ArchivedLogs:Beat

Beat
Dramatis Personae Doug, Jackson	2014-02-10 '
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Lobby - East Village
Bright and sunny, the lobby of this apartment building is clean and unassuming. Requiring an electronic keycard for entry, the pair of elevators dings cheerfully when one arrives. A small sitting area has bright yellow couches and small coffee tables, though the nearby vending machine is perpetually running out of /something/. Tall windows let in plenty of light during the daytime, and the building maintenance keeps the common areas spotlessly clean. A bank of mailboxes near the sitting area collects mail for the building, a recycling bin right at hand for the unwanted spam. Beside the mailboxes, a large corkboard serves as informal meeting space for the announcements, perpetually flyered with notes and notices from the various apartment residents. The day started off cold in New York and never really got to a point anyone would classify as /comfortable/. Still, the city was bustling with typical Monday business, the bracing cold putting a bit more hustle in the bustle. Now well after dark, the temperature has dipped low again, sending New Yorkers to the warmth of their homes and leaving the streets to those with reason to be out. People who are coming home from work, for instance. Like Doug, for whom it's not unusual to be getting home at this hour. Generally, he's pretty bouncy; a day of brainstorming adding a jump to his step. Tonight, he drags through the doorway, his backpack dangling from one shoulder; one strap hangs from the base like a sad little tail. The knee is torn out of one leg of Doug's grey slacks, a large grease stain framing the tear. Similar stains adorn his navy peacoat, adding to his overall disheveled look. Once inside the door of the Lofts, Doug pulls the door shut behind him, looking back out into the street before he moves away, limping slightly as he makes his way to the mailboxes. Once there, he reaches for something at his side, and grimaces when he finds only his hip. A quick pat of his pockets, and he comes up with his keys, sighing audibly with relief. Jackson is down in the lobby to pick up mail, easy to spot in his flagrantly bright colourfulness. Black jeans with purple flames embroidered up their sides, green 'cow hugger' t-shirt layered over long-sleeved purple shirt, silvery jacket over top, sparkly silver Doc Martens. Hair vivid-bright pink, deep towards the roots and fading out towards a bubblegum shade by the tips. His keys jingle where he spins them around one glittery-nailed finger as he bounces through the lobby -- over towards the mailboxes, at first, though he redirects towards the doors when he sees someone there, pushing them open to let Doug in. "Hihi!" His greeting is chirruped brightly, single eye sweeping quickly up-down over Doug. "Long day? Y'look /beat/." Doug does indeed look beat. Literally. When he turns to offer a half-hearted smile to Jax, the swelling of his upper lip and the butterfly bandages on the cut above his right eye are clear enough to spot. "It's been kind of a shit Monday," he says with a small, pained roll of one shoulder that dislodges his backpack. It slides down his arm to catch in his fingers, which curl tightly in reflex around the nylon. "Just left the police station." He inhales deeply, then frowns. "Hey, do you have your phone on you?" Jackson's bright smile fades into a frown as he pushes the door open, rocking back on a heel and biting down on his lip. "Yeah, I -- what. /Happened/, oh gosh. Who -- how -- what happened to you?" His eye widens, sweeping down over Doug. "Um, yeah, I got --" He shakes his head quickly, reaching into a pocket to dig his phone out of it, brows still deeply creased. Doug wrinkles his nose with a wince at the question, and exhales heavily. "A couple of guys jumped me coming out of the subway station," he says, rolling his neck carefully. "They jerked me into the alley over by that Thai place and..." he shudders, and his free hand comes to rest against his stomach lightly. "They got my laptop and my phone," he says. "Would have gotten my backpack, too, only I wasn't about to let go of that." He moves to the lobby couch, easing himself down and reaching up to rub gently against the bandages. "But I seriously over-estimated my ability to hold my own in a fight." "Wait." For a brief blank moment Jackson looks confused. His brows raise. "-- You were mugged?" He follows Doug over towards the couch, resting a hand lightly on the back of the sofa and offering the phone out towards the other man. His nose crinkles up as his gaze skims Doug over again. "M'-- {sorry}," he apologises in Spanish. "That's real rough, man. Just down the street, too? D'you -- you serious hurt? You think you need a doctor or somethin'? Cuz I can go with you? Or we can see if Joshua's in, he might could patch you up?" His teeth sink down against his lip again wtih another wince. "I don't think -- I mean, y'shouldn't really be fightin' in situations like that. Kinda best t'just give 'em what they're askin' for an' scoot. Money ain't more valuable than your safety ever." "Yeah," Doug confirms, licking his lips and lowering his brow just a bit. "That's why I was at the police station. Filing a report and letting their EMT guy patch me up." He manages a small smile, although it's a bit fleeting, and takes the phone. "I'm all right," he says. "Winter layers kept my ribs intact. I'm just a bit sore from all of it." He waves a hand at his forehead. "Besides, guys with scars are cool, right? I should be fighting off the men, now." His laugh is soft, a puff of rueful breath. Jackson's advice gets a roll of his shoulders. "I was willing to let them have the laptop," he says as his fingers taps on the phone, entering a weird-looking text. "But