ArchivedLogs:Collision Courses
| Collision Courses | |
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| Dramatis Personae | 2013-03-26 Jax runs into Doug on Columbia's campus. And is out of his element. |
| Location
<NYC> Columbia University - Morningside Heights | |
Situated in the Morningside Heights neighborhood, Columbia University is one of the most prestigious universities in the nation. This Ivy League school is the oldest university in New York, and attracts students from all over the world to study in its halls. With a generous sprinkling of Greek life and a Manhattan campus, Columbia students need not sacrifice anything by way of social life for their rigorous academic pursuits. Ah, Academia. Columbia University stands as it always has, a bastion of education hidden in the heart of New York city. Well, Manhattan, anyway. The campus is a bustling place; a city in its own right with hundreds of students littering the grounds (not including those in classes) talking about classes brightly (or not so brightly), working diligently on their laptops (and in some cases, not so diligently), or just relaxing and enjoying a few moments between classes. But it is too cold for littering the outside, so the Student Union is a bit full, today. Although, the mix is pretty much the same, making for a dull buzz that somehow never rises enough to cover the music coming from hidden speakers, playing the university radio station. Currently, it appears the hour is being dedicated to some sort of punk-like acid rock that is /clearly/ a student band's destined-to-fail demo. In the midst of the controlled chaos, Doug is making his way from one end of the building to the other. The blonde is dressed in snug, well-patched pants and a blue plaid button-down shirt worn open over a grey t-shirt. He has a backpack slung over one shoulder, and there's a denim jacket shoved through the shoulder strap not being utilized. He's intent on his phone as he goes, somehow instinctively knowing when to move or spin to avoid collision without looking up from the touch screen. It's a little like he's dancing. If the music were better. Even in the midst of crowded rooms Jackson Kind Of Stands Out; it's not his hair (neon-green and electric-blue striped trihawk standing taaaall on his head) or his dozens of piercings or the glitter-bright silvery eyepatch or the sparkling purple nails and makeup or the clothes (tight silvery-vinyl skirt paired with purple fishnets layered over black tights, tight silver-studded purple sleeveless shirt, silvery jacket, high platform sneakers) but all these things /together/ certainly don't hurt. Also his definite look of Not Supposed To Be There, evidenced less by attire (he's definitely not the /only/ punk at Columbia) and more by the wiiiiiide-eyed look he is Looking Around with. He has his black FreakAngels messenger bag resting at one hip, and a phone in his hand that he might have once been staring at but now he is just kind of staring. Around. Out a window! Then at the People. Then at the ceiling. His fingers drum taptaptap against his bag. He is not currently moving very /fast/, slow-drifting through the room and making little effort to avoid collisions; the faster-moving people avoid /him/ wth that practiced city-dweller ease. There's a shout and a bit of commotion, as a couple of frat guys suddenly pick the Union as the spot for a game of catch with a football. Students who are less frat-like suddenly scramble to get out of the way of the burly jock-types as they begin tossing the ball back and forth. This range extends, and begins to slowly pick up other elements of football. Such as crashing into unsuspecting nerds like Doug, who have not anticipated this wrinkle in their dance. One of the guys shoulders Doug passes, hard enough to actually knock the unaware blonde off-balance, and he does the expected nerd thing of losing his footing, sprawling across the floor to a chorus of laughter. Sadly, not all of it comes from the frat guys. He makes a noise as his knee barks on the tile floor, and his phone skitters away from him, smacking into a pair of sparkly platform sneaker even as the lit screen dims and goes black. Doug doesn't seem to notice, gripping his knee and grimacing. "Mother /fucker/." Jackson has been rather preoccupied, watching a small cluster of students at a nearby table hooking what is apparently a robotic Minecraft creeper up to a laptop to -- perhaps see what the camera-fitted creeper has learned; perhaps just recalibrate its schematics. There are a lot of math and robotics texts scattered among their table but Jackson is /fascinated/ by the /robot/, a smile lighting his expression; it's only the clunk of