room's hardwood floors by black countertops; a breakfast nook sits in back, along the windows, cushioned windowseats in place of dining chairs. To the left, doors open to bathroom and small bedroom. In the far back corner of the living room, rows of shelves and cabinets are laden with neatly organized art supplies; in front of the windows, a large easel is set up with a stool in front to take advantage of the natural light.
A couch, upholstered with black corduroy and facing windows and easel, is the main piece of furniture in the room; a low black coffee table sits in front of it with small end tables at each arm. In one corner there is a computer desk with a desktop set up, and against the wall beside it, a futon. Large black and red cushions piled by the windows provide comfortable pillowing when seated on the floor. Ever-present in the apartment is the lingering smell of painting; turpentine and oil paints mingling in a pervasive caustic odor that never quite fades away.

After dropping by on Norah, Jackson went to take out some of his stress more actively: punching things! Kicking things! Throwing people around! He returns from karate class rather tired, and dumps his gym bag unceremoniously inside his bedroom before checking on the animals' food and water. That taken care of, he dumps himself just as unceremoniously on the couch, grabbing his sketchpad off the table to open it, though he doesn't draw. He stares at the blank page, blankly. At his feet, Sprite bats absently at the fabric of his track pants.

The morning's hangover mostly cured by ridiculous amounts of water and a long, long shower, the Lark that appears at Jackson's door is actually reasonably presentable. The pair of enormous black sunglasses still dominates her face, but underneath careful makeup has been done and her hair is curled and carefully pinned up at the back of her head. She wears a cute strapless sundress of patterned green and white well, her skin glowing with a recently renewed tan. Under one arm is tucked a clutch and bottle of something, in her free hand is a CD case. Knocking made awkward by that case, she knocks once quietly, then finds a better angle and knocks again, stronger.

"Jus' a second!" Jackson calls from the couch, and one of the beagles reaches the door first, scrabbling eagerly but ineffectually at its base. Jackson follows the dog rather more sedately, peeking through the peephole before unlocking the (numerous) locks on his door and pulling it open with a warm smile. "Hi! Come in! Hello!" His cheer is bright, but brittle -- strained rather than easy. The dog at his heels, though, is all wriggly-happy welcome as his tail wags furiously and he looks up at Lark, curious.

"Jackson, hello, how are you?" Lark's greeting is all relaxed friendliness with a smile for Jackson as well as the dog beside him. Brittleness is not entirely lost on her, however, and she adds with a touch of uncertainty, "Is now a good time? I really need to start calling ahead and announcing myself. I can come back another time if--" She casts about for a possible reason for his restraint, settling on, "If Elias is here, or whatever."

"Eli is /not/ here," Jackson says, a touch too firmly, and waves Lark in. "No -- sorry. Now's totally fine an' I don't hardly ever bother with forewarning, myself. Sorry. I --" He cuts off explanations abruptly, opting instead for a sudden wave of blushing self-consciousness: previously alone in his apartment, he is sans eyepatch or sunglasses, and his hand lifts to cover the maimed side of his face with a splay of long fingers before he bows his head sheepishly with another: "Sorry! Come -- um. Let me just grab -- I totally forgot --" Flustered, he hastens back into the apartment to grab his sunglasses off of the coffee table. The beagle is not flustered. He continues wagging, moving up further once Jackson abandons the doorway to sniff at Lark's legs.

Taking in the details of Jackson's appearance once he draws attention, Lark definitely stiffens, pausing in the doorway. Once he moves away toward the coffee table, she slowly moves forward into the room and sends the door swinging lightly closed behind her. There is an audible pause as she thinks and readjusts before she finally says, "Don't--don't bother. I'll be fine. It's just you." Moving more normally again, she crosses toward him and makes as if to lay a hand on his shoulder. But, those pesky things in her hands prevent her and she makes soft noise of annoyance. "Here, these are for sharing, the wine probably needs to rechill some. Can I stuff it in your fridge?"

"Of course!" Jackson hesitates with the sunglasses in his hands, fidgeting awkwardly with them as his teeth drag slow over his lower lip. "Sorry," he says again, quieter. "I know it's not -- I mean, sort of -- um. Off-putting. Ugly. Just when I'm alone I forget." His head shakes, and after a definite hesitation, he sets the glasses back on the table. "Can I -- get you anything? Food or -- friendly overactive beagle?"

"I'll get used to it. And you should be comfortable in your own apartment. Whether I come barging in or not," Lark declares firmly. She turns away to head with purpose to the kitchen. There, she pulls open the fridge with a deft elbow and finds a spot in the door to stash the bottle of expensive red. The CD case is deposited on a nearby counter. Only then does she turn her attention to other concerns. "Do you have any chocolate?"

"I do!" Jackson follows Lark to the kitchen, opening a cabinet to poke around. "I have chocolate with -- um. Ginger, or espresso, or earl grey tea mixed in. Or plain dark." He slants a glance from cabinet to fridge, lips quirking wryly. "An' you barging in is -- pretty welcome, really. I'm sorry if I just -- I've been kind've a -- my head is all over the place."

"Ooo. Earl Grey sound delicious. I don't think I've tried that before." Lark settles back in a lean against a kitchen counter, crossing her arms over her chest. Pointedly, as she watches him she keeps her eyes almost exclusively on his face. "So. Spill the beans. What's up?"

"It's /totally/ delicious," Jackson assures her brightly, pulling the chocolate bar out of the cabinet and holding it out to her. "I finished all the one with chili peppers but that's delicious too." For himself, he takes a bar of the ginger-chocolate, unwrapping the paper from it to break off a square. "And just -- everything, y'know? End of the world -- stress. Working too much at the club to make up for business slacking off at the tattoo studio. It turns out, the world ending makes people drink more! And --" There's a beat of hesitation, and he pops his chocolate into his mouth before continuing, "-- Things have just been -- off. With Eli. I don't know if /I/ did something or if --" He shrugs a shoulder. "I think there might be something /wrong/."

"He hasn't said anything though?" Lark confirms. She is more cautious with the chocolate than Jackson, taking her time to peel back the foil wrapper and break off a perfectly square piece. Then, she nibbles on it steadily instead of taking larger bites.

"He's said --" Jackson chews on his lip and fidgets with the chocolate's wrapper between his fingers. "Well. He's said a lot, but it doesn't all make sense. He /frisked me for wires/ when I went to his apartment today. Thought I was -- spying on him or something. And then went from that to -- asking if I was trying to -- steal his /sketches/ an' start my own clothing line -- an' also that I was trying to make him -- I don't know. It was one paranoid -- rambling after the next." His posture is tense and uncomfortable, worry clear in his voice. "He said I was /too nice/! But not -- not -- it was like, a /serious accusation/. He thought I was trying to /convert/ him. To -- being nice."

"/Wires/?" Lark pauses mid chocolate nibble to stare at Jackson in frank incredulity. "I've heard about the 'nice' thing from some other people before, but stealing his sketches? What the putain?" She sets her chocolate aside, almost as though to be better prepared for whatever insanity is up next. "Did this start all of a sudden, or has he been saying weird things a lot?"

"/Wires/," Jackson reaffirms, just as incredulous. "And it's pretty -- sudden. I mean, he's been -- stressed, for a while. He's got a show in a month and -- the asteroid and -- business has been hurting, but -- I thought we were managing okay. The past couple days, though --" His hands spread in front of him. "I guess maybe I -- wasn't really good about -- paying attention to /how/ stressed. I suggested maybe he -- talk to someone, but then he said I was just trying to make him feel crazy." He slumps against the counter, one hand lifting to scrub tiredly at his cheek.

"Wow, Jackson. I--" Lark hesitates, at a loss for an adequate reply. "I don't know what to say. It sounds like he maybe should talk to someone, but you're in a pretty impossible situation, if he can't hear it from you." She crosses the couple steps over to him and seizes the hand down by his side. Turning away again, she sets out to tug him along in her wake and out into the living room. It quickly becomes apparent that the couch is her apparent goal.

Jackson follows out towards the couch, his hand curling back around Lark's. "I think this whole -- everything has just been getting to -- everyone," he admits wryly. "For /some/ reason the possiblity of apocalypse causes a slight increase in stress." He shakes his head again, and his other hand (still holding his own chocolate bar) lifts to rub at his (rather raccoonlike) good eye with the backs of his knuckles. "Anyway. I'm -- sorry. Rambling. How've -- things been with you through all this?"

"Good." Lark releases him to flop down on the couch, shedding her sandals and tucking up her feet all in the same motion. "I decided that if we're all going to die. If /I/'m going to die, that I should start living as much as I possibly can in what time there is. No rules, no boundaries. Do anything and everything that I want to, regardless of consequences." She pulls in a deep breath of air, of symbolic life, and lets it out in a happy rush. "I'm smoking again, and going to spend a chunk of my savings on a trip to Europe for a week. I think tomorrow I'm calling my ex to tell her I'm still in love with her. It's all such a relief and I feel /amazing/. Except when hungover, of course." She grins, laughing up at him.

"Europe?" Jackson's smile is bright, and chases some of the stress and exhaustion from his face. He settles on the couch beside her, close enough to be ignoring personal space -- not so much as Sprite ignores it, though, the black cat wending her way over to drape herself over Lark's lap. "And love! That does all sound pretty amazing. Except for the hangover part," he adds with a laugh. "Good luck with that! -- Um." He pauses, nose crinkling. "With love, not with hangovers. Let me know how it goes!"

"Probably horribly, but consequences be damned and all." Lark is in agreement with Sprite, in this case, on the matter of personal space. She welcomes the friendly kitty into her lap, but then scoots over so she can settle against Jackson. With easy disregard for the damage to the careful arrangement of her hair, she pillows her head on his shoulder, and slips an arm through his. "I'm sorry things are turning stressful and awful for you, but you're welcome to join in my end of the world philosophy. It's very relaxing. And amusing. I kissed some guy I barely know this afternoon. For no reason except to see what would happen."

Jackson laughs again at this, head tipping down to rest his cheek against her hair. "Maybe I will! You know -- I think living as much as possible is a pretty good philosophy even when there /aren't/ space rocks headed for us." Curiosity colours his tone as he wonders -- "What /did/ happen? I mean, I can sure think of much worse things than spontaneous kissing. Hopefully he was similarly-minded."

"Oh, I gave him ample warning, don't worry. I think he was mostly embarrassed. He's the cutest thing, nervous, and has a stutter, but very sincere and catholic." Lark lets her voice fall a little in pitch and volume, to a more comfortable tone for speaking so close. Proximity also reveals the fact that she's switched shampoos recently, to something more earthy and musky than her usual mint and raspberries. "Did you make out with a lot of girls before you figured yourself out? I haven't actually kissed many men at all, since I was so sure so soon. It's decidedly weird."

"Nope. I pretty much knew -- I don't know. Always. I've kissed my best friend Alyssa, though, an' once this girl just randomly kissed me in a coffeeshop but -- ain't really made out with any." Jackson blushes slightly, lips quirking in a sheepish grin as he admits: "Ain't really kissed all that many guys, either, though. Like -- three. /So/ -- does this mean you're going straight now? Cuz you /know/ we're all only gay since we clearly ain't kissed the right people."

"God. Thank god I've only run into one or two idiots who actually think that. Men, all of them. And sure they could 'cure' me. One of the times I've wished I did things like punch people," Lark states with acidic bite to her words. Her next words are apologetically soft, as she realizes her own force. "So, no. Not going straight. Playing with the boundaries of what I am, maybe." She tilts her head up a little to catch a glimpse of his expression. "How would you describe the difference?"

"Attractive as I am," Jackson says with cheerful unhumbleness, "I don't think I could /cure/ you -- /but/!" He pulls his head back slightly to look down at her with wide-eyed sincerity. "They're just wrong about the approach, you know. They don't /kiss/ you straight, they /pray/ the gay away." He nods emphatically, but can't hold the sincere face for long. "An' I ain't sure I /can/ describe the difference proper. It's too -- not even slightly the same from person to person. Guys just feel /right/ -- but that's hardly /descriptive/."

"And the reason the praying doesn't work is, of course, we're supposed to be praying too. Renounce our immoral ways." Lark crinkles her nose at him in a expression of disgust ruined by a smile. "I know what you mean about 'right' though. Not that men feel as 'wrong' to me as to a straight man. Who are just hilariously frightened by even the idea. Fortunately for me, straight women are a lot more open to new experiences."

