ArchivedLogs:Penance

Penance
Dramatis Personae Murphy, Micah, Jackson	7 March 2014 News from Murphy and plans for Jax.
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. Whump, whump, whump -- Murphy's heavy footsteps foretell his arrival like thunder foretells the arrival of a rainstorm. It's soon followed by a steady, harsh series of raps -- thwump! thwump! thwump! -- against the apartment door. Behind that door lurks Murphy Law, a man who looks like he should be followed by a perpetual raincloud -- his eyebrows are grinding together in a scowl so deep it looks like it was carved on his face. He's gotten a buzz cut recently, with three-day old stubble still clinging to his face -- clad in his dark black wool coat, sharp white collared shirt, and black tie. Always professionally dressed, though he's also got on a pair of steel-tipped work-boots -- just in case he needs to do some boot-stomping. Micah has been home not incredibly long this evening. His hair is still damp and a little spiky from air-drying after his post-work shower and change into more casual clothing. A stegosaurus curses a T-rex's 'sudden but inevitable betrayal' on his chocolate brown T-shirt worn over faded, patched bluejeans and a pair of green socks covered in little red foxes. He is just settling down with a soup mug full of reheated leftover lentil and barley soup when the thumping at the door comes, causing him to startle enough to shake the spoon noisily against the ceramic. Leaning forward, he deposits the mug on a coaster before moving to the door. Given the unusually bangy nature of the knocking, he peers through the peephole before pulling the door open. "Evenin', Murphy," he greets with mild confusion lacing his words, stepping back from the doorway enough for the other man to enter. Jackson has -- actually been home quite a /lot/, today. With XS on break and no college class on Fridays and the Clinic informed that he cannot work Friday shifts until after Easter, he's had a stint down at Inkline while Spencer was at school and has otherwise been home with plenty of time to catch up on schoolwork. Nominally plenty of time to catch up on schoolwork, at least. In practice for the past hour or so he has mostly been sort of vacantly /staring/ at his drawing pad rather than actually drawing anything. Tucked into one of the enormous beanbags by the window, he's dressed comfortably in huge wiiiiide-wide-wide leg JNCO jeans, brightly coloured mismatched socks, a tight sleeveless purple top over black fishnet three-quarter-sleeve shirt. Orange eyepatch with a red apple embroidered into its center. His fingers are smudged dark with charcoal dust but his gaze is a little exhausted-vacant. He looks up only slowly in puzzlement at the banging at the door, brows pulling together deeply. "-- Murphy? Oh. Gosh." He sounds startled. "You're okay?" Murphy just /glares/. First at Micah; then, a bit more slowly, at Jackson. Rather than speak -- or accept Micah's silent offer of entry -- he seems content to just go on glaring for a full five or six seconds. Until: "So. You ain't dead yet." Then, as if in contrition, he reaches up a hand to mop his face from top to bottom -- squishing his nose and scraping over his rough cheeks and chin. "Uhhnhg. Sorry. Whatever. Rough couple of days -- rough week. No, rough year. Rough /decade/," he finally decides, determining this to be enough. He steps inside, pausing to scrape his boots over whatever passes for a welcome mat here -- then gives a moment's thought to just jettisoning his boots entirely. He's still staring down at them thoughtfully when he goes on: "Heard the lizardy kid is missing. Also been having -- dreams. Bad ones. Think something's wrong with my head." Micah watches quietly as Murphy glares, his own curious look and lofted brows too inquisitive to qualify as glaring themselves. When the man finally steps inside, he moves to close the door and fix the locks. "Would y'care for a drink or...?" He gestures at the kitchen to indicate consumable things in general. His look moves then to bounce between Murphy and Jax. "Ah, did Jim get you t'join in the hunt for Anole, then? An'...I'm takin' it that these aren't your typical nightmares?" The neat shoe rack by the door (and gleaming floors underfoot) might help reinforce that moment of thought -- at the least it is clear enough that no-shoes is the default in this apartment. Jax doesn't return the glaring either; his look back at Murphy is curious and more than a little concerned. He exhales a quick breath, too tired to really properly be a laugh. "-- Oh. Oh, it has been a /year/, hasn't it? D'you want --" But Micah's already offering refreshment so he subsides back into quiet, wriggling up a little straighter at the mention of Anole. "Oh. Oh, yeah. Poor kid gone missin' in the height'a the zombie -- everything." His brows wrinkle at the mention of bad dreams. "-- Somethin' wrong? Like what? There's been all kindsa weird dream -- uhm, but s'all been /good/ ones for everyone