phone against shoe that draws his attention downwards with a puzzled glance. He stoops, picks up the phone, and for a moment frowns uncertainly at its screen before glancing around questioningly. "Um, did someone drop --" He wiggles the phone indicatively, as though encouraging someone to come claim it; a second glance around brings his gaze down to light on Doug. "Oh! Doug. Hi!" It's pretty chipper, his smile remaining. "I forgot you went here hi is this your phone are you okay?" He holds the phone back out towards Doug. Doug groans as he rubs his knee, and offers a finger in the direction of the frat guys. It is /not/ his index finger. "Fucking Greeks," he mutters, and grimaces as he attempts to push to his feet, stumbling back down for a moment. The appearance of sparkly sneakers brings his attention upwards, and his mouth presses into a tight line as he looks at Jackson. "Jackson," he says, his voice a bit tight -- probably with pain. "Is that my phone? Awesome. Thanks for rescuing it." His attempt to push to his feet this time is more successful, although he groans. "I'm fine," he says, his gaze not meeting the older man's as he takes his phone back. "Just banged my knee when I went down. Happens in soccer all the time." His gaze flickers over Jackson, but doesn't land. "I thought you went to Empire State or something." "Went to what? Oh gosh no. I don't go to, like, a /real/ college that's for --" Jackson waves his hand, at Doug, at the football-tossers, at the nearby table of geeks with their geektoys. "Y'know, smart people. Some place like /this/ wouldn't take me in a million years. D'you want an ice pack or something? There's, um, there's food I bet the foodpeople have ice." Doug's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, but he snorts a laugh. "Jackson, you've every reason to be going to a real college," he says honestly, bumping his gaze against the other man's briefly before flicking it over in the direction of the snack-bar/chain restaurant. "You're pretty smart. I imagine that's why....people...like you so much." The corner of his mouth pulls up with a bit of warmth. "That and you're cheerful," he amends. "People like that." The offer gets a long moment of thought, before the blonde is dropping his head in a nod. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea. I've got two more classes today." He begins to limp in that direction, looking back over his shoulder in Jackson's general direction. "So why /are/ you up here?" he asks. "Ian forget his milk money?" "I'm cheerful to hide the dumb," Jackson says (cheerfully!), "I go to art school cuz I'd'a failed outta anywhere else. /'specially/ a genius-farm like --" His glittery nails wave around the room, and for a wistful moment he continues to watch the robotics-crew before trotting to catch up with Doug. His hand slips to the other man's elbow as Doug limps off, quietly offering a solid-strong crutch to lean on. "Oh, yeah, he gone t'school without the lunch I cooked him," he says, light and amused. "Naw, I was up this way and I told Flicker I'd stop by an' pick up some things from a classmate'a his 'cept I got lost on the way to the dorms? So. Um. But /gosh/ there's a lot of -- I went to the library accidentally it's /pretty/." "You're not so dumb," Doug offers, pressing his mouth into a tight line that might be from knee pain. "Anyone who does as much as you do, and the kinds of /things/ you do isn't dumb." The hand on his arm brings a stiffness to his frame, but he accepts the aid, scrunching his nose. "It's easy to get lost," he says of Jackson's dilemma. "The first week, I kept going to the wrong classes. I've got a map with notes in my backpack that you can use." The tight line curls at the corners, briefly. "If you can read my handwriting, that is." The description of the library gets a wider curl. "I love the library here," he says. "If I didn't have classes, I would totally hang out there all the time." There's an awkward moment of silence, and then Doug clears his throat. "How are things going with Hive? Is he still being detained by INS?" "I /was/ looking for, um, Harmony Hall? And now I'm just looking because oh /gosh/ did you know there's so /much/ interesting stuff happening here? I mean, okay, of course you knew, you /go/ here." Jackson's grip loosens, tentatively, at the stiffening; he stays by Doug's side but mostly /offers/ his arm rather than holding Doug's, leaving the other man free to take it or not. "Hive --" For a moment his expression is briefly distant, a frown creasing his brow. "Yeah, he's still being detained. Kinda a mess. They're not called INS though, now, you know, they've been ICE for years -- it sounds so much /colder/ that