"The guy I dated before Eli thought he was a straight man, 'fore I dated him," Jackson informs Lark with a cheerful laugh. "When it comes to that, though, I think I'm pretty uptight myself. I ain't much interested in -- experimentation or pushing my boundaries."

"So you /have/ done some converting, just the other side," Lark notes with amusement. Finding herself lifting her head again to try and see his face, she pulls away a moment to shift position. This time she settles sitting sideways to him and, glancing a perfunctory request for permission, stretches her legs out over his lap. "Tsk. Men and uptightness. It's all about the continuum and discovering where you fall on it. Most of us really aren't out at the very very edge. But I guess experimenting seems a bit less scary when you have some more experience with what's comfortable." She lifts one thin shoulder in a vague shrug.

"Mmhmm. If I get four more, I get a free toaster!" Jackson settles back again the couch cushions, his own legs stretching out in front of him as Lark's stretch over his. "You know, it's sort of funny. I'm pretty fluid when it comes to gender things but -- sort of a lot more rigid when it comes to sexuality." He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, adding thoughtfully -- "'course, there is also the fact I just -- ain't really done much by way of experimenting at /all/. I mean, I hadn't even /ever/ been kissed 'till I was 20. I guess I take things -- slow."

"Huh. Interesting mix. I feel like I know more people who are sexually flexible, but have trouble dealing with anything but a black and white gender definition." Her curls disordered now and slipping out of the pins holding them in place, Lark lifts both hands up behind her head to tug out a series of bobby pins. "I had my first kiss and my first and only boyfriend freshman year of high school. It's hard for me to imagine all that kind of drama not being a part of my life through high school and the beginning of college. Who was it, when you were 20?"

"Someone I -- really shouldn't've been kissing," Jackson admits with a sheepish bow of his head. "So, the guy you dated -- he didn't get any sad insecure ideas about /turning/ you gay, did he? One of my friends was totally dating this girl before he came out an' she freaked like she'd /done/ it to him." Even more personal-space-invasive, he reaches up as the pins come out to brush his fingers through her hair -- it does not help with the disordered-ness.

"That -- wasn't an actual answer," Lark informs him in a mimic of his phrasing. "I'm not sure he even ever found out. I didn't come out to everyone right away and it was one of those ridiculous 2-week high school relationships. I'd bet large amounts of money that if we met now he'd never recognize me." Suppressing a yawn, she takes interference with hair fixing in stride, running her own finger after his to straighten what he tousles. "I--" The yawn wins free and for a moment she is caught by it, unable to finish the thought.

"No, it wasn't," Jackson agrees easily. His head tilts slightly at the yawn, and he squints over towards the kitchen, peering in the direction of the clock on the oven, though he's too far to read it properly. "S'getting late, ain't it?" he says apologetically. "You're welcome to crash here for the night if you want! I mean, the streets an' trains have both been sorta -- iffy, so if you'd rather not brave them till a decent hour --" His hand gestures towards the futon that sits against one wall.

"Now I'm tempted to stay just so I can pry a real answer out of you. Get you tipsy and lead you into a trap," Lark chuckles. But, even as she says it she shakes her head and starts to disentangle herself and slide off the couch. "I think I need the sleep after last night though, and I sleep a lot better at home. The walk'll be nice." Another yawn creeps up on her as she collects her purse and heads for the door.

"The answer is more emo than exciting," Jackson answers with an amused quirk of a grin. "Y'ain't missing anything titillating, promise." He unfolds himself from the couch after her, trailing her towards the door; he loops an arm around her waist to squeeze briefly before opening it. "Thanks for stopping by -- really. You're more'n welcome to drop in unannounced whenever the mood strikes."

"Expect me in the near future. That wine I'm leaving is worthy of a return visit at least," she teases. Returning the sideways half-hug she drops a kiss on his cheek before slipping out the door. "Good night, Jackson!" she calls with a wave, already disappearing down the hall.

Elias; Norah

Fri, 08 Aug 2008 04:45:34 GMT

Log. Thursday morning. 8 August. Elias's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 230 |Elias| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
On the left of the entry way in this studio apartment is a small sitting area complete with a love seat and an arm chair strategically situated around a television on a stand filled with a small dvd collection. A short railing divids the living room from the bedroom, two steps up on a small platform. The bed is a queen sized mattress with a dark wood headboard. Similarily dark, short dressers serve as nightstands. Curtains hang from floor to ceiling at the three of the four corners of the bedroom platform, used to close off the sleeping chamber from the rest of the apartmen at the owners will. The section directly in front of the main portal is a work area. A large, heavy-duty table sits with two sewing machines on top. There's a single rack for hanging clothes, half full and other collapsed and stuck behind the wall. An shelving unit, open on both the front and back sides, holds bolts of clothing, a few sets of books and some messy stacks of patterns.

To the right of the entryway, the wall juts out four feet before leading to a hallway. The kitchen lies off this hall, with a half wall, complete with barstools for eating off the countertop, dividing it from the work area. All of the kitchen appliances line the wall, leaving a decent amount of space to walk while cooking, but creating a cramped feeling. Opposite the kitchen is a closet, sliding doors keeping the contents from being seen. At the end of the hallway is the door to the bathroom.

Mornings have become somewhat of a routine, by now: gym and then church, take care of animals, swing by Elias's before work. Today it is considerably later than normal when Jackson stops by: that is to say, it is actually a decent hour for normal people to be awake. His clothing is comfortable and paint-splattered: faded bluejeans, a red-and-black striped t-shirt. No shoes. Painting clothes. He slips into Elias's apartment -- quietly, just in case! -- devoid, for once, of his oversized art-supply bag that he carries for school.

Elias is awake and at his work table. There doesn't seem to be a lot of work done, since the number of pages balled up on the ground are far more numerous than the ones left on his current sketch book, a fact Eli looks none too happy about. His appearance is a little haggard since he hasn't shaved yet and his clothes are the same that he wore yesterday - the ones he wore after he finally got dressed. When the door opens, Eli turns and levels a glare at Jackson. "Where have you been? This is late. What were you doing?"

"Um --" Jackson freezes in the entryway, answering the glare with a bemused blink. "I was just upstairs. You know. That apartment one floor up that I /live/ in?" He steps inside, brow furrowing as he looks at Eli. "My professor's sick so class was cancelled today -- unless we want to come in later and work with the TA."

"Was it really cancelled, or are you trying to keep an eye on me?" Eli shifts off his seat and walks up to Jackson, pulling him in for a hug before his hands start exploring his body - looking for something.

"It was really cancelled," Jackson says, baffled. "Why on earth would --" His brow creases as he's pulled in for the hug, and he hugs Eli back, one-armed and awkward. "Um. What are you doing?"

"Just checking," Eli releases him and looks over his shoulder, heading for the door to peek out before turning around to face Jackson. "So, when are you supposed to leave?"

"Checking for what?" Jackson looks Elias over a long moment, brow furrowed again. "Class is pushed back to -- I can join in with the other section at two."

"I wanted to see if anyone was waiting outside." Eli turns back on Jackson before he scowls. "Did you come here to fuck? I'm really not in the mood." He scrubs his hands through his hair and heads for the kitchen.

"Waiting outside -- so you felt me up?" Jackson hangs back, not following further into the apartment. "No. I didn't. I just came to --" His hands spread in front of him. "I don't know. See you. If it's a bad time I'll go."

"I felt you up for wires," Eli admits readily, opening the refrigerator and digging around before pulling out something he sniffs and throws away. The next container removed is a bottle of juice. "Just needed to be sure. It's not precisely a bad time - incredibly unexpected." He moves back toward the entrance where the partial wall blocks him and peeks around it slowly to see what Jackson's doing.

Jackson is doing not much of anything, staying by the doorway, thumbs hooked into his belt loops as he watches Elias with rapidly growing concern. "For /wires/? Eli, what on /earth/ --?" He takes a deep breath and finally heads into the apartment properly, moving towards Elias. "Eli, honey, you're kind've scaring me. Is this a joke?"

"Yep. Entirely a joke. Ha ha. Very funny." Elias sounds very mechanical as he offers Jackson a bottle of juice and wrinkles his nose. "Juice?" He straightens up and glances around. "What else are you doing today?"

"Work. More work. Karate." Jackson shrugs, and steps closer to take the juice, though he doesn't move away again, switching the juice to his off hand so he can take Eli's hand in his. "C'mon -- talk to me. I don't get -- /wires/, Eli?"

"Would you honestly be able to tell me - if you had been compromised that you were being used as a spy to save my life or something?" He eyes the hand Jackson takes. "No. You'd laugh it off and tell me I'm being crazy. What would have been good would have been to work out some kind of code, but for the life of me, I didn't think of this before."

"Would I --" Now there is a trace of fear in Jackson's expression, and he lifts Eli's hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of the man's knuckles. "Are you -- I don't understand, Eli. A code? Compromised? I'm not -- I don't get what you mean. Who's a spy? What do you need a code for?"

"No - I'm not a spy. I'm talking 'Friends.' If some 'Friends' got a hold of you and were forcing you to do something - how would you let me know?" Elias peers at the kiss and then turns his attention to Jackson's face. "Unless you did sell me out to them to save your skin. Good fuck, Jackson. Did you do that?" He pulls his hand away and heads to the door to use the peek hole again.

"/What/?" The word is expelled on a gasping breath, and Jackson pulls back sharply. "What on -- Eli, I'd /never/ -- not in a million years -- I'd /die/ before I --" He rubs his knuckles against his eye, head shaking abruptly. "Has someone been -- have you had any trouble with them?"

"Gah. No. I just - well, the little old lady at the end of the hall looked at me funny today and it got me thinking. Come on, Jackson. Think. Why can't we be prepared for these things." Eli shifts from the door and goes back to Jackson, hands skimming lightly over Jackson's upper arms. "Think."

"I'd never," Jackson says again, quietly, "no matter who got a hold of me." His posture, already tense, tenses further at Elias's touch. "Look, I know between one thing an' another it's sort of -- scary. But we're going to be fine, okay? And you maybe -- need a break or -- something. You've been so stressed and I think it's --" He breaks off, shaking his head.

"How can I take a break from something I could never get into anyway? Huh? Are you - fuck. Are you trying to steal my sketches and start a line of your own? I saw you drawing before. Fuck." Eli's hands are pulled off Jackson's shoulders as he starts pacing between Jackson, the kitchen and the work area.

"Eli, /quit it/!" Jackson's gaze tracks Elias's motions, though he makes no move himself. "What's gotten /into/ you? No, I ain't wired, an' I ain't working for anyone out to get you, an' I ain't gonna steal your sketches, and -- /none/ of this, okay? I /always/ draw. I think maybe --" He hesitates, takes a deep breath. "Maybe you should talk to someone, Eli. This -- this -- whatever this is, this ain't -- right."

"OH? Based off your opinion entirely? That's it! You've been trying to make me feel crazy so you can take care of me for once. Hell, I'm not going to fall for it. I'm perfectly normal. What's wrong with you. It's not right to treat someone like they're crazy." Eli shakes his head, backing away.

Jackson's shoulders slump, and hs scrubs his hand across his forehead. "Eli, stop. I ain't out to /get/ you."

"How do I know that?" Elias grumbles, staring back at Jackson.

"Because I love you," Jackson answers, bewildered. "I've /never/ been out to get you and I have no idea where this is /coming/ from all of a sudden."

"Maybe I'm just fed up. Too much time of having too many problems I never talk about and I'm finally able to say something." Eli runs into a table and comes to a stop staring at Jackson as one foot begins to tap nervously.

"Maybe," Jackson acknowledges uncertainly, gaze dropping to the tapping foot and then lifting back up to Elias's face. "I'm glad you're talking about things, now -- I just --" His hands spread again, expression helpless. "I just don't understand, I guess."

"Okay." Because that's something you say in response to that. Eli scuffs his foot on the ground as he glances from Jackson to the door, then to the bedroom and back.

Jackson's head turns to follow the path of Elias's gaze. "I don't -- um. Should I go? I mean -- if you want to -- get back to --" He turns, gestures vague and wide -- encompassing both bed and workspace equally. Either/or!

"I thought you said you didn't come here to fuck." Eli states, blandly.

