ArchivedLogs:So, About That Weather...

So, About That Weather...
Dramatis Personae Iolaus, Jackson, Melinda	TwelveTwelveTwelve Awkward Conversation
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. It is past the lunch rush, and as such the cafe here is only /half/ crowded; there are a number of people clustered at its tables, but a number free, as well. The couches have space, though one armchair is occupied -- a young man with vivid yellow-orange-blue bird-of-paradise hair is tucked into its huge comfortable embrace. Jackson has a large cup of coffee and a half-finished bowl of soup on the table beside him, though for the moment both are ignored in favour of the sketchpad in his lap. His glittery blue nails are tapping against its page his eyes (shaded, again, by mirrored sunglasses) focused downward on the incomplete sketch there. Some kind of fantastical creature, leathery wings and a scorpion tale, a humanoid face surrounded by a mane and a lion's strong body. His pencil twirls absently between the fingers of his left hand. Sitting in the back of the room, dressed in a white dress shirt and a dark pair of slacks, sits Iolaus. Across from him is another man, similarly garbed in business casual, whose attention keeps shifting suspiciously around the room. Iolaus, on the other hand, seems entirely unaffected. "Of course," he says, with a smile at his companion. "I'm quite happy to. You should be receiving the paperwork in the mail in the next few weeks to your office, and I'll have the results to you in a week or so. It's no trouble at all." he says. His companion murmurs something quietly to him, and Iolaus laughs. "No, no, nonsense. It's quite alright. Please feel free to call me if there are any concerns, and I can have everything all straightened out. Give my best regards to the Commissioner." Another, wan smile. The other man looks uncomfortable, but quickly stands up and slips out of the building, with another shifting glance around him. The doctor stands as well, but he heads towards the counter. "May I have a croissant, please?" he asks, taking out his wallet. Melinda holds within her hands a fresh tray of food, balanced easily (and with practice) in her left hand. Her right hand holds a wool jacket, folded in half and dangling awkwardly against all of the book laden endcaps she passes. She does not manage to knock anything over though. Her oversized mustard sweater hangs to the top of her thighs where gray faded denim clings to her legs below. She wanders around the store briefly, considering a place to sit when she spies the shock of colorful hair. She pauses and tilts her head, glancing quickly at (but not seeing) what is on the page he holds so carefully. She smiles a little and draws closer, standing a few feet away from his armchair before abruptly announcing, "Jax. Fancy seeing you again so soon." She glances around the vicinity for a place, but opts to stand for a few more moments. Jackson's pencil stops twirling, his head tipping upwards; a moment later, a bright smile blossoms across his face. "Oh, Mel! Hey. Thanks for the help last night." His hand moves from the page, reaching instead for his coffee. He gestures with the cup towards an empty seat on the couch nearby. "I'm usually up way longer washing all that on my --" He trails off with a slightly puzzled frown, gaze slanting across the room towards the pair of men. Puzzled turns to wary, his brow deepening, and his head turns to track Iolaus in his path towards the counter. "Man, speaking of coincidences --" His chin tips towards Iolaus in indication. Iolaus, at least, does not the two people he is, apparently, unintentionally stalking. He has, instead, struck up a conversation with the woman behind the counter, chatting easily about something banal and small-talk-like. The weather, perhaps, or sports; the subject hardly matters when it is, and both parties understand that it is, mere polite trivialities. When his croissant has been delivered to him a few moments later, he turns to head back towards his table, but is stopped by the pairs of eyes looking at him. "Oh, hello." he says, with a slight wave of one hand and a smile. He takes a few steps closer. "How are you both doing?" "The earlier that any of us can finish cleaning, the better. I was glad to help." Melinda slides into the gestured seat and rests her tray on her lap. Her coat is stuffed behind her back and hips and she leans back against it. "I like the way working with someone makes the time fly, because it /crawls/ when I am alone." She draws in a deep breath, her fingers dancing across the top of her grilled cheese sandwich as she looks where Jax indicates next. Her shoulders slump as her expression goes blank. "Do you think he noticed? Maybe if we're really quiet..." Of course, it is not the case. Mel barely has time to drop her voice before Iolaus enters earshot. She takes a breath before replying, "Oh, um, okay. Been unseasonably warm, eh?" "No kidding, right? I bartend, and at the club we, uh, draw straws to see who's gotta stay after last call when nobody's drinking anything but water and it's slow and dead. The hours before that can fly and then that last hour alone just drags /forever/." Jackson has dropped his voice low, turning his gaze away, now, as Iolaus waits for his food, but he looks back when the man turns away from the counter. "Just close your eyes," he advises Melinda in an amused undertone, "if you can't see him, he can't -- Hi!" This is louder, chipper, with a easy-bright smileto Iolaus. "Oh, you know. Work. Uh. How're you?" "Work. Good, though. Had lunch with a colleague of mine who I haven't seen for some time." Iolaus says, with a little shrug. "His son is going into the Army medical school, and