way." "A lot of that stuff isn't restricted strictly to students," Doug notes. "Unless it's a campus group. Concerts and lectures and things are usually open to the public, if you wanted to sit in." He doesn't take the offered arm, but he does keep close to Jackson. Maybe he's a failsafe. "That's too bad about Hive," he offers, although he doesn't sound terribly broken up about it. "He doesn't deserve that." He frowns, and lifts a shoulder. "He should at least be allowed to go home, while they're deciding. It's not like our building isn't under constant observation, these days." "Well -- yeah I guess I could," Jackson allows, with a slight flush of cheeks, "but I don't think I'd really get much out of it I was never real good with the -- you know. Learning things." His frown pulls deeper at the continued talk of Hive, cheer dissipating into a murk of worry. "No," he says, quiet as he looks down at his shoes, "he don't deserve it." He is quiet for a stretch, but then smiles again, bright warmth pushing back the cloud of worry. "Oh gosh it's been chaos, ain't it? I think at least the reporters ain't really been hassling much of anyone /else/. Though they do keep pesterin' Dusk with weird questions I guess they cottoned on that we're friends cuz /duh/ he's a mutant, I'm a mutant, he must have the inside scoop. He told 'em he'd trade infos for blood." "Some people just aren't built for rigorous education," Doug says, turning his head to catch Jackson's eye briefly. "Still, you'd probably get something out of the humanities lectures. Those are always more interesting than academic." He limps closer to their destination, ignoring the hoots of the frat guys who have stopped their football game and are passing by, apparently on their way to class. "Hive needs to come home," Doug repeats. "So I can punch him in his stupid mouth." Which seems to be a declaration of intent, as there's no follow up. Instead, Doug seems surprised by the laugh the news of Dusk's bargain evokes. "Yeah, I bet that went over well. I can see the headlines." Or maybe he has -- 'HERO' MUTANT LIVES WITH CONFESSED MUTANT VAMPIRE, and the like. "Were there any takers?" "Like I said," Jackson says, light and easy-amused, "Art school. S'for hippies an' slackers who ain't cut out for real work." He doesn't seem overly /surprised/ really, at the statement of intent, just snorting a quiet laugh: "Punch Hive? Y'probably gonna need to get in line." He trots over to the food counter once they have ARRIVED, tipping up onto the toes of his chunky sneakers to carol a bright, "Hi, miss!" to the girl working the counter. "Sorry, I ain't gettin' nothin', d'you think we could maybe just grab some ice? Like in a baggie or somethin', my friend hurt his knee." He's turning to glance back at Doug, pierced lips tipping up into a smile. "Oh, yeah, there was this one girl from CBS seemed /real/ into it I think he's got Twilight to thank-or-blame. Used to just be the real goth chicks after him, now there's a whole other range'a women kinda /quiet/-like trying to get them some fang. Funny, though, wouldn't hardly none'a them acknowledge him in /public/ if they ran into him with other friends around." "I get to be first in line," Doug mutters, leaning against the counter heavily when they reach it, offering a tight smile to the girl and wincing for maximum sympathy. He snorts at the story of the reporter. "Fucking Twilight," he says, frowning deeply. "That chick /ruined/ vampires." He shakes his head, suddenly, holding up a finger. "No, I take it back. Anne Rice began the destruction. Twilight just finished it." He presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. "People suck," is his oh-so-wise input. "Even some of the nice ones. My mother is the nicest woman in the world, but she is equally, at times, the most horrible woman on the planet." He lifts a shoulder. "And she totally doesn't mean to be. She just is. I imagine that's true of a lot of people." "Yeah? What gives you first dibs?" Jackson just looks back to the girl, smiling warm-bright and going for cheer more than anything else; his easy chirrup of, "Thank y'kindly, miss," when he gets the baggie of ice, puts a smile on her face, too. He turns from the counter, gesturing Doug over towards a nearby table. "C'mon, y'should get your weight off that a minute. /Dusk/ sucks," he says this with an amused crinkle of his nose, "and he's basically one of the nicest ones. What's wrong with your ma?" "Because he took entirely too much pleasure in fucking with my head while he was in there," Doug says, and the smile he offers the girl when she returns is a bit easier. "And made me feel like shit about myself, which I'm more than capable of doing