"-- I /didn't," Jackson answers tersely. "I just mean /you/ clearly need --" A sigh puffs past his lips, and he shakes his head. "Look, I'm just gonna leave you to -- whatever. Work. Sleep. Whatever it was you were doing. I'll come by -- some other time." He looks at Elias a moment before shaking his head once more and heading for the door.

"OH. Okay. Um. See you around then." Eli fidgets a little more as he scratches the back of his neck.

"Yeah." It is curt, but Jackson's expression and tone soften as he pulls the door open. "I love you, hon." And then he is gone, turning away quickly to hide the stress and worry that flood back into his face. The door shuts quietly behind him.

Paranoia.

Log. Thursday evening. 8 August. Norah's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 1400 |Norah| - Greenwich Apartments - Greenwich Village
The door from the hallway opens into a large, mostly undivided space, lines of sight clear between an entertainment area, a kitchen with a breakfast bar, and a raised study/office area. The walls are painted a bold shade of green, lending the space a youthful air. The wide windows are curtained by blue and green fabric. It has an almost tropical air.

Though the location and the layout of the apartment would indicate that the resident here would be making a decent way in the world, the furniture tells a different story. There's no TV, first of all. Instead, a secondhand chair, a futon and a lovesac face a small wooden table upon which a laptop is set up. Classy.

The kitchen area is sparsely decorated but servicable with all the requirements for a single person's life: fridge, freezer, microwave, toaster, stove, oven. The fridge is covered by magnetic alphabet letters, some formed into a partial scrabble game. The rest of the letters perform the service of holding up pictures of family, friends, and the occasional wedding announcement.

Two doors are set into the left-hand wall of the apartment, leading to the one bedroom and bathroom.

Soothing. That's the feeling Norah's going for in her apartment right now. The air conditioner is working away at just the right temperature, soft classical music hums from the speakers of Norah's laptop, and the room still smells faintly of warm comfort food. And yet, it still hasn't helped. Norah lies stretched out on her couch, the front locks of her hair damp due to the judicious application of a towel-wrapped bag of ice, and her expression is pinched and strained. Her cell phone is in hand, thumb tapping as she works on a text to somebody.

Jackson's face is rather pale, but his expression is masked largely by his sunglasses. He is dressed in faded and paint-flecked clothing -- faded jeans and a red-and-black striped t-shirt -- and carries the rather boxy-large bag he uses to haul his art supplies to and from class over one shoulder. One hand holds a gym bag (black and red, too, because Jackson maybe has a slight obsession.) The other lifts to knock on Norah's door, oncetwicethrice in quick succession.

Norah groans and hauls herself to her feet, glancing at her sloppy sweats and then deciding that, no, she really doesn't care enough to clean up. The text gets sent and the cell phone set aside before she peers through the peephole, unlocks the door and opens it up. "Hey, Jax," she says, stepping aside to make the way for him to come in. "Thanks for stopping by."

"Sure. I mean you're welcome. I mean -- Hi!" Jackson's tone is chipper -- though it's a rather brittle and strained cheer. "I just -- how're you doing?"

"Not good," Norah admits, wincing a little. She tilts her head to the side, taking in Jackson's appearance, and then moves to close the door behind him. "Kinda -- well. How are you?"

"Surviving," Jackson says with a lopsided smile. His brow creases slightly as he looks over Norah. "What's going on? Still -- stress or -- I mean. Erm. Well. What's wrong?"

"I'm just --" Norah leans her forehead against the door for a moment and closes her eyes. "I don't even know. I think I need to go see a doctor. And I can't -- " She cuts herself off suddenly, squares her shoulders deliberately and walks towards the kitchen. "Want to just be miserable with me for a while? Something to drink? Eat?"

Jackson reaches for her shoulder, fingers brushing it light and brief before she walks away. "That sounds -- pretty good, yes. They say misery shared is misery halved but -- if I give you half mine an' you give me half yours, will we be back at square one?" His tone attempts levity, but falls flat. "It's bad enough for seeing a doctor?" No attempts at humor: just concern.

"If it keeps up, yeah," Norah says, keeping her gaze away opening the fridge. "I'm really -- I'm sorry, I don't -- if you're having a rough time, I'm not going to bug you with stuff you can't fix. I'll see a doctor and if they have any idea what's going on, great. If they don't -- well, then I'll start spreading plenty of misery." She gives a half-smile over her shoulder at him, and asks, "What do you feel like? Water, juice, ice -- oh. Ice cream's out. Popsicle?"

"Popsicle!" Jackson pounces on instantly, trailing after her to the kitchen. "An' juice. And I'm not -- it's nothing that -- I mean." Jackson's hands spread in front of him. "It's not a big deal. I just worry a lot." His smile returns, wry. "About you, too. I wish I could help."

A box of popsicles gets taken out of the freezer, the ingredients briefly examined to make sure they are vegan. They are! Then Norah gets a cup from the cupboard and juice from the fridge, setting both on the counter and indicating for Jackson to serve himself. "Yeah, you're a worrier," she agrees, fishing out a popsicle for herself. "And I can pretty much guarantee you won't be able to help with this, so ... try not to worry too much."

Jackson peeks into the box, picking out the flavour of popsicle most likely to turn his mouth funny colours, and then pours the juice. "Southern. I can't help it. But I kinda --" His nose wrinkles, and he shrugs. "I'm sorta pretty much feeling helpless all 'round, these days."

"Tell me about it," Norah says, putting the popsicles back into the freezer. She sighs, rubbing the back of her non-popsicle hand against her forehead. "Well, if it helps you to know -- it /really/ helps me that you came by. I felt like I might go a little crazy just hanging around here by myself." Her gaze wanders to the window, almost longingly. "But I'm kind of freaked out. So thanks. You're helpful."

"I'm glad. I can --" Jackson casts a brief glance back to where he abandoned his bags by the door, and then just leans against the counter, unwrapping his popsicle to suck on the tip. "Can stay for a while if it helps. Maybe watch a movie or -- something. To take your mind off -- everything." His head turns, following her glance to the window. "Or go out? If you're going crazy hanging around here?"

"I don't -- " Norah sighs, and then flops onto the couch. "Okay. Maybe I lied when I said I wasn't going to give you anything more to worry about. I think I need to talk this over with somebody." She figits, bringing her hand up to her temple and rubbing away the memory of a headache there. "I mean, I've been having trouble remembering things, and getting suddenly clutzy and my vision seems all wrong -- and now, whenever I go invisible, it's starting to /hurt/. I'm invisible all the time! That's my back-up plan for everything that goes wrong, is just to disappear. And if it -- " Her voice rises in pitch as she explains, and she cuts off before it /quite/ reaches the tone labeled "panic". "And how do I explain that to a doctor? Hey, there's something wrong with my brain because my /mutation's/ gone wrong?"

Jackson follows Norah to the couch, sitting on the opposite side from her, one leg tucked up beneath himself as he turns sideways to face her. "Starting to hurt?" His brow creases with mild concern, tone puzzled. "Yeah, that's probably -- you could talk to Doctor Grey or Doctor McCoy about it, maybe? I mean, even if they can't figure out why, they'll prob'ly at least know doctors you can talk to about the rest of it who -- will understand if you /do/ tell them that."

"They probably don't take my insurance," Norah says, with a little sideways smile, a slightly lame attempt at joking. she sighs and leans into the couch. "But yeah, I'll -- Jean's been kind of busy lately, for some reason, but I'll see if I can grab either of them. It just started today. Maybe it's kind of a temporary thing." Hope springs eternal. She shifts in her seat, obnoxiously bringing up her legs to stretch across Jackson's knees. "Sorry. I'm just -- the brain cancer explanation is starting to sound more and more plausible. I'm such a hypochondriac."

Jackson glances down at Norah's legs, lips twitching briefly into a slight smile -- that fades abruptly at the latter part of her words. "Brain --" His lips thin. "We're totally too young for cancer," he says, because everyone knows cancer /cares/ how old you are. "But still -- if things are getting screwy with your invisibling -- definitely should get it checked out." He attempts another smile, though it's rather wan. "'sides, you gotta get that fixed, cuz the Invisible Club can't meet without you."

"I know! The invisible club hasn't met in /forever/," Norah says, jumping to the change in topic readily, rather than talk about icky cancer ideas. "I can't even really remember the last time I took some time to hang out with Tim. Probably over a month ago. You seen him lately? Is he doing okay, after that -- whole thing?"

"Yeah, I seen him," Jackson says with a brighter smile. "Saw him at --" Once more, the smile fades, but only briefly. "He was helping out down at Grand Central -- then I just saw him a couple days ago. At the school. It's very important, y'know," he says with mock-chiding, "to leave room for hanging-out-with-Tim in your life. -- He's --" One hand turns up in a shrug. "End of the world, city is stressful -- but there was a baby tiger!"

"I know it is, I've been remiss," Norah says repentently, sucking on her popsicle before it starts melting away in her hand. "I'll bug him next time I'm around the school. And -- baby tiger?"

"'pparently it got loose from the zoo or -- something. And turned up at the school. He said he was sorta scared of it," Jackson admits, "but, y'know, /tiger/. T'ain't there no more. Sent it back. Cassy is not happy she couldn't keep it as a pet."

"I'd be scared of a tiger cub," Norah says, reasonably. "I mean, they're little, but they still have /claws/ and /teeth/ and stuff. Very wise of them to send it back. And I suspect Cassy will get over it when she's old enough to appreciate not being all mauled and stuff."

"Probably," Jackson agrees with a grin. "There was some guy here in the city a little while back who'd been keeping a tiger in his /apartment/. Apparently the police started getting clued in to it when -- uh, he had to go to the hospital cuz it bit him. /Surprisingly/ enough."

"Wow," Norah says, and laughs quietly. "Yeah, that's shocking. I mean, really. Who would expect that if you keep an undomesticated pet with the ability to kill you that it might /try/? Astonishing."

"I certainly never would'a expected a large carnivorous wild animal to act like a large carnivorous wild animal," Jackson replies with feigned disbelief. A moment later, he adds, "-- He had an alligator, too."

"Both in an apartment?" Norah asks, eyebrows raised. "Wow. And you live in the same apartment building that had the hand in the sink thing happen, right? Or am I getting places crossed?"

"Keeping 'em both in his apartment." Jacksons nose wrinkles, and he licks melty drips from the bottom of his popsicle before they leak onto his hand. "Yeah. That was my building. Poor Elliott. New York is /freaky/."

Norah pulls her popsicle out of her mouth to answer. "No, your /apartment building/ is freaky," she says. "I've had very little freaky stuff happen to me, all told. Well, this recent stuff aside, anyway. Maybe you just need to get a new place."

"The /tiger/ weren't in my apartment," Jackson says with a shake of his head. "Just the -- disembodied hand." His head dips in sheepish acknowledgment. "Maybe my apartment building /is/ a little freaky." He sucks on his popsicle slowly. "I've had -- a lot of freaky stuff happen. Not just in the building. Even though I prob'ly should move regardless."

"You're just a magnet for wierd stuff, huh?" Norah asks speculatively. "Maybe I really /should/ consider keeping you downgraded at good acquantaince, if it's going to be rubbing off on me like this. But then, nice to have a scapegoat handy.... hmm. I'll have to think about this."

"Something like that," Jackson says, with a trace of sadness. He bites off the tip of his popsicle with a little more vehemence than the popsicle deserves (and /really/, they should be sucked and not bitten /anyway/. BUT HE BITES.) "I think something's wrong with Eli."

"Oh, yeah?" Norah asks, eyebrows raised. Tell her more.

"I don't know," Jackson says, looking down at his lap. His hand that is not holding the popsicle is restless and fidgety, but Norah's legs are draped over his -- so instead of fidgeting with the fabric of his /own/ jeans, he picks idly at the fabric of her sweats. "I mean, yesterday he was really sort of -- snippy and weird but sometimes he's just prickly /and/ he was hungover so I thought maybe he was just stressed and sick, but today -- today he was really -- he /checked me for wires/ when I came into his apartment. Like I -- like /anyone/ would -- /bug/ him? But he seemed to think --" And here he hesitates again, focusing on sucking his popsicle, his brow creasing deep.