else." After a moment of thought, Murphy begins scooting out of his boots -- though by the way he hovers by that door, it doesn't look like he intends to stay for long. The boots are deposited with a slow rolling kick of his feet, thudding loudly besides the neatly organized shoe rack. Murphy wears dirty ol' wool socks, of course. "--didn't recruit me, not yet. Just heard. Kid's parents hired me, a ways back -- to keep an eye out for him. That, and... knew the woman who used to look after him. Was a friend." His mouth twitches. "I'll help. If I can." At the mention of those dreams, Murphy's eyes flick back to Jax -- and a familiar old scowl settles over his face. "Ain't been good dreams. Been someone else's dreams. Like somebody's trying to..." He makes a gesture at his own face, fingers clawing at his brain, as if trying to snatch it away. He pauses, glancing between Micah and Jackson, his hand lowering -- the scowl deepening. "...alright, look. I need help. But what I'm about to tell you -- it can't leave this fuckin' apartment, you understand?" When Murphy doesn't answer about refreshments, Micah drifts back into the living room, waving for the other man to follow. Even settling back into his seat on the couch as if in demonstration for the other man to have a seat, as well. "Small world, like they say." Hazel eyes widen again at the mention of the woman caring for Anole. "Nox?" he asks without meaning to, looking down at his hands directly afterward. The request for secrecy earns a tensing of his shoulders and a small nod. He reaches for his soup to spoon some of it into his mouth. This sounds like it /could/ be a long story and he hasn't eaten since lunch, after all. "Was a lotta people's friend." Jax sounds a little distant, here, eyes drifting down to his sketchpad. His fingers shift restlessly, starting to twirl his charcoal pencil in a rapid blur to dance between one and the next. He glances back up at the mention of needing help and secrecy, but not to Murphy -- to the ceiling above them, teeth scraping over his lower lip. "Hive's like to be home," he tells Murphy plainly. "You should know that 'fore you say nothin' more. An' even if he ain't s'hard not to /think/ around him so I can't promise won't get to him. But he's done kept many more secrets'n your'n afore." "Nox," Murphy agrees with Micah, his own gaze -- briefly distant, before returning to the here-and-now -- to settle on Jax. A soft hsh, an exhalation, at the mention of Hive, and the upward glance -- Murphy's eyes never drift from Jax's own. "He already knows what I'm about to tell you," Murphy replies, only to add: "At least, he did. Things got jumbled up during the whole... zombie thing. Dunno how much he remembers, now." Murphy leans back, against the wall; his weight settles to the doorframe. "Hua Yong. You recognize the name?" The question is fired at both of them. Micah just nods again at Jax's addition, slowly eating his soup. “Thanks, Jax. I somehow never remember t'warn people about--” his hand waves in a vaguely upstairs direction to complete the statement. Ceiling Telepath is listening to your secrets, apparently. “No,” he answers simply, at first. “But Hua. Know that surname.” He doesn't elucidate unless asked. Jax's lips press thin at the talk of Hive and what he remembers of zombies. "-- Think he remembers more'n is healthy," he mutters under his breath, a faint dark wisp of shadow curling around his arm where the pencil still twirls. He sinks back further into the beanbag, a tired wilt of posture as he glances back to Murphy. His head shakes. "-- Should I?" "Involved in organized crime. Using his powers to control his family. Had to stop him. Figured out a scheme, with Hive's help. Things went south, though -- when we got him, the zombies--" Murphy's hand is reaching into his coat, for his lighter. Helps him think. But as his fingers touch the edge of that metal, he pauses; his eyes grow distant -- almost glassy. And then, suddenly... He shakes his head, as if shrugging something off. "...nevermind. Not important." Murphy's eyes rise back up to Jackson. There is something different, in them, now -- something sharper. His expression is less grim, less /angry/ -- more controlled. Stern. Calm, even. "Do you know where Hua Tsai-Hong is?" The shadows curling around Jax's arm earn a firm press of Micah's lips and a furrowing of his brow. His spoon sits idle in his soup mug as he watches Murphy's hand. "Why d'you want t'know?" he asks evenly. "Wait, what was Hive doin' with organized -- crime an' zombies an' --" Jax's brow furrows deeply, and he tips a puzzled look to Murphy. The name draws a blank look from him, though. "-- Where who is?" "Ah," Murphy replies, and now he smiles -- thinly. It's not an expression he wears well; indeed, it looks almost foreign on his usually-scowling features. "I think you might know--" A pause, a ripple -- as if a flicker of discomfort was coursing through his body-- "--him. By 'Tag'. I need to update him on the situation