on my own." His mouth is tight as he looks at Jackson, and some memory flickers through his eyes that tightens /those/, too. But he follows to the table, falling into his chair heavily and swinging his backpack to the ground. "My mother?" he echoes, the question catching him off-guard. "Oh, she's gossipy, in that nasty kind of way. Particularly about her rivals in the fund-raising party arena. She's been extra worked up since she didn't get to plan that Osborne party. Which sounds...excruciating, the way she describes it." Jackson tugs out a chair for Doug to drop into, and hands over the ice pack, leaning in to rest it on Doug's knee before he takes his own seat beside Doug. He unslings his messenger bag, dropping it to the ground, too. "I don't know what he done to you an' I ain't sayin' nothing he did was right," he says, after a pause, slowly, "cuz he been violating people's headspace in all kindsa ways, lately. He ain't really been /himself/, though, an' I -- I ain't trying to excuse it, don't mistake me, but I --" Briefly the cheer fades back into worry. "I just really hope we can get /him/ back." He exhales, and on the slow inhale his smile is returning, albeit crookedly. "She work with Osborn at all? I mean she got some reason t'think she /shoulda/ planned it? Don't know as this thing's so much /fundraising/ --" Though this stops him, thoughtful, teeth wiggling absently at his lip ring. Doug places his own hand over the ice pack, holding it in place as Jackson seats himself. "It wasn't nice or pleasant, and some of it was uncalled for," he says of Hive's activities in his head. "I get that he's been kind of...spread thin, lately," he reaches up to tap his temple. "I was in there for a while. But still. The stuff he made me see and..." he wrinkles his nose, his ears suddenly turning red. "I hope he gets out, but I'm still going to bust him in the mouth the next time I see him." He smiles, and this smile is more relaxed, although it retains some of its forced quality. "My mom is like a top-notch party planner, on top of fund-raising. And since my dad is..." he grimaces. "Connected to Osborne, she thought he might use her services." He spreads his free hand in a sweeping 'alas' gesture. "He did not, although our family was extended an invitation, which seems to have mollified her." He chuckles. "There was a whole shopping trip, to make sure we all look our best." "When he gets like this he -- ain't Hive," Jackson says, dropping his hand to his knee as his teeth click down harder against a lip ring. "We kept tryin' to keep him from creeping in to other people but --" He shrugs a shoulder, tired. "Guess he kinda tumbled off the wagon and ain't got back on." His eyebrows raise curiously as he looks over Doug. "Woah, you're goin' too?" "It sure felt like Hive," Doug says, lifting a shoulder. "But, I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, because these are weird circumstances. Still. He's not getting back in there." He shifts, adjusting the ice pack as he leans forward to rest his weight on the table. "Oh, yeah. I'm going," he says. "My mother has insisted on it. Make a good showing, and all of that." His mouth pulls to the side in a half-smile. "I guess I'll see you there, if you're going, too." He sighs, and leans back in his chair again. His next question comes slowly, almost carefully. "Are you taking a date?" "I don't think nobody can stop him if he wants to," Jackson winces again, looking none too /pleased/ about this thought. "But we kinda convinced him to drop everyone he didn't /need/ -- even so, he ain't Hive till he gets rid of /everyone/." He shifts, a little uncomfortably, but then a quick-bright smile flits across his face, then. "Oh! Oh, yeah, I'm goin', s'gonna be weird I think I'm just gonna embarrass myself, it ain't hardly my kinda society. D'you dance, you should save me a --" He shrugs a shoulder. His cheeks flush /deep/ at Doug's last question, but it doesn't dim the warmth of his smile -- it warms it /more/, even, soft-happy even as his gaze dips shyly. "Yeah," he says, quiet, "Micah's my plus-one." "I thought Hive was being quiet, lately," Doug says, the corners of his mouth tugging down briefly. "I guess I'm free and clear, unless he decides he wants me back." Which doesn't sound like too pleasing a prospect, but he flashes a grin at Jackson. "All you have to remember is that everyone there is a big, fat, fake, and they all love to talk about themselves. Just keep that in mind, and you should be aces." His grin falters at the revelation of Jax's date, but doesn't fade completely. "Of course he is," he murmurs, shifting his weight as he observes Jax's body language. "I should have realized." There's