"Maybe /he/ has brain cancer," Norah suggests as a kind of macabre joke before growing more serious. "That is kind of wierd. I mean, I don't really know him that well, so I can't really -- I don't know. Maybe he's just channeling end-of-the-world freaking out into being really -- paranoid? Or something? I don't know. That sucks, Jax."

"Yeah. It's been hitting him hard. But just --" Jackson's hand lifts to rub his knuckles against his good eye, sunglasses pushed up and then falling back into place in the process. "I don't know. He asked if -- seemed to think someone was using me to get to him or I'd -- sold him out to someone or -- who /knows/. It was just -- crazy. I'd've been /hurt/ if it wasn't just so /bizarre/ and frightening. Like in some parallel universe where some shadow organization wanted to do nefarious things to him, I'd ever sell him out." He laughs, then, at the entire idea, though there's not a great deal of humor in it.

"Who knows what?" Norah asks, looking puzzled. "Is he suddenly part of a secret organization that smuggles state secrets or something?" Jokes aside, she looks sympathetic. "Have you -- I mean, maybe he needs to talk to a counselor or something. You never really /can/ tell what's going on inside people's heads."

"'less you're a telepath," Jackson says witha wry twist of a smile. "I think maybe he does. I mean -- it /is/ a crazy amount of -- stress an' all. I just --" He takes in a deep breath that is decidedly unsteady, and then smiles abruptly (with lips starting to colour purple from his popsicle.) "Sorry. Okay. No more misery-sharing from me. Just --" There's something pleading in his tone as he looks at her. "No brain cancer, okay?" (Since Norah /totally has control/ over that.) "I mean, things just seem to be weird -- all over and --" He falters, helpless. "/Everyone/ can't get brain cancer!"

Norah's popsicle, meanwhile, drips on her shirt, staining it with orange stickiness. "Shoot!" She grimaces, looking down at herself, and then swings her legs off the couch and Jackson in order to get up to her feet and walk back to the sink, one hand cupped underneath her melty popsicle to keep it from dripping on the floor. "It probably isn't," she says, briskly. "I mean -- did I ever tell you about my brother? He had leukemia when I was little. So, you know, it's just where my mind first goes. I throw up and instead of thinking 'stomach flu' like a reasonable person, I think 'stomach cancer'. It's just -- I'm overreacting. I'm just so used to being invisible for big portions of the day -- when I get ready in the morning, on my lunch break, sometimes when I just don't want to be bugged for a while -- so it's just freaking me out to have it /hurt/. But Dr. Grey and Dr. McCoy are really smart. They'll ... figure things out."

"Oh -- no, I didn't know. I --" Jackson bites his lip, and then nods as he finishes off his own popsicle. "Understandable. I mean, if it's never hurt and now it's hurting -- that's not --" He shakes his head and takes another deep breath, getting up with his popsicle stick and looking around for a trashcan. "I'm sure they'll be able to -- help. Or point you in the direction of help. Or -- something. They're totally used to dealing with mutationy-oddness."

"He survived, by the way," Norah says, dropping her popsicle into the sink and rinsing off her hands. "Grew up nice and obnoxious like little brothers should. So if it /is/ something, I've totally got cancer-fighting genes on my side." She grins a little wryly. "Thanks for letting me freak out on you, at least. I can't believe I didn't think of going to a school doctor first thing this morning."

"Any time," Jackson says with a rather shaky laugh. "An' thanks for letting /me/ freak out on /you/." He skims his hand over the top of his head, leaning against the counter. "And that's what I'm here for. Freaking out an' reminding you of totally obvious things. You'll -- let me know, if you talk to them? I mean -- when they tell you you're /totally/ gonna be /fine/? Not that I won't worry /anyway/ but -- it'll be nice to know."

"I'll send out mass texts right away," Norah says, grabbing a rag to put in the water and try to clean the worst of the stickiness off her shirt. "So everybody in my acquaintance can make fun of me right away for being a crazy hypochondriac." Considering the clean-up on her shirt to be good enough for the moment, she slides the rag across the counter to Jackson. "Here, clean up before you get fingerprints everywhere."

"Sorry," Jackson says sheepishly, taking the rag to wipe popsicle-sticky fingers clean. "An' I'll be sure to start preparing for making fun of you right now. I'm really out of practice, see. But I need to work on it. Eli was complaining about me being too nice. You can help me break out of that."

"The too nice thing /is/ a little annoying," Norah agrees, teasingly. "You need to learn how to tell a person to shut the hell up and stop whining instead of being all nice and supportive. Oh, and maybe do the thing where you play the world's saddest song on the world's smallest violin." She mimes playing a teeny tiny instrument between her fingers. /So sad/. "I'll be looking forward to your pathetic attempts to mock me. Maybe you should grab a notebook and write out some test ones, just in case you're worried you can't improvise."

"Wait, wait, how d'you --" Jackson says, looking at her with feigned intent as he holds up his fingers to mimic her motions (though he does it exaggeratedly wrong.) "I'll get the hang of this one day, I just know it! I'll /practice/ at work tonight so that when you're all better I can --" He screws up his face into a look of resolve before soldiering on: "tell you you're a crazy hypochondriac."

"You can also accuse me of self-absorbed paranoia," Norah says, cheerfully. "And no! No! Tinier. Little motions. /Tiny/ violin. Tiny pathetic violin so that I realize my problems for you would be like little ants to be crushed under your problem-solving feet and be /hardly/ worth bringing up at all. That way the mocking /really/ makes me feel bad about whining about it. I mean, if you're going to make fun of somebody, do it right."

Jackson lifts his fingers again, and this time a teeeeny-tiny violin appears held pinched between them. "Would it help if I had /props/?"

Norah laughs and claps, the strained look of earlier fading away almost entirely in her delight at the trick. "That's /perfect/, yes. Gosh, I'm so jealous. I'm never going to be able to use that phrase again without feeling completely inadequate."

Jackson beams brightly, and this time when he rubs his fingers together a teeny-tiny bow to match moves across the strings. "There y'go. The song's too small an' sad for you to hear it."

"I wish I could have you come to the high school and do that for some of my students when they try to explain why their papers are so crappy," Norah notes, still delighted though with a note of envy as she leans over to peer properly at the little violin. She's about to say something more when her eye catches the clock on the wall. "You know what? I'd probably better call the school to schedule something before I forget. And I've got to post /something/ to the blog, I've been steadily losing all my readership over the last couple weeks. It's a problem."

The tiny violin is minutely detailed, though the bow that moves across it is less so -- a much vaguer shape that draws across the strings with jerky motions. "I'd totally do it," Jackson says with a laugh, "but I'm not sure mutants make good classroom props." The bow halts its motions, and as it does so starts to get sharper in detail, too. "An' -- yeah. I still check it with the rest of my bookmarks in the morning but -- I /was/ sorta wondering why you ain't been updating."

"No good reasons," Norah says, shaking her head. "I just keep feeling like doing /other/ things during my update-the-blog part of the day, and then I was having trouble looking stuff up and learning it for this one essay I wanted to write, so I kept putting it off. But I at least owe my readers the courtesy of an excuse, so... I'll get on that. Right now, actually." She opens her arms for a hug goodbye, and adds in explanation, "But I can't /work/ on stuff with people around, so get the hell out of my apartment." Her tone is much nicer than the words would imply, and her mouth is stretched in a smile.

Jackson laughs, and leans in to give her a hug -- perhaps a /bit/ fiercer and longer than a casual goodbye would warrant, but not overly. "Aright. You take care. I'll look out for that update. An' talk to the school, cuz I'm /so/ ready with my violin." (Which, in the absence of his continued attention, has blurred and then vanished.)

"I'll keep that in mind," Norah says. Once the hug is over, she walks over to the door to open it for him. "And you take care of yourself, too. I hope everything works out with Elias and all that. Keep me posted."

"Definitely!" Jackson stops by the door to scoop up his bags before heading out.

Commiseration.

Elias

Thu, 07 Aug 2008 23:51:25 GMT

Log. Wednesday morning. 6 August. Elias's apartment.

=NYC= Apt 230 |Elias| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
On the left of the entry way in this studio apartment is a small sitting area complete with a love seat and an arm chair strategically situated around a television on a stand filled with a small dvd collection. A short railing divids the living room from the bedroom, two steps up on a small platform. The bed is a queen sized mattress with a dark wood headboard. Similarily dark, short dressers serve as nightstands. Curtains hang from floor to ceiling at the three of the four corners of the bedroom platform, used to close off the sleeping chamber from the rest of the apartmen at the owners will. The section directly in front of the main portal is a work area. A large, heavy-duty table sits with two sewing machines on top. There's a single rack for hanging clothes, half full and other collapsed and stuck behind the wall. An shelving unit, open on both the front and back sides, holds bolts of clothing, a few sets of books and some messy stacks of patterns.

To the right of the entryway, the wall juts out four feet before leading to a hallway. The kitchen lies off this hall, with a half wall, complete with barstools for eating off the countertop, dividing it from the work area. All of the kitchen appliances line the wall, leaving a decent amount of space to walk while cooking, but creating a cramped feeling. Opposite the kitchen is a closet, sliding doors keeping the contents from being seen. At the end of the hallway is the door to the bathroom.

Early, again, when Jackson stops by Elias's apartment, post-gym, post-church, post-dog walking. He slips in quietly, taking his shoes off at the door and locking it behind himself. He hesitates a moment in the doorway, hand rubbing over a head now fuzzy with a covering of shaved-short hair, and slips his sunglasses into place before heading in.

Elias exists the bathroom pasty white and sickly, a light sweat covering his skin and giving him a more clammy appearance. He's wearing pajama pants and nothing else, except the odor of alcohol and ill. He eyes Jackson wearily for a second as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Um. Hi."

Jackson looks back at Elias, brow furrowing slightly over his sunglasses. "Hey, sweetie." He crosses the room to loop an arm around Elias's waist, more support than embrace. "Back to bed?" he wonders. "Let me make you something that'll help take the edge off the -- bad."

Elias eyes Jackson as if he sprouted horns and checkerboards. He allows Jackson to lead him back to bed before crawling in under the sheets again. "Why?"

Jackson pauses at the side of Elias's bed. "Why -- what?" he asks, baffled.

"Why are you being nice to me?" Eli turns on his side, looking up at Jackson with a haggard expression.

"I didn't realize this was a new development," Jackson answers, still bemused. "I /love/ you."

"You didn't roll your eyes, give me the usual passive aggressive whine about me drinking and killing myself and then a begrudged - I don't know." Eli sighs and lets his eyes slide closed.

Jackson's lips thin at that, but only briefly; his expression is hard to read before he leans in and kisses Elias's cheek softly. "Just rest, honey," he murmurs, voice very soft. "I'll be back soon."

Elias nods as Jackson leaves, wetting his lips. While he is gone, Eli rolls onto his back and rests an arm over his eyes, sighing.

It takes a bit for Jackson to return -- he doesn't head for Elias's kitchen but upstairs to his own. He comes back ten minutes later with a jar of salve, a steaming mug of -- who knows -- and half a loaf of bread, home-baked. He pauses in Elias's kitchen this time to mix vitamin powder with water, and brings the salve, the fizzy water and the steaming drink (which smells very mildly of ginger and lemon) over to the bedroom, quiet as he sets it all down on the nightstand.

Eli moves himself into a sitting position with pillows stacked behind his back, half awake and half asleep, by the time Jackson reappears. He eyes him quietly and stares down at his lap when he approaches.

"Here." Still quiet, and rather taciturn, now. Jackson picks up the water glass and offers it out. From behind the sunglasses, his gaze is fixed on Eli.

"Thanks," Eli utters before he takes a sip of the water. He pales again, sets his jaw and looks vaguely like he is gagging, but relaxes after a minute. "I mean it."

"You're welcome." Jackson's brow furrows with concern at the gagging, and his hand lifts slightly and then falls back to his side with the aborted reflex to reach for Elias. "If you manage to get that into you okay, the tea should help with the symptoms. An' I brought some --" His hand gestures towards the tub of salve. "It's for -- aches."

"Really. Stop being nice to me." Eli turns his in Jackson's direction, his palor still sickly. "I don't deserve this." His tone is hard and firm, body stiffening.

"You look like you could use it," Jackson answers with a shrug of one shoulder. His own tone is soft and somewhat concerned. He pushes the sunglasses up to sit on top of his head, gaze flickering between the water glass and Elias.