regarding... his father." Micah sighs heavily, eyes locked down on his half-mug of soup for some time. He finally lifts his gaze to regard Murphy's expression. “How 'bout y'leave a business card an' I'll pass it on to 'im? He can decide whether or not he wants t'do anythin' with it for himself.” The pause and uncomfortable ripple just earn another confused look from Jax. His brow furrows once more, though Tag's name clears this up -- /slightly/. His mouth opens into a small O of recognition /here/, at least. "Yeahno he kinda went to some length /not/ t'-- s'probably best if he makes that decision for his own -- wait but -- what's Tag's dad gotta do with your nightmares though?" Murphy's expression darkens at Micah's words; there is a coldness in that stare -- a /harshness/ -- that looks out of place even on Murphy's harsh face. But then... a smile. Slow, somewhat forced, but there nevertheless. And, ever-so-graciously: "Of course." Murphy's card is produced after a brief moment of searching, drawn from his front pocket -- and placed upon a nearby table. At Jackson's query, Murphy shakes his head: "Nightmares from the encounter. Nothing to concern yourself with; I'll deal with it on my own time. You have a full plate already." And then he's dropping down to retrieve his boots, strapping them on methodically. "See to it that he receives the card; it's very important that he knows what is going on with his father." There's a faint shiver to Micah's skin, starting in that uncomfortable spot at the back of the neck. He nods once. “He'll get it. If y'don't hear from 'im, that'll mean it was his choice not t'contact you.” The talk of nightmares and encounters brings another look of confusion to Micah's face, but he doesn't inquire into it further. Slowly, he returns the soup mug to its coaster once more and stands once Murphy starts preparing to leave. "Wait." When Murphy drops down to retrieve his boots he drops out out Jax's view from his perch in the beanbag chair; Jax pushes up to his feet, face paling a little at standing so abruptly. "You said you needed help, I mean, it sounded kinda serious. My plate's my own concern." His teeth click against a lip ring, eye darting up towards the ceiling before he adds slowly: "-- an' if somethin's up an' there's terrible an' Hive was involved too just. S'any of this gonna come back to /him/?" "--mmn." The laces are tightened on Murphy's boots; the man's eyes rise up to settle on Jax as he straightens -- and again, regard him with that quick, thin smile: "I apologize for the confusion -- it has been an unsettling month for me. The nightmares... they will settle, in time. I am certain. As for..." Murphy's eyes drift up to the ceiling, just as he finishes with his boots -- rising to stand up straight. "--no. This will not come back to him. Though I would not bring it up with him. It was... a traumatic experience. I doubt he'd want to return to it. The best way to help me right now is to get in contact with Hua Tsai--with Tag. The sooner the better." Murphy actually seems quite interested in leaving; as if he has a pressing appointment elsewhere; his eyes flick back up to the ceiling again, though only once -- a faint hint of agitation. Already on his feet, Micah moves to the door. He doesn't throw the locks or open it, however, waiting for the answers to Jax's questions quietly. “He'll get it. An' then it's his t'do with what he will,” he assures again. His gaze flicks between the two men once more. Jackson looks like he might have more questions -- there's certainly some lingering in the /look/ he gives Murphy. But he presses his lips together, and nods, curling his fingers tight around his pencil. "Okay." His voice is soft, though it's a little stronger when he adds: "-- you take care'a yourself, Murphy. An' if -- if there /is/ anything we can help with." He turns a hand upwards. "You know where t'find me." His hand drops to his side, and he sinks heavily back down into his beanbag. Murphy smiles to Micah, giving the man room to begin opening the locks -- at Jackson's words, the smile twitches. "Yes," Murphy replies, "I most certainly do." And then, without another word, Murphy Law exits the apartment. And reaches, still smiling, for his phone. When Jax settles back into the beanbag, Micah does move to open the locks. And then the door. “Have a good night,” he offers a little flatly as Murphy makes his way out. Then the door closes again, the locks click one after another. And he hurries over to Jax. “Honey, are you okay?” His brow creases deeply as he kneels beside the beanbag. “Can I get you somethin' t'drink or...anythin'?” Jax watches Murphy go with a small frown on his face. He nestles back into the beanbag, dragging his sketchpad back into his lap but then just closing his eye, starting to spin his pencil slowly between his fingers once more. "-- Huh?" He opens his eye again, giving Micah a confused look at first. "Oh. Oh, no, I --" He shakes his head. "-- think some part'a me'd just started assumin' anyone 'round here I ain't seed in too many months is dead. Guess that's dumb if anyone coulda survived an apocalypse s'Murphy. Micah moves in closer, running a hand along one of Jax's arms. “Y'just don't...seem well. Right now. You're all...pale an' shaky. When's the last time you ate or drank anything?” He chews at his lower lip a moment before continuing. “I worry about you. 