the backpack seemed like..." he wrinkles his nose, and sends the text. "Matter of honor, or something. Like it was the /line/. Y'know?" He shakes his head. "I don't know why. All that's in there are textbooks and a spare shirt." Jax's lips curl into a crooked smile, one (heavily scarred) hand lifting to touch the (heavily scarred) side of his face, just below the strap of his eyepatch. "Ohgosh," he says, with teasing-light amusement, "'zat so? /I/ certainly hope so." His other hand still jingles keys restlessly around a finger, but now he catches them against his palm with a quiet rattle of metal. "I don't know, man. I mean, y'sure gotta draw a line /somewhere/ but mugging ain't really -- seems like there's more important lines t'get yourself potential-killed over, y'know? I like you in one piece." Doug's grin is a bit easier when Jax teases him, and he holds the phone out for the other man to reclaim. "Well, /I've/ always thought so," he quips, and rolls his shoulders with a small cracking noise that earns a sigh of relief. He nods at the thoughts on lines being drawn, and he blushes a bit as he looks at his banged-up knee. "Yeah, well...I guess it was pretty stupid," he admits. "I just...couldn't let them have /everything/. I have a paper due next week." There's a small pause, then, as Doug considers that statement, and then he's /really/ blushing. "Okay. I see it now." "Your school got contingencies for stuff like this? I mean, seems like gettin' mugged is a pretty good excuse for bein' a bit overdue." Jax takes the phone to slide it back into his pocket, and then leans down against the side of the couch. He looks down at Doug's knee, the tip of his tongue wiggling at one lip ring. "I mean -- mmmnh." His brows knit together again. "S'prob'ly a balance. Ain't worth losin' your life or -- even jus' your bones to some jerk mugger but. S'probably still worth knowin' how t'defend yourself, y'considered lookin' into self defense lessons any? S'a host'a good -- ways to learn." "Oh, I'm sure it wouldn't have been a problem," Doug says, rolling his eyes a bit. "I mean, I'm on pretty good terms with this professor. I just...." The teenager purses his lips thoughtfully, his brow knitting. "I'm not sure I can explain it. But I will admit that it was extremely stupid." He exhales, and slides down a bit on the couch to rest his head on the back of it. "I didn't think I needed any self-defense before tonight," he confesses. "The only other crime I've been a part of was when that naked guy broke into my place. And I managed to kick him around pretty good, so...." He lifts a hand at the air. "But now I am definitely thinking I should work some into my schedule." He turns his head to regard Jackson for a long moment. "I'm sure you know some good ones, right?" He grins. "Knowing you, you've probably taught a few." "Naked -- guy broke --" Jax blinks, then just shakes his head quickly. "Right, uhm." He lifts his hand, fingers raking through his hair to leave the floppy pink mop more tousled than before. "Oh -- gosh, me?" His eye widens in sudden surprise. "I mean, I mostly just learned at school and through --" His cheeks flush, sudden and deep-dark red. "Um -- well. A little extracurricular, uh -- I do teach, um, /have/ taught -- sort of -- taught -- but that's like my students -- it ain't quite the same as a formal -- you joined a gym or somethin'? Cuz there's good gyms around here that often have. That kinda thing. An' aren't, um, vigilante, uh, terrorists." His blush deepens further. "Didn't I tell you about that?" Doug seems surprised that he's neglected to share that story. "Yeah. Woke up one morning to find him in my living room. He acted all badass, till I kicked him in the balls." The teenager seems amused at the memory, his lips curling into a smile. He shrugs at Jax's fluster, and his smile widens. "Oh, hey, don't worry about it," he says. "I just thought, with all the volunteering stuff you do, you might know of something more..." He bobbles his head back and forth a bit. "Eh. Never mind," he says, shaking his head. "I'll find what I need. I bet Sweat offers a good self-defense course." He smirks, and raises his fists to waggle them lightly in the air. "That'll show 'em." Then he frowns, suddenly. "And I don't know any vigilante terrorists." He turns his head to blink innocently at the older man. "Do you?" "That's -- kind of terrifying. Jus' -- random folk showin' up in your apartment for -- no reason?" Jackson's brow creases in Doug with some bewilderment here. His fingers scrub through his hair again; it falls down floppy over his eye after this, half shading it with a fringe of pink. His nose wrinkles up unhappily at the mention of Sweat. "They're an awesome gym," he agrees, "an' have some great self-defense classes." His cheeks stay furiously red at that last question. "Oh, I -- judgin' by the hate mail I get every day, I --" He shakes his head quickly. "Oh /gosh/. Mail. /That's/ what I come down here for. You need any help gettin' up t'your place, honey-honey?" "Yeah. I think he was trying to duck out on Teresa, up on seven," Doug says, wrinkling his nose. "I was just dumb enough to leave the window unlocked." He grins, suddenly. "Could you imagine if he'd climbed in Josh and Parley's window?" That thought amuses him even through Jax's comment about hate mail. "Those people are short-sighted losers," he assures Jax, leaning over to pat his knee warmly. "Anyone with any kind of brain can see that stuff isn't true about you at all." He shakes his head at the offer of help. "I can manage," he says, pushing to his feet. It takes a minute, but he makes it, and spreads his arms like a gymnast. "See? Totally stuck the landing. I'm good." He tips his head at the elevator before he begins to drift that direction. "Thanks again for lending me your phone."