"Well, don't. I can't stand it when your weak and submissive and polite and caring. Drives me up the wall. It's-" Nausea forces Eli to pause, jaw setting as he finishes the thought. "one thing for us to play - unacceptable for you to live like that - always."

Jackson's eye widens, and the disbelieving breath he huffs out is not /quite/ a laugh. "You can't stand it when I'm polite an' caring? Since when is caring about people /weak and submissive/? I'm -- not sure how being /nice/ has anything to do with what we do in bed." His tone is rather bemused, and his head shakes. "I think maybe you need more rest. Finish drinking. The tea'll make you feel better."

"You just keep taking shit - taking my shit and never getting angry." Eli puts down the glass and moves the sheets off the bed. "You have got to get angry."

"At -- what, exactly?" Jackson is baffled. "You ain't hardly done anything."

"I'm a jerk, Jackson, and there are days I despise you. I can't handle the self-depricating, other serving way you've gotten under my skin. You change me and I can't - I don't like it." Eli fidgets, his hands gripping the mattress before he pulls the sheets back over his legs. "I can't get you out of my head."

Jackson takes a step back from the bed, his eye narrowing briefly. "You -- what on earth has gotten /into/ you all of a sudden?" His tone sharpens, but there's still a great deal more puzzlement in it than anger. "You're right, you kind've are being a jerk."

"Yeah, well, I'm tired and frazzled and fucking sick of all this. There is something wrong here and I don't know what's wrong. It's like I'm stabbing in the dark here." Eli's frustration begins to lose focus the longer he speaks. "I'm - I don't know."

"I'd offer to be a jerk back to you," Jackson says dryly, "but I don't think I'm half so good at it as you are." His lips press together, but his expression softens as he looks at Eli. "I really think you should rest more, hon. You don't look good at all -- an' you've been stressed for ages." He reaches for the cup of tea, still steaming, but only slightly, to pick it up off the dresser as he moves back closer to the bed.

"Maybe 'Jerk' is my natural state and it's about time I was who I am meant to be." Eli grumbles as he takes the mug and glares at it. "Fucking hell."

Another flicker of concern crosses Jackson's expression, and his fingers brush over Elias's in a light caress as Eli takes the mug from him. "I think you've just got a lot on your mind, sweetie."

"Stop being nice." Eli mutters as he takes a couple quick sips at the liquid. His eyes slide closed as he inhales deeply, taking in the aroma before taking a longer drink. Eyes slide open to slant in Jackson's direction.

"I think it's my natural state," Jackson says with a wry twist of his lips. He takes a step away from the bed again, thumbs hooking into his belt loops.

"What the fuck are we supposed to do then?" Eli sounds bitter as he continues to drink down the tea, setting down the mug when he is done.

Jackson snorts, head shaking. "I wasn't aware it was a /problem/. I knew you were a jerk when I started dating you. An' you knew I was nice!"

Elias doesn't have an answer for this, sliding down under the covers again as he pulls them up to his neck. "It's a fucking problem," he finally replies, though the statement lacks heat. "You're trying to make me nicer, aren't you, among other things?"

"Er -- no." Jackson's eyebrows lift, and the vague amusement in his expression fades quickly. "I ain't really trying to make you anything at all. Except, at this very moment, less hangover-miserable."

"That's not what I'm talking about. The sex games, the food and herbs - the constant presence. You're trying to convert me." Eli's frustration mounting, his body growing stiff again.

"/Convert/ you?" Jackson baffles. "To /niceness/?"

"Fuck." Eli grumbles and rubs his hands against his face. "I don't know."

"I don't know, either." Jackson takes a half-step forward, lifts his hand towards Elias -- but he checks himself abruptly, dropping his hand back to his side and halting where he stands.

"You're not going to leave because I'm on to you, are you? 'Cause I think it's about time for things to go my way now." Here, Eli utters a sharp bitter laugh, grabbing a pillow and setting his jaw. "Though, that's probably what you want."

"/On to/ me? What on earth --" Jackson takes another step back, and for a moment there is a distinct trace of wariness in his look towards Elias, as if he is facing someone not-quite-stable. "Um." Wariness gives way to confusion, and he shakes his head. "I don't quite follow you, Eli. What I want? Go your way? What do you -- what are you talking about?"

"I don't know. There's just something fishy going on here, and I'm going to figure it out." Eli cringes as his stomach churns again. He grumbles. "It's got to do something with Aly. Why else would you be so commited to an act and then so repulsed by it after - at the risk of your best friend?"

"So committed to -- /what/?" Jackson's confusion is not lessening. "How d'you mean?"

"Why did you want me to have sex with Aly if you were just going to
make all three of us pay for it?"

Jackson's eye opens wide. "/I/ didn't want -- /you/ wanted -- make all three --" His mouth clamps shut tight, and he takes a deep breath before continuing, slower. "You obviously wanted her. All I did was say it was okay. And I don't know what you mean about -- I haven't -- I don't --" His hand waves a vague, flustered gesture.

"It was a purely physical reaction and I was trying to excuse myself with out leaving Aly in a lurch since she was so upset. Besides, I might have fucked her, but she was emotionally attaching her to you, again." There is a fire in Eli's eyes, narrowed as they are on Jackon. "You've done what since then? Huh? Discourage her and have her feel undervalued as a person? Why aren't you taking any responsibility in how she's feeling?"

Jackson freezes, paling, and swallows hard after a long silence. "I've wanted -- I didn't -- it was a mistake." His posture is tensed, and his head shakes uncertainly. "But I've /talked/ to her and -- I just -- she knows/ that --" He rubs his hand against his face and swallows again. "If I could take it back, I would, but -- I can't, so -- we talked, and -- it ain't like it's going to happen /again/, now. I'm not -- not /like/ that -- or don't want to be. I don't know. I thought you wanted -- I just wanted to be --" His hand scrubs against his cheek again. "I'm /sorry/. I never wanted things to get all -- weird."

"Why can't you just love her and be there for her? The world is coming to an end and there might be a chance for her to /ever/ find anyone else?" Eli becomes rather passionate as he sits up, stress showing in the corners of his eyes. "Fuck the fact that she's a girl. What the hell does gender have to do with love? You do love her, right?"

"I do love her and I /am/ there for her," Jackson replies, no longer flustered on /this/ point.

"Then where is she right now?" Eli's reply is quick.

"Gone to work!" Jackson's expression is skewing back to somewhat incredulous, now.

Eli settles down after this, falling int a sulk and laying back down, pretending he didn't his his head on the way down.

Jackson's jaw tightens, and he looks at Elias a long moment in silence.

"My head hurts," Eli mutters, dragging a pillow over his eyes.

"I'll get you some aspirin," Jackson answers, picking up Elias's empty water glass and turning to head for the bathroom.

Elias nods slowly, sighing as he holds the pillow down a little closer around his head.

Jackson returns quickly, with a pair of small white pills in the palm of his hand and a refilled glass of (plain) water. He perches on the edge of the bed and offers both to Elias. At some point out of the room, his sunglasses were pushed back into place; behind them, his expression is blank.

Eli moves the pillow away slowly as he sits up enough to take the pills and sip the water. He only drinks enough to get the medication down and then eases himself back down on the mattress.

Jackson takes the glass to put it back on the dresser, and then rises again -- but then hesitates, teeth dragging over his lower lip as he looks at Elias. After a pause, he leans in to kiss Elias's temple, softly.

Eli grabs Jackson's wrist when he leans close and wraps his fingers around it, holding on to him. Eyes closed and body still, there's very little other reaction to the kiss.

Jackson freezes, and then eases himself down onto the mattress beside Elias, one arm wrapping around the older man.

Elias leans closer, turning to bury his face against Jackson's chest. Fucking hangovers.

Jackson just holds Elias close, in silence.

Eli's fingers begin to twine in Jackson's clothing, knotting it up and holding him tighter, one thumb brushing against the skin on his lower back.

Jackson stays silent, hand trailing absently over Elias's back, his other arm wrapping around Eli's body too to hold him closer.

Elias falls asleep, his hand stilling, but his grip not loosening in the least.

Kurt, Norah

Tue, 05 Aug 2008 04:29:34 GMT

Log. Monday evening. 4 August. Xavier's, Great Hall.

=XS= Great Hall - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
Rich dark woods panel the walls while lighter shades form the floors of the Great Hall, protected from time and scuffling student feet by runner carpets in red with gold and black edging, and a few larger throws in oriental designs. The ceiling is high, a vaulted twenty feet, with leaded glass windows letting in natural light from above and hanging lamps casting a warm glow at night. French doors lead to the library and rec room, and a hallway to the left of the entryway angles off to other rooms. While antique end tables hold curios and objets d'art, and while imposing portraits hang on the walls, the eye is drawn most by the large curving staircase at the heart of the Great Hall, wending its way between three floors in grand style. The discreet brass plate indicating an elevator living behind one section of panelled wall could almost go entirely unnoticed.

Some people are like slinkies. They're not good for much, but it puts a smile on your face to watch them go down the stairs.

The sun has just recently set at Xavier's, the dim light driving Norah indoors after having spent the evening out on the front porch, grading papers. She apparently came straight from work, judging by her conservative outfit of black slacks and a pale green collared shirt. She enters and heads straight up the stairs, but then pauses at the top, head tilting to the side as she considers something. A SNACK. From the kitchen. She needs one. She turns around and starts to head straight back down again, but her foot somehow misjudges the distance to the staircase, falling unexpectedly into empty air where she expected solid floor.
Predictably, she screeches in surprise as she tumbles down. She drops the papers she's holding, scattering them over the empty space, but too late to brace her face-forward fall. She goes invisible at the first impact against the stairs, but the loud bumps and crashes down to the bottom would indicate that it's a somewhat unpleasant journey.

Jackson is on his way out -- he has his backpack squarely on his shoulders and his bicycle helmet in hand, unbuckling the straps to prepare to put it on his head -- but the noise gets his attention. He lets out a rather undignified squeak and hastens towards the stairs, eyebrows lifting in surprise from behind the rims of his overlarge sunglasses. "Oh gosh -- hey -- are you --" There is concern in his voice as he approaches, but the lack of anyone /there/ makes his words stutter to a confused halt. Not confused for too /long/, though, as he tries again uncertainly: "Tim? Norah?"

The pointed tips of blue ears poke over the railing of the banister. Yellow eyes follow, widened slits of pupils at the crashes. "What?" he inquires at Jackson, thinking he is the source of the noise. "There is a problem?"

"I hate stairs," Norah moans in a particularly pathetic whine, her voice thick with the sound of tears held back. There's a rustling sound as she rearranges herself and then reappears sitting up at the bottom of the stairs, flickering in and out of sight like a flourescent bulb on its way out before at last managing to settle on visible. An inventory of her appearance includes hair half-tugged out of a ponytail, a split lip, a red mark on her cheekbone that will soon be a particularly beautiful bruise, and apparently a ringing funnybone, given the way she cradles her elbow. "Owww. That /hurt/."

Jackson tilts his hed back at the new voice, and if there is any surprise at the man's appearance, the mirrored sunglasses hide it well. "I think someone --" But Norah speaks up, then, and Jackson cringes as he takes in her appearance, moving to crouch at her side, examining her with worry, for the moments she is visible. "Oh -- ouch, hon, that -- ack. Sit tight an' I'll go find you an ice pack."

Kurt sucks in a quick breath, eyes shrinking to slits. "Jo?" He dissapears, scrambling and coming to the stairs. He takes them a bit more gracefully, hoping over the railing midway and landing gently on his feet hands and feet. He scoots around to the base of the stairs, hesitantly keeping his distance. His tail is completely poofed up. "Are you hurt, Jo?"

"Sorry," Norah says in general apology, touching her fingers to her lip and then looking at the blood that coats them with dismay. "I'm not -- I think I'm okay. Ow. Just bumped a little. And I bit my lip, apparently." She shifts again, making room on either side of her for her friends to sit, should they so desire. "Thanks, Jackson, an ice pack might be nice. And hi, both of you." She smiles wryly and waves in greeting.

"Hi," Jackson says, just as wry, and his head turns to glance at Kurt again. "An' hi!" This is slightly more chipper, but fleeting as he pushes himself to his feet. "I'd introduce myself proper-like, but, ice." And then it is his turn to disappear -- albeit not literally -- as he skitters off kitchen-wards, to return (with ice!) next pose-round.