'Specially when y'don't take care of yourself.” "I had -- a juice not long 'fore Murphy showed up," Jackson answers Micah, a little uncertainly. Beneath Micah's hand his arm is cool, at least by comparison to its usual fierce heat, a more normal body temperature to it today. His eye closes, head dropping in to rest against Micah's chest. "You worry too much. S'this Southern-Jewish thing rearin' s'head I think." In his hand the pencil still spins, working its way nimbly back and forth between his fingers. "Are the boys --" He stops, catches himself here with an uncertain frown. "-- the pups. The twins gonna be back --" But then he just lets this question drop off into nothing. "Think I might turn in early t'night." “What about food? You're cold.” Micah gives in and just climbs into the beanbag, pressing himself up against Jax's side as if they were through-hikers huddling for warmth. “Maybe. But folks keep givin' me plenty'n more t'worry about.” He nuzzles into the side of Jax's neck. “Extra sleep's good. Maybe...somethin' t'eat an' some extra sun lamps first?” A deflating sort of sigh escapes his lips. “Dunno what the twins are doin'. Spence's stayin' the night with a friend from school.” "M'okay," Jackson assures Micah drowsily, nestling close to the older man with a small shiver. He tips his head back, a soft purr rumbling in his throat at the nuzzling. "Fridays are jus' gonna be kinda sleepy till Lent's through. I told Jane I couldn't work them though so fasting ain't so bad." His leg hooks over Micah's as he burrows in closer. "Spence I knowed. The pups just --" He exhales heavily, turning his face in against Micah's shoulder. "... are probably okay," he tells himself. "Think /I/ might be more shook up than B is." “You're gonna not eat /every/ Friday 'til Easter? I thought folks just didn't eat meat? Ain't your fault y'already do that. Jax, that's not /sustainable/ for you.” Micah's arms circle around Jax, pulling him in tight. “I hate seein' y'do this t'yourself. What good comes of it?” While he does respond to the other subject, he isn't giving in to a subject /change/. “I get the feelin' a big part of B is...happier. Since this happened. Shoulda seen 'im when he first went an' changed into some of your clothes. He was almost glowin'. Hadn't seen that in awhile.” "Most folks jus' don't -- I mean but I don't /never/ eat meat that ain't hardly a -- thing," Jackson protests a little uncomfortably, still nuzzling his face in against Micah's shoulder. His own shoulders tremble, faintly, in Micah's grip when he is pulled tighter. His pencil-spinning stops, pencil clattering down against his sketchpad, and he wraps an arm back around Micah instead. "-- s'what I'm kinda worr -- no, maybe worried's wrong. I jus'. If this is permanent that's one whole adjustment t'hafta make for 'im. But if it /ain't/ -- he's done spent so long hating his own body. Too male, too /blue/, too /sharky/ -- an' havin' a taste'a jus' livin' /normal/ in the world --" He exhales heavily. "Feel like s'gonna leave him kinda shook-up /either/ way." "Jackson. This is beyond...a show of faith or whatever. You're givin' up plenty without makin' new things up for yourself that're /terrible/ for you. It ain't healthy. An' it ain't just... It's /punishment/ is what it is. What're you punishin' yourself for?" One hand moves up to pet through Jax's hair. "I love you, an' I don't wanna watch you /suffer/ for...what? You ain't had enough of sufferin' in your life?" Again, Micah doesn't leave this subject behind to address the other. Just...juggles it. "He's got some serious body image issues an'...yeah, this is gonna affect 'im some kinda way. There's...a part of me that wants this t'be permanent if that's what'll make 'im happy. 'Cause he's got all those things now. Less male, less blue, less sharky. I'd love...for 'im t'accept who he is however he is, but... Gosh is it nice for your outside t'match what's in your mind, y'know?" "Yeah. I jus' -- want 'im -- happy. However this turns out -- /either/ way I kinda hope it at least gets him thinkin' about. S'gender question again cuz he's been /miserable/ jus' pretendin' everything's fine." Jackson shivers again, turning his head up to nuzzle against Micah's hand. A very faint smile tugs at his lips, an equally faint wisp of shadow twining down along his arm. "Ain't punishment, it's /penance/. That's," he says with a wry hint of self-deprecation, "punishment, but with God mixed in." The smile fades, his head tilting back down to press his cheek against Micah's chest. "An' I've had. A lot, this year. To -- repent for." "Hopefully...strangely enough it'll be a good thing for 'im in the long run," Micah agrees with a little nod about 'Bastian. It rapidly becomes a shake of his head at the rest. "No, I'm gonna stand by what /I/ called it. 