a moment of uncomfortable silence, and then Doug is leaning down to his backpack. "Oh, hey. You need that map, don't you?" "I hope he don't," Jackson says, frowning, "he shouldn't be taking nobody without their consent." Though really he /had/ that from Doug so maybe irrelevant! Still, Jax is frowning. His fingers drum against his knee. He blushes again at Doug's answer, fingers plucking restlessly at his fishnet tights. "I don't -- I mean it ain't of /course/, I was /going/ to take Hive but the whole deportation thing -- but then Norman Osborn /called/ me him/self/ to ask if I was goin' an' he put me kinda on the /spot/ about bringing someone and I had to -- an' he was right /there/ and -- but it ain't like he and I -- I don't know if -- we ain't --" A deeper blush, a hasty, "sorry, I shouldn't -- /sorry/." And Jax is getting to his feet, flustered as he reaches for his bag. "No, I think I'll -- I kinda like wandering, I'll -- thanks, I -- sorry." "Jackson," Doug says, in a weary sort of voice. "Hive showed me the relevant information, regarding you and Micah." He straightens, then, and picks up the ice pack, tossing it on the table. "In glorious 3-D surround sound. So, please don't apologize for being human, and liking someone." He pushes to his feet. "He doesn't want /me/. He wants /you/. Someone with life experience." This is almost bitter as he says it, his brow furrowed. "And if I ever get the image of you two fucking in the shower out of my head, I'll be okay with it. Really." He shrugs more casually than his flaming ears would indicate, and bends to claim his backpack sliding it onto his shoulder with a small wince. "Until then, it's just going to be awkward, and we're going to have to deal with it." He exhales, and shrugs. "I'm sorry if I make you uncomfortable about it," he says. "It's just...disappointing in a way I wasn't expecting." Now Jax's flush is /brilliant/ red, and the colour is -- starting to creep out of his /skin/ and taint the air around him crimson. "Hive showed /what/, we -- but we -- wait the shower, we ain't -- I mean we were in the -- I /mean/ oh my /gosh/ that is not -- besides I just meant, that it was -- /sex/, we're not like a -- I don't know what we are but we ain't -- an' he don't /want/ me cuz my /life's/ been a mess, he -- I mean we don't -- I mean that ain't, ohgosh." The colour is seeping, spreading, a red aura around him that is drawing a lot of stares. Some comments. Some glares. A few people are leaving nervously. A few are tensing. "No I don't I mean /I/ ain't uncomfortable I just don't want to make you /sad/ but okay, oh gosh, watching us have /sex/, /that's/ kind of uncomfortable yeah ohgoshohgoshohgosh." He's scrubbing furiously at his cheek with one hand as the red light deepens and shifts around him. A can of soda -- opened -- flies over from somewhere nearby; rather unaware until the moment it hits him, Jax just cringes, both at the hard thunk of impact and at the sticky coke that has dribbled down his back and left a sticky trail along the floor. "Ohgoshohgosh," his shoulders have tensed up, now, "M'sorry I -- you shouldn't have seen -- that ain't -- oh /gosh/." "Wait, what? You didn't -- " Doug's eyes widen at the sudden flurry of nervous rushing from Jax, and he steps forward instinctively, reaching out to steady him. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says, his voice dropping into a soothing tone. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you -- THE FUCK?" He spins when the can of soda hits Jax and he GLARES at the crowd that's starting to gather. "Motherfuckers," he spits at them, and pulls Jax under an arm. "Real nice," he growls, and his arm around Jax's shoulder tightens protectively. "C'mon," he says, with another glare at the crowd as he begins steering Jackson towards the exit, ignoring the wadded up bag of chips that smacks him in the head. "Let's get out of here." He smiles encouragingly, and tightens his protective embrace briefly. "We can hash this out on the way." Jackson is resistent to being steered -- under Doug's arm he /tenses/ hard, eye widening for a moment before he shakes his head sharply. He wriggles out from under the other man's arm, hitching his bag up on his shoulder as he swallows. "No, you, I -- no, I -- I'm sorry, I gotta --" There's a definite /shake/ in his voice, a /crack/ that hitches more as he looks at /Doug/ than as the hostility around the room washes over him. "M'/sorry/Ican'tIgotta --" he mumbles, but then just /pulls/ away sharply, his hand lifting to scrub at his eye as he /darts/ for the nearest exit, taking his fierce cloud of red with him and not looking back.
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