Kurt jerks his eyes up, lifting a hand. "I can get it quicke--" he starts, stopping and sighing. He flops to a sit as she makes room, eyes still running a million miles and hour all over her. His three-pronged hand pats at her knee.

"It's okay," Norah says to Kurt, moving to lean her head against his shoulder before the touch to her cheekbone makes her wince and pick it back up. "I really just thought I had another step before the stairs started," she explains loud enough for Jackson to hear in the kitchen, twisting back to look at the stares with an accusing gaze. "It's been forever since I fell down a set of stairs. Also, I think last time I was probably lighter, so it didn't hurt so much."

And then Jackson reappears! (Just as conventionally, coming down the hall from the kitchen.) He has a ziploc bag filled with ice and wrapped in a dish towel, and a folded paper towel that he offers to her as well. "For your lip," he explains, settling down on her other side. "You gonna be aright, hon?"

Kurt stays still for her, even for her short stint of cheek-leaning. "Young ones are made of rubber," he explains wisely. "They bounce right around, do they not?" Kurt chuckles, looking up as Jackson returns.

Norah is caught in the midst of just sucking on her lower lip to get rid of the blood when Jackson offers the paper towel and ice. "Oh, yeah, thanks," she says, taking them. She props up the ice bag to her cheekbone. "And I'm going to be fine. Just a few bumps and bruises. Nothing like /you've/ put up with, Jax." Glancing between the guys, she adds, "Oh, and Jackson, this is Kurt. Kurt, this is Jackson. He's a graduate, too."

Jackson laughs quietly, head tipping downward in a brief nod. "Rubber," he agrees cheerfully. "M'glad you're aright. Kinda gave me a scare." His head turns towards Kurt, the man reflected in his sunglass lenses. "Hi! Nice t'meet you. We ain't met. Are you a -- new teacher here?"

"German," Kurt says, bobbing his head pleasently. His hand moves to smooth his tail fur down. "I am a bit new. Just a few months here." Attention is eagerly put back to Norah. "It seems often graduates visit. This speaks well for the school, does it not?"

"I'm not sure if it's good or bad," Norah says with a wry smile and a shrug. "It's not /normal/, that's for sure, that we seem to have trouble cutting the umbilical cord to our high school. But it's a nice place to have -- somewhere where you know you can always be welcome." Noting Kurt's tail as he smooths it down, she can't really help but reach over mischeviously to try and tug on it.

"It's definitely a nice place t'have," Jackson agrees with a quirk of a smile, "'specially with the city -- well. Not always so welcoming!" The smile twitches wider, amused, as Norah reaches for Kurt's tail.

Kurt squawks, very unprofessionally. His ears twitch, his fur springs back on end, and eyes snap to Norah. "The nerve!" He claims, snatching for his tail to clutch it close. "Why I /never/. I should really port you right up on the roof, you know?"

"Sneak attack!" Norah declares triumphantly in the face of the squawking sound, grinning and then wincing as that expression exascerbates her split lip. She sets the bag of ice down in her lap and takes the paper towel to her face instead. "And you couldn't port me up to the roof, because it would be very rude to leave Jackson all on his lonesome without having a proper conversation or even saying goodbye." She then winks at Jackson. "And don't worry. In spite of all his threats, Kurt's too much of a gentleman to do anything nearly so impolite. He's a very nice young man. You two could have a politeness contest someday!"

"A politeness contest?" Jackson asks, amusement colouring his tone. "We'd hafta get Piotr down here to join in. -- You teleport?" His head tilts with interest. "I s'pose that'd be rude, but -- I could jus' do y'all the favour of heading back out to the city soon, an' then you can teleport around the school to your heart's content, conversations be darned."

There is a fast inspection of his tail. All clear. "Yes, I teleport. But I dare not teleport a lady with a split lip, less it be a hospital room." Yellow eyes sweep over Norah again.

"I wonder what it is about this place that attracts polite young men with foreign accents," Norah idly wonders, blithely labeling Jackson's southern as "foreign". "Not that I mind in the /least/. It's wonderful. But three of them! More than we deserve." She then rolls her eyes at Kurt. "I'm really fine. I'm going to look extra pretty tomorrow, I'm sure, but I'm fine. No hospitals required. And you do need to teleport me someday. I'm very curious about it."

"You can never have too many polite young men," Jackson says solemnly, "foreign or domestic." He leans against the railing of the staircase, tucking a leg up beneath him. "I don't /think/ split lips gen'rally require hospitalization, sir. Although I guess teleportation accidents might --" His words cut off abruptly, head tilting down as he looks sharply away, his tone starting out light and teasing but veering abruptly towards clipped and numb at the end.

Kurt turns his nose up. "We are not actually polite," he begins to explain. "We are sound like it. Accents are the key to appearing like a gentlemen." He pauses his ramble to answer Jo, but instead arches a look at Jackson. "I do not make mistakes."

"I should /clearly/ get an accent, then," Norah says, tone envious. At Jackson she pitches a curious look, one eyebrow raised. "I'm sure he doesn't," she says, backing Kurt up. "He was once in the circus, you know. There is no room for mistakes when taming the lions. Or walking the high rope. Or ... whatever it is he did in the circus."

"Sorry," Jackson says, shaking his head suddenly as his smile returns. "Jus' kinda had a -- bad experience with that once." His eyebrows raise with interest, curiosity in his voice now. "The circus, seriously, sir? You must be pretty awesome at what you do, then."

"I am an acrobat," Kurt agrees with a nod, giving Norah's knee another pat before standing slowly. "And fenced as a pirate. All fascinating, really." He nods to each of them in turn. "But, I was on my way to plan my lessons. As much as I wish to doddle, it must be done." He looks to Norah as he climbs the first few stairs. "You will be okay, won't you?"

A brief expression of disappointment crosses Norah's bruised face as Kurt gets up, but is soon replaced with a smile. "Yeah, I'll be fine," she says, nodding. "Go work on your lessons. I'll see you later." To Jackson, she gives a curious gaze. "Bad experience with a teleporter, huh? I'd ask, but teleportation accidents seem like they're probably a little gruesome. Like there might be /splinching/ involved."

"Was nice t'meet you, sir," Jackson says, brightly, and a large black cowboy hat materializes into existence -- somewhat blurry existence, for his sloppy haste -- on his head, so that he can tip it to Kurt before it vanishes again. "A little gruesome," he agrees rather blandly with a slight tilt of his head, reaching to pick up his abandoned bicycle helmet and fiddle with the straps. "Some splinching."

Kurt flicks his tail in a parting gesture, lightly pushing himself up the stairs and out of sight. Thankfully before speak of splinching can be heard.

"Ugh, yeah, I'm not asking about that," Norah says with a wince. She sets the ice pack back on her cheek, and then glances at Jackson's helmet. "You on your way out?"

"Hm? Oh -- I sort of was," Jackson says, with a tone that suggests he had forgotten this fact until being reminded. He glances down towards the helmet with a slight blush. "My hands just -- don't like to be not-moving. Are you heading back tonight or hanging out here? The train's more interesting with company."

"Yeah, I was heading back," Norah says, nodding. "Work tomorrow, of course. Four more days." It's like a little prayer. Just four more days. "If your hands need work, want to help me pick up these papers? I don't think my students would be happy with me if I left their grades here and lost them. And then I'll head back with you."

Jackson nods, pushing himself up to start gathering the scattered papers. "I don't know," he says with a twitch of a grin, "some of your students /might/ be happy if you lost their grades." He holds up the small bunch of papers he's collected, the one on top only barely passing.

Norah winces at that paper. "I realy felt too cruel, marking that up like that. I had deep dilemmas about whether to give that all-too-fair grade. I mean, it has been a truly /awful/ summer for those kids. But we can't forget about punctuation even in greatest extremity." She removes the ice from her cheek and sets it down on the stair before rising carefully to her feet. She collects what papers are in easy reach, slowly, staring carefully at each before she reaches for it.

Jackson gathers papers much more quickly, not giving any of the others much of a glance. Norah gets a longer look, though. "Are you sure you're aright, hon? You seem sort of -- out of it."

"You have no idea," Norah says, grumpily as she straightens the stack of papers. "I've been /really/ out of it. I think I maybe need to get my eyes checked. Or my brain checked. I'm pretty sure I'm just stressed out, though I do have hypochondriac moments where I worry that I've got, like, a brain tumor or something. My brother had cancer when he was a kid." She shrugs. "We'll see if I feel better once school's out, I guess. Four more days."

Jackson's brow creases slightly, and he offers the rest of the papers towards Norah. "I hope so," he says. "That it gets better, I mean. I know -- 'tween one thing and another a ton of stress is understandable, though. S'anything I can do to help?"

"Don't think so," Norah says after a moment of thought, shaking her head. "Other than to watch those stairs and tell me if you think they're going to jump at me again." She smiles, and then changes the topic. "So Kurt's a nice addition to the school, don't you think?"

Jackson does examine the stairs for a long moment, lips pursing in exaggerated contemplation. "They do look sort of suspiciously close to pouncing," he decides. "An' Kurt seems nice, yeah. Y'all friends? He seemed --" His hand gestures vaguely, and he finishes, lamely, "friendly."

"I'm telling you. These stairs were probably /plotting/ against me. Just waiting for their moment," Norah says, giving the stairs a firm back-off glare before counting through her papers to make sure she has them all. Once sure, she leads the way to the door. "Yeah, we're friends," she says, casting a somewhat curious glance back at him. "So he probably /would/ seem friendly. I didn't think there would be /two/ furry blue guys in the world. But I guess I should really stop being so easily surprised. Anything's possible these days, apparently."

"Why not? There's two invisible people an' way more'n two telepaths and --" Jackson shrugs, re-shouldering his backpack as he follows Norah to the door. "And actually," he adds, dropping his voice lower, "I prob'ly shouldn't be telling you this, but the stairs are part of the resistance movement to stop you an' Adel from conquering the world."

"Good point," Norah concedes. "But /still/. If I was blue and fuzzy, I'd be a little miffed if I wasn't unique, too." She grins, and then gives the staircase one last glare before shutting the door behind her. "That's it! Clearly, it needs to be burned to the ground. Think the professor would mind a little arson?"

Jackson laughs, head shaking slightly. "I'm sure he'd be /thrilled/," he says cheerfully. "I bet it would totally make the school a way more welcoming place for you to visit. -- You could always blame it on a newly-manifested pyrokinetic? I wonder if there are any of those around for the summer."

"What do we need stairs for, anyway?" Norah says, laughing along with Jackson. "I mean, the elevator is perfectly serviceable. And Kurt could just teleport people up a floor if they were in too much of a hurry to wait for the elevator. Besides, the professor can't use stairs, and so I'd be saving him from stair-envy." She nods firmly. "I don't know of any fire people at the moment, but one's bound to show up sooner or later. I can be patient in plotting."

"Welllll," Jackson says slowly, "the resistence effort clearly needs stairs!" He shifts with exaggerated awkwardness, scrubbing his hand over his shaved head. "Not that I'm on the /side/ of the stairs or anything," he says with similarly exaggerated shiftiness.

"You better not be!" Norah says, at once threatening and amused. "Look!" She points at her purpling cheek. "I do not approve. Assassination attempts are supposed to be directed at the fearless leader, /not/ at the executive assistant. If you really need stairs, I'll arrange for your tropical island to have them. You do not need stairs anywhere near /my/ feet."

Jackson holds up his hands palms out in an affectation of innocence. "I had nothing to do with the assassination attempts! I go in for /peaceful/ protest. Some of my more militant associates, however..." He shrugs, hands spreading. "And if Adel finds himself on the wrong side of any stairs soon, well, I didn't know anything about it, honest."

"Well, I /can/ find a new charismatic leader," Norah says, pragmatically. "It wouldn't be the end of the world. And I hear he has a twin brother, which would be any easy transition, though I hear he isn't so much for world domination. So then I'd have to start from the ground up, which would be a bit of a headache. And I really don't need any more headaches at the moment, you know."

"He does have a twin brother," Jackson says with a brighter smile, "but Bahir seems more sciency than political. Also, um." He blushes and wrinkles his nose. "Maybe a bit less charismatic. I like him, though. But I have a feeling trying to get the public to buy into him would be a /lot/ of a headache."