'Cause it's what you're doin'. You go into alla this with nothin' but good intentions. An' you /help/ so many people, at detriment t'yourself. An' you are such a /good/ person, no matter...how hard it is. How's /that/ somethin' that needs sufferin'? When y'had more'n your fair share already?" Jackson exhales a sharp laugh, fingers curling hard into Micah's shirt. "Oh, hell is chock-/full/'a good /intentions/, I don't doubt. Micah, my past few years is /littered/ with corpses. The number'a times I have ordered my own /friends/ -- you know I took the /pups/ on a raid once. Dusk an' Ian an' Joshua's lab. Started 'em in on terrorism at the ripe age'a thirteen. Got Shane killed at it. An' now I'm gonna do the /same/ with Hive, I don't know what good intentions buy me when my --" He just shakes his head, gripping Micah's shirt harder. "For sure I /mean well/. But what I have to show for it don't really scream good person." "Jax, you aren't askin' /nothin'/ of Hive. Y'asked 'im /not/ to. He's demandin' it. An' he's a grown man; he knows what he's doin' an' at least what he's doin' might /help/. You need t'watch the videos of all those people y'freed again if y'think y'got nothin' good t'show for what y'do." Micah's teeth dig into his lower lip. "I still want you t'go t'the Clinic psychologist. Before the next raids happen. An' who knows? Maybe it'll be a good example for others as need it. Like B. 'Cause goodness knows he needs more help than /I/ can give 'im." His voice goes tight with the admission. "/You/ need more help than I can give you, too." A bitter almost-laugh comes suddenly. "How about /that/ for penance, instead? Somethin' that's good for you 'stead of somethin' that hurts you. You go to the /psychologist/ once a week 'stead of not eatin'. It'll be hard an' uncomfortable enough t'count, won't it?" His arms squeeze tighter again. "An' give up all the things y'like...sex an' caffeine an'...whatever. I won't argue. Just don't do things t'/hurt/ yourself." "... I ain't even really seen hardly none'a those videos." It's an idle passing thought, at their mention. "Jus' heard /about/ them when I was in jail. Mostly that they're kinda full'a -- horror." Jackson shivers against Micah, but then pulls just slightly back to roll back against the beanbag. His head slumps back against it, eye fixing up on the ceiling. There's a growing unsteadiness to his breathing, a faint shiver to the light around them. His eye stays very firmly locked on the ceiling. "I jus' been carryin' all this death so long I --" He quiets, breath hitching quietly and one hand resting against his chest. "Therapy on Fridays." He moves his hand from his chest, wiping the back of his knuckles against his cheek and then returning his hand to clench down against his shirt. "... that do sound pretty much like a punishment," he finally agrees. "Y'should watch 'em. Yeah, they're fulla all the terrible that happened in those labs. But they're also fulla all the lives that you pulled /outta/ those labs. Of people who were so thankful for you savin' 'em that they were willin' t'make those stories public for /you/ when y'were in prison. They're proof /positive/ that you're doin' somethin' right, honey." Micah lets Jax pull away if that's what he wants, but continues holding on to one hand. "Okay? Givin' up whatever it is y'wanna give up that doesn't /hurt/ you, plus therapy on Fridays? T'help?" He lifts Jax's hand up to press against his own forehead, bowed over the other man. "An' can I please get y'somethin' t'eat?" Jax's fingers curl tighter around Micah's hand. "Okay. Okay. Therapy on Fridays. I'm -- I'm sorry that I -- m'sorry, I --" He exhales shakily, squeezing Micah's hand tighter. His eye squeezes shut. "I love you." This is a soft tired whisper. "Maybe -- somethin' small." He's already nestling back in at Micah's side, stifling a yawn. "Kinda jus' want t'sleep." “Shh, y'got nothin' t'apologise t'me for.” Micah brings Jax's hand to his lips, kissing the inside of his wrist. “I love you. An' I'll get you a /little/ bowl of soup. With a /little/ glass of juice.” He kisses Jax's wrist again before releasing his hand. “Then y'can go an' sleep the sleep of the just...or however that goes.” Burrowing down int the beanbag, Jackson makes a tired sound of protest when Micah releases his hand. His fingers grasp in for a moment at nothing,then drop to the beanbag. "Unease?" he suggests, brows lifting in idle amusement. "Full'a nightmares? I don't know many just people in /this/ world that sleep easy." He stifles yawn, pressing the backs of his knuckles to his lips. "Thank you, honey-honey." This is more sleepy-slurred as he curls himself up in the enormous chair. “Well, then, you'll fit right in. An' eat your soup before y'go t'bed,” Micah retorts warmly from the kitchen. “You're welcome, love. More than. Always.”