Noting the blush, Norah raises an eyebrow. "So does "I like him" mean you come down on the side of Bahir being the hotter twin, also?" she wonders teasingly, jabbing with an elbow. "Or does "bit less charismatic" mean you prefer Adel?"

"He can be kind of prickly," Jackson says slowly, clearly trying to be diplomatic, and his blush deepens at the elbowing, though he turns away -- not to hide it, though, of course! Just to collect his bike from where he left it outside the mansion (unlocked -- he is clearly not all that worried about theft /here/.) "And they're identical. So I dunno about hotter. Although I'm pretty sure my boyfriend likes him better. Something about his eyes. I don't hardly know Adel, too. Only met him in passing a couple times."

"Well, hot isn't /only/ about physical attributes, though those do play a large part," Norah opines as she walks alongside. "So twins can have varying levels of hotness. And Adel's okay. Very charming. Jean tells me he's rather an asshole, though. And I haven't really seen it, so much, but I've definitely seen the /potential/ for assholery is there. So, you know." She shrugs.

"Huh." Jackson wheels his bike along the driveway, lips pursing thoughtfully. "Well, like I said, I don't know him. Bahir is a good guy, though, if you can get past the cranky. Maybe he is hotter. I know that of the two of them, he was the one that caught my eye most." Another blush, and he hastens to add -- "For /painting/. Not anything else. I did him in a school project -- a while back."

"For /painting/, of course," Norah agrees, and laughs. "Maybe I should take up art. It would certainly give me better excuses for ogling people."

"It /does/." Jackson grins brightly. "I totally ogle people all the time an' it's /totally/ in a professional capacity. You know -- even if you don't take up art you could just carry around a sketchpad and ogle people /anyway/ and fake it."

Norah shakes her head. "I /could/, but then inevitably somebody curious would come up to me and be all wanting to look at my drawings," she says. "And I'd be like, "Oh, yeah, these are /artistic/ stick figures. Super... artsy." She laughs at herself. "I just picture it being really awkward."

"Have you /seen/ modern art?" Jackson asks with another grin and a lift of his eyebrows. "You can totally pass /anything/ off as artsy these days. Just give it some ridiculously pretentious explanation."

"Yeah, but you don't need to ogle people to make modern art, generally speaking," Norah says, and then pauses before stepping out of the mansion gate. "But speaking of ogling -- this lovely bruise on my face is going to make people stare at me when I get on the train, and being stared at /really/ bugs me. You have no idea. So I'll be terrible company, but mind if I go invisible the rest of the way home? I'll poke you every now and then to let you know I'm still around."

"I don't mind at all -- but I could just make it go away, y'know." Jackson shrugs and waves to the guard at the gate before turning away. "I know you're sorta more comfortable that way, though, so --" Another shrug. He is terribly noncommital.

Jackson doesn't get past the 'mind' before Norah pops out of sight. "Thanks," she says, blithely, and that is the last word she says until the spot is reached where her way home parts from his. At that point, she grabs his elbow, whispers a barely audible "Later," and sneaks off on her way home.

Tim

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 19:37:11 GMT

Log. Monday afternoon. Xavier's, Oak Tree.

=XS= Ancient Oak Tree - Garden - Xavier's School
Amidst the many other trees that dot the front lawn and gardens of Xavier's School, there resides this perfectly enormous oak tree that looks to have weathered many a decade in its lifetime. Its knotted trunk is proof enough of that, so thick that even some of the largest, most elastic mutants have difficulty getting their arms about it. As one's eyes travel up, this massive trunk branches out into similarly sturdy branches almost disappearing amidst the greenery. From one such branch a whimsically placed tire swing hangs, (Although the students will assure you that it still gets plenty of use!) and squinting upwards reveals a treehouse hidden amidst the leaves.

Tim's water bottle is simply massive this time. A large plastic red and white canister a foot tall and nearly half a foot round, it sits propped up against the base of the oak as lazily as the kid sitting next to it. Occasionally he picks the heavy thing up and takes a sip of the lip out spout, but almost as much of dribbles down his cheeks as makes it in his mouth. Sitting on the other side of Tim is an old beat up shoe box covered in dusts and cobwebs, the frayed cardboard bent and broken in nearly every direction only to be patched up again with a mix of scotch and duct table. While the lid is firmly closed on the box (well, as firmly as the unstable thing can get) a small stack of pictures have been taken from it and rest on the pages of the lad's open journal, his attention going back and forth from the memories made tangible, and the bleeding blue ink on the journal's surface.

Jackson's water bottle is a normal size, a black aluminum bottle with colourful fireworks designs scattered across it. He unhooks it from his bike as he wheels the red-and-black cycle up the drive, uncapping it to take a gulp. His path towards the mansion halts as he notices Tim out by the tree, and he veers across the lawn instead, calling a cheerful greeting out across the yard. "Hey, Tim! Sorry I missed you this weekend."

That makes Tim blush a little embarrassed as he apologizes: "I'm sorry, Jax, I really should have called fist. I just... needed someplace to be." Tim waddles across the grass a bit to try and leave a comfy-ish spot free for Jackson instead of hogging it all to himself. "Did Eli at least save ya some of the fudge?"

Jackson's fingers flutter in a wave, dismissing but not dismissive: "Don't worry about it -- you're welcome there any time. M'just sorry I wasn't around. Kinda been -- working a lot of extra hours now." He sets the cycle down on the grass, unstrapping his helmet and hanging the straps over a handlebar, and settles down on the grass with a nod of thanks as Tim makes space. "There's fudge, but I wasn't sure if it was vegan so I didn't --" He shrugs a shoulder. "Needed some place to be? Were you okay? Did things work out aright?"

Tim's face turns puzzled as Jackson mentions 'vegan' fudge, but it only last a moment as that little conundrum goes unsolved. With a real heavy shrug, Tim explains: "This girl came into the clinic that was kinda hurt, and she was freaking out and stuff... I got kinda scared and half of me disappeared. It... wouldn't come back and a whole buncha people could see it, so I had 'em call the school and drop me off at your place so I could go home." There is more than a little bit of shame in the account.

"Oh, gosh." Jackson's teeth scrape against his lower lip, and his brow creases, concerned. "I'm glad you got back safe -- you /did/ get back safe, right? I mean, did anyone -- did you have any trouble? The city can be kind of..." He trails off with a jerky twitch of a shrug, his expression darkening briefly.

A quick set of nods answers Jackson's question with the urgent need to put those fears to rest. "Yeah, got back here just fine. Nothing more than a few scared looks from the people up front, and one of the aids. I'm... used to those." And since Jackson brought up the subject, Tim looks up at him eyes to eye with just a little bit of annoyance in his. "I heard 'bout what happened, why didn't you tell me?"

"About what happened?" It's Jackson's turn to look puzzled, eyebrows lifting. "I'm -- not sure which --" he begins, before hesitating with a wrinkle of his nose. "What d'you mean?"

"Mr. Eli said a couple weeks back... some guys were real uhm... jerks to you." But Tim's tone gives extra weight to the word 'jerks' in a terrible way. "Is the city really getting that bad?"

Jackson's lips twitch just slightly at the addition of 'Mister' to Eli's name, but the expression is extremely short-lived. His head dips in a reluctant nod. "I didn't -- I don't like worrying people, y'know?" His hand scuffs over his bald head, and then his knees pull up to his chest, arms wrapping tight around them. "Just -- since these posters especially --" His head tilts down, gaze fixing on the ground, and for a moment he is quiet before he forces a bright smile. "It'll be aright, though, I mean -- I'm staying real busy and -- out of trouble."

"Well... you were right. I was worried 'bout you." Tim replies, noticing the newly bright smile, and content to leave it at that. And in a quick bid to change the subject rather forcefully to something cheerful, Tim asks: "Did you hear 'bout Toby?"

"Toby?" Jackson's expression shifts puzzled again, though he accepts the subject change gladly, looking at Tim with interest. "No -- who's Toby? New student?"

Tim chuckles and shakes his head, giving the happy white wash a good faith effort on his part as well. "No... but he might'a been if Cassy had anything to say 'bout it, I think. I don't know if you saw it on the news, but this zoo truck carrying a buncha tigers had an accident and the tigers go out. One of 'em..." And before he lets Jackson get worried, Tim quickly shakes his hand to add: "A small one, a baby tiger really... made it out to the lake where we were having a swim. Still, baby tiger or not... I got kinda scared of it."

"A baby /tiger/?" Jackson's eye widens, and for a moment the bright smile actually lights it. "Here? Wow. -- An' I guess a tiger's still a tiger, baby or no. Must -- not really be what you expect t'come wandering by on your swim. He ain't still /here/, is he?"

"Nonononono..." Tim is quick, and glad, to clarify. "The zoo people came and got him and took him back. Besides, I'm not really sure Dr. Grey would let him stay in the med lab forever, and I'm pretty sure if he grew up... no one else would be allowed to have any pets for fear of him eating them."

"Oh -- zoo, right." Jackson's nose wrinkles briefly, the light winking out of his eye again, though his smile remains. "Still, musta been pretty neat. If scary. I ain't never actually seen a tiger, 'cept on TV."

"Well, if you ever wanna see Toby, he's back home now at the Bronx Zoo. We're gonna go see him when..." Tim's bright mood suffers a hick up and a dark overtone as he continues. "When... things settle down."

Jackson's head shakes, expression saddening. "I don't -- um. Don't go to zoos. I don't really think a cage is meant to be 'home' for a tiger, no matter how big they make it." His arms tighten around his shins, chin dropping to rest on his knees. "When things settle down," he echoes Tim's words, thoughtful, a hopeful look brightening his expression in contrast to the darkening of Tim's.

It's light at first, but the tree does its best to keep the friends dry. But as the droplets pelt the leaves and begin to drip down on their heads, its clear that the dry part wont last for long. "Well, maybe you're right Jax, but either way, his home is definitely not Cassy's bedroom. C'mon, lets head in before my pictures get ruined."

Amadeus

Wed, 30 Jul 2008 08:55:43 GMT

Log. Tuesday night. 29 July. East Village/Jackson's Apartment.

=NYC= East Village - Manhattan
East Village would seem, by name, to be an extension of the arty Greenwich Village and this is precisely what the developers would like you to think. But East Village's spirit is closer to that of Lower East Side. East Village's spirit is that of the punk, the restrained (and unrestrained) riot, the beat poet turned homeless and angry. And some of those ragged street walkers indeed have nowhere to sleep.
East Village /is/, in the end, arty and experimental, but with an edge of drugs and desperation. If also the kind of free thought and frenetic drive that spark cultural revolution.

Tuesday night, and Jackson's steps are light, bouncing, as he heads out of class -- down the front steps of Cooper Union and away from the college, towards his apartment building. His art bag is slung over his shoulder -- large and boxy, to hold all his supplies -- and the sharp scent of turpentine and oil paints still cling to his (paint-flecked) clothing. The bounce in his step doesn't last all that long: he's gotten barely two blocks down the East Village streets before a young couple looks at him, mutters something to themselves, crosses the street to avoid him. On the next block, a poster, one of CPAM's, bearing his face and his address. They are a familiar enough sight by now that it doesn't even garner a scowl -- automatically, he stops to tear it off the bus shelter to which it is attached.

Amadeus turns out of an alley, wearing a light blue t-shirt, some black jeans, and his usual black sneakers. He'd started walking behind Jackson shortly before he reached the bus, though wasn't exactly following. When he sees the ripping of the poster, he raises an eyebrow. "That's some screwed up stuff, that's why I aint' a mutant." he randomly says from behind.

Jackson flinches at the voice, whirling in place with fists clenched (the poster crumpling as his fingers tighten), but relaxes when he sees Amadeus. His lips quirk, wry, and he smoothes the poster out to fold it more neatly and stash it in his bag. "Ain't exactly like it's something you get to choose," he says, rubbing at his good eye (he is without sunglasses, tonight, but has an eyepatch over the other) with his knuckles. "Howdy."

"That kinda crap legal?" Amadeus asks, nodding to the bag with the poster. "And hey, didn't mean to scare you, wasn't even sure it was you. But seriously." he points to the bag. "How are they allowed to do that? Why aint' you guys blow 'em up with your lasers and stuff by now?"

"I don't know. We're trying to fight it in court. But --" Jackson shrugs a shoulder and leans back against the clear plastic wall of the shelter. He exhales a breath of laughter, head shaking. "I don't have any lasers, and we -- don't really want to hurt anyone. For the most part we just want to live without being attacked, same's anyone else."

"Well damn, if I was a mutant and had kickass blasting powers, I'd have blown 'em all to bits by now. I got my limits but to hell with that poster crap." Amadeus says, /clearly/ revealing why god choose to bless him with being a cat and not another Magneto... or /Pyro/. "Any way I can help? I got nothin' better to do, and you're helpin' the cats."

"Well, I don't have any -- blasting powers," Jackson replies, amusement colouring the lilt of his tone. "An' much as sometimes I /wish/ I did -- even if I /had/ powers that could hurt anyone, I wouldn't want to." The entirely unsubtle conversation is overheard by a group of young men waiting at the stop, and one edges away; another glares at Jackson, and reaches into his pocket, fingers curling around -- who knows what. Jackson straightens, lips thinning, and hoists his bag further up onto his shoulder. "Honestly, just having someone willing to speak up if they see bigoted stuff happening is useful. For now, though," he says with a lopsided grin, "you could walk me home. It ain't far."

"That's cool. Hey, any chance I can stay over? I can even do my whole cat thing to stay out of your way." Amadeus asks as he begins to walk with Jackson, eyeing at the men for a moment and trying to make some distance. "I eat mice and stuff, but I don't gotta be a cat to do that."

"Oh -- uh." Jackson brushes his hand over his head, rubbing at the tattooed skin, and blinks slightly. "Yeah. Okay. I've got a cat an' two dogs at home at the moment, though, so -- you might wanna stay a human. Although they all seem to get along with each other so maybe it won't be a big deal." He doesn't look at the men anymore; he pushes away from the bus shelter and starts heading down the sidewalk again.

"Dogs creep me the hell out, no matter what size I am. Guess it's a cat thing, but I always think they're gonna try to chomp my head off or something." Amadeus stares silently at the ground for a moment, seemingly thinking something over. "Hey, you're like an animal guy and stuff, anything you ever wanted to ask a cat?" he wonders, offering a possibly fun game on their way to his place.

Jackson's grin widens, and he laughs again. His fingers curl around the strap of his bag, and he glances sidelong at Amadeus. "I have often wanted to ask my cat why she thinks my clean laundry is the best place to sleep when there are numerous alternative locations around the apartment that are just as soft and nest-like. Or why whenever I go to sleep, /that's/ when she decides it's play-time. Or why I buy her shiny new toys but all she wants to play with is the plastic bag they came in."

Amadeus takes a moment to think his questions over, remembering similar experiences he's had with temporary owners. "Clean laundry is the freakin' best. Smells good, overwhelms the senses in a /good/ way, and if it's fresh out, nice and warm. Plastic bags are nice and crunchy, it's like they make this awesome noise, and they just feel /awesome/. Sometimes they smell good too, and they're just fun to play with. Now if you get a catnip toy, that's a whole different story..." And, pausing before answering the qeustion about sleep, he says, "Well, if you sleep under a blanket, she prob'ly thinks you're hiding or starting a game where she can play hunt. And sometimes a cat's sleep schedule can be off, or she doesn't quite understand that you're tryin' to sleep. This is all stuff from my experience as a cat, really."

"You know, laundry fresh from the dryer /is/ pretty awesome," Jackson muses. "And with the hours I work, maybe it's my sleep schedule that ain't quite right." He pauses as they arrive at his apartment building, digging his keys out of a pocket of his bag to unlock the door. "What about how she always goes an' hangs out in the bathtub as soon as I'm done showering?"

"When you close the door, cats think you're hiding something." Amadeus quickly answers with a knowledgable finger held up. Rarely does he get to do this. "When the door is open, she instantly wants to see what you were keeping from her."

"You'd think she'd learn by now that all I'm keeping is shampoo an' shower gel." Jackson holds the door open for Amadeus, expression mock-pensive. "Admittedly, it is amazing and mysterious shower gel. It warrants a lot of investigation. -- D'you spend a /lot/ of time being a cat?"

"I haven't spent more than a month or so as a cat." Amadeus admits as he walks in and presses his hand against the door for Jackson to follow. "When I was like, I think fourteen or one of those teen years, that's when I changed the first time. Couldn't figure out how to change back, scariest thing that ever happened to me. I couldn't go home or talk to anyone, could barely find anything to eat. So I spent my time with the alleycats, trying to imitate them and do what they do to survive. I always stayed close to home, and after a while started to /think/ I was a cat. But then I saw my mom getting mugged, and managed to change back to chase after the guy. My mom's fine by the way."

"Oh -- oh." Concern flickers across Jackson's expression, though it fades at the last assurance. "Gosh. M'glad your ma's okay. That /would/ be scary. I mean, I was terrified when my powers first started showing up an' -- I stayed /myself/." He leads the way to the stairs, rather than the elevator, holding the stairwell door open as well for Amadeus before starting up. "I'm glad /you/ got through it okay, too. You can control it aright, now?"

Amadeus nods, walking up the stairs with him. "Yeah, sometimes I would randomly change, and I couldn't change back for about a week. After a while I started to be able to control the changes, and the more I practiced, the shorter the time I could change back became." he explains, staring at his fingers for some reason and wiggles them as if he were testing. "But now I think I either hit my limit, or I just don't understand what I should be practicing. I've been taking a guess at everything."

"How long's it take for you to change back, now?" Jackson leads the way up to the third floor, keys jingling as he swings the ring absently around one finger. He hesitates outside his door, casting an apologetic look at Amadeus. "Can you wait here a sec? One of my friends might be over an' I gotta make sure she's --" He doesn't finish explaining, but holds up his hand in a typical 'wait' gesture as he unlocks his door.

"Like a day, both ways. I don't like to waste a change, in case some people wanna kick my ass or if one day I meet some hot rich woman looking for a cat." Amadeus admits as he quiets down and waits for Jackson to see if it's all clear.

=NYC= Apt 340 |Jackson| - Autumn Lights Apartments - East Village
Unlike its tattooed, pierced, brightly clothed and glitteringly makeup-ed occupant, the decor in this apartment is subdued and minimalist. Black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome. Though the apartment is small, but kept obsessively cleaned and free of clutter to lend it a more spacious feel than its size would suggest.
The tiny entrance hall -- a shoe rack by the door to collect footwear from all visitors (and keep polished floors gleaming) -- opens onto a living room whose back wall is dominated by large, airy windows. To the right, the tiny kitchen, black tile separated from the living room's hardwood floors by black countertops; a breakfast nook sits in back, along the windows, cushioned windowseats in place of dining chairs. To the left, doors open to bathroom and small bedroom. In the far back corner of the living room, rows of shelves and cabinets are laden with neatly organized art supplies; in front of the windows, a large easel is set up with a stool in front to take advantage of the natural light.
A couch, upholstered with black corduroy and facing windows and easel, is the main piece of furniture in the room; a low black coffee table sits in front of it with small end tables at each arm. In one corner there is a computer desk with a desktop set up, and against the wall beside it, a futon. Large black and red cushions piled by the windows provide comfortable pillowing when seated on the floor. Ever-present in the apartment is the lingering smell of painting; turpentine and oil paints mingling in a pervasive caustic odor that never quite fades away.

Jackson heads in first, pushing the door to but not closing it entirely as he looks around. A moment later he opens it again, wider, and beckons Amadeus inside. There is a young beagle at his heels, scrawny and scarred and one-eyed, tail wagging excitedly at Jackson's return. "In that case," Jackson picks back up, lips twitching, "you can stay a human. I'll pull out the couch-bed for you. D'you want anything to eat? Drink?"

"Yeah, that's cool." Amadeus walks over to a couch and lays back, certainly making himself at home. "Yeah, I'll take some milk and any other stereotypical cat stuff you got. I eat cat food too. That crap is awesome. Course I'll take some of your human food since you got your own cat and all, I eat damned near anything."

"Well, /I'm/ vegan, so by way of human food I don't got any animal products -- my cat ain't vegan, though, so you're welcome to share her food if you really like it. I have -- uh, oat milk. An' hazelnut milk. No cow milk, though." Jackson heads to the kitchen, stooping to open a cabinet and take out both a plastic container full of dry cat food and a couple cans of the wet kind -- all of them natural, grain-free, organic. Even his cat food is hippie food. He looks somewhat skeptical as he glances between Amadeus and the cat food. "Um. Wet or dry? I have -- um -- chicken an' turkey, and venison. Maybe some duck too."

"Wet please. Dry food is crap. I don't know how some cats eat that stuff. And as far as what kind, just give me what you can spare." Amadeus says, not wanting to be /too/ imposing, but there's no way he'll eat dry food. "I never heard of hazelnut milk, but if it tastes good I'll take a shot. And I didn't know oats had milk in them."

Jackson puts away the dry food and a can of the wet, and opens the venison to tip it into a bowl, rinsing out the can afterwards and tossing it in with a bin of recyclables. He pours Amadeus a glass of hazelnut milk, too, and grabs a spoon before bringing milk and spoon and cat food over to living room to offer them out to the other man. "So -- that whole thing with finding attractive rich women who want cats -- does that happen a lot? And, er, do you let them know you're a person or do they jus' think they're adopting a regular cat."

"Never happened before, but a guy can dream. In my experience, being a cat and interacting with women always turns out bad." Amadeus smiles and takes the milk and food, sitting the milk down in front of him and beginning to quickly dig into the food. "This whole cat thing has been pretty useless when I'm not running or hiding."

"Huh." Jackson takes a seat on the floor nearby, cushioned on a large black pillow. From the bedroom, his own cat slips out, a half-grown black Bengal who hops lightly up onto the arm of the chair to start inching towards Amadeus, sniffing hopefully at his food. "That's Sprite," Jackson introduces. "Sprite, Amadeus." Sprite is not listening. She is /sniffing/. She rubs her head against Amadeus's arm. "-- An' just -- y'know. If you ever /do/ happen to meet someone like that I -- hope you're up front with them about being actually a person. I doubt anyone'd like to find that out by surprise."

"Yeah, I sorta learned that last part the hard way, multiple times. People are just freakin' hard to deal with." Amadeus says with an exhausted sigh, eating quite a bit of his food, but leaving enough for the cat to enjoy as he lays the bowl on the floor and starts drinking his milk. "Funny thing is, I'd never have a cat for a pet. When you've dealt with them territorially, you sorta see them as the friend you kinda like but you'd never want him as a roommate."

Sprite jumps down immediately when Amadeus sets the bowl down, lowering her head to eat what he didn't. "I'm glad I don't deal with 'em territorially, then," Jackson says with a laugh. "Cuz I totally love her as a roommate. -- An' people can be tricky to deal with, but it help if you're honest an' respectful." The beagle wanders over to settle beside Jackson, and he scratches the dog's head absently. "Did you want any more food?"

"Nah, I'm cool..." Amadeus leans his head on the arm of the couch after finishing his milk, appearing rather sleepy and more like a harmless cat-guy than a thug at the moment. "Chick cats aren't so bad, but I've had to kick a lot of ass protecting them in the areas where there aren't a lot of females, and the males just get vicious. When I'm a cat, it's like I live a whole other life."

"S'very chivalrous of you." Jackson's tone is amused, but his expression is thoughtful as he looks from Sprite to Amadeus. He stands, leaving the beagle curled on the pillow as he scoops up the dirty plate and bowl to take them back to the kitchen and wash them. He raises his voice slightly over the sound of the running water as he calls back: "Y'look tired an' -- I get up crazy early so I'mm'a turn in in a minute, too." He shuts the water off, sets the dishes to dry, and leans against the counter between kitchen and living room. "The couch pulls out into a bed -- I'll grab you some clean sheets an' pillows. Bathroom's that door --" (here, he points) "-- an' you're more'n welcome to help yourself to anything in the kitchen."

"Uh huh..." is all Amadeus says, falling over and curling up into a ball on the couch, sleeping as if he's barely had any sleep in days.

Jackson's lips quirk, and he looks at Amadeus for a moment before disappearing into the bedroom. He emerges with a folded sheet and a pillow. He drapes the former loosely over the sleeping man and carefully tucks the latter beneath Amadeus's head before shutting the light off and heading into his bedroom again.

Jackson picks up a stray.