he wanted to talk to me about it. A couple friends of mine at the hospital went through the program there, so I know a bit about it." He gives a little half-shrug, giving Melinda a slightly bemused look. "Yes, I suppose it has been a little bit on the warm side. I guess I kind of don't notice all that much, with all the time I spend in the subway." "I don't think people work that way," Melinda mentioned in an ultra hushed tone. She smiles a little more when Jackson smiles, grabbing her sandwich to take a big bite. She dips the half in her hand in the tomato soup next. "You spend time in the subway? Do you do repairs?" She glances over at Jax and then down to her soup. "I'd offer to help with that last hour, Jax, but I'm not usually up then." "Warm, but pretty grey. Rainy," Jackson says, with a slight wrinkle of his nose. "I like the sun. I am glad for the not-cold, though." He tips his head down, flipping the page of his sketchbook to absently start a new picture. His lips curl up into a grin. "Most people aren't usually up then," he admits, laughing. "Some nights I've been there till dawn. Your colleague didn't seem none too happy," he remarks offhand, turning his head briefly towards the door where the other man had left. Iolaus chuckles and shrugs. "Well, it is the Army. He's upset, I think, that his son chose to go into the Army when he also got into Bil's alma mater. I guess the other man wants the excitement. After med school, I mean. God knows med school isn't exciting." he says, shaking his head. "More like being slowly suffocated by piles of work." He flashes Melinda a smile. "No, I'm a doctor, actually. I work at Mount Sinai. I'm just always in the subway, going here or there around town, these days. Trying to get funding to start my own clinic." "I see." Melinda replies, looking Iolaus over. "Is it going well?" She takes a bite of soup laden sandwich and looks to Jax, trying to sneak a peek at his sketchbook, but not trying too hard. "I bet you get to see some lovely sunrises then. I think staying up until dawn would be lovely, but I have no fortitude for that." "It's not about fortitude," Jackson says cheerfully, "it's about caffeine. You're right about the sunrises, though. You could always wake up early. Look at them the /normal/ way 'round." Beneath his pencil, graphite lines are slowly resolving themselves into a sketch -- Iolaus's face, rendered in neat lines in a skilled hand. "Your own clinic?" He asks this with polite interest and a slight lift of eyebrows, briefly tipping his gaze up to Iolaus. "That sounds like a lot of work. What sort of clinic?" "A clinic to take care of an underserved population, in the same way that clinics have opened to take care of the LGBT community." Iolaus says, smile spreading, almost affectionately, as passion works its way into his voice. "To take care of the special needs of a community that has been having a disservice done to it by the medical establishment." He pauses, tilting his head to one side as he examines first Jackson, then Melinda. He purses his lips for a moment, then continues. "Your community, I believe," he says to Jackson. "Perhaps. I'm dreadful in the morning though. It's only the energy of the morning rush that gets me through the first few hours on the clock." Melinda leans back against he coat and continues nibbling on her sandwich. Teeth fail to bite deep enough into the morsel to cut all of the cheese and dairy strings hang between her mouth and the bread she pulls away, her brows crawling her forehead as she blinks at Iolaus' scrutiny. When he makes his announcement, her gaze shifts to Jackson as well, fingers reaching up to catch the casein strings and push them inside her mouth. She looks back to Iolaus. "My community? You have a clinic for theater majors? I didn't know we were pathetic enough of a group to garner so much support. It's good to know though." "At least you have a steady supply of caffeine to carry you through." Jax's smile is warm and amused, though it fades as he looks back down to his picture, industriously filling out Iolaus's portrait. Faintly, his brow creases. "-- My community?" For a moment he lets that hang in silence, his expression blank beneath the sunglasses. "Theatre majors are often broke," he comments, mildly, though it doesn't manage carry as much of his previous amusement. Another long stretch of beat before he asks, quiet and direct: "Why mutants?" "I will admit, it was not the path I expected that I would take, if you had asked me back in graduate school." Iolaus says, glancing down at Jackson's sketching for a moment before he looks back at the other man. "Of course, it was big news when they discovered the X-gene - especially in my genetics program - but..." he shrugs, smile slipping slowly, softly, off of his face. "When I started treating patients, though, I noticed a pattern. Patients getting bad treatment, or no treatment at all, because they are mutants - when they have cases that are more complicated, that requires more care. Instead..." he shakes his head. "No. My community went through that, back in the 80s, and the medical community looked the other way. I won't stand by while it happens again." Melinda looks sheepish and bows her head, focusing on the food instead of the conversation. She casts concerned glances in Jax's direction, but dry, blank stares end up being leveled on Iolaus. Jax's fingers are gripping his pencil tighter, his strokes pressing just a little harder, just a little darker, against the page. "Your community?" is all he prompts, soft and even. Even if his four-fingered hand has curled up into a loose fist, thumb resting against the scar of missing-pinky-finger stub. If Iolaus is affected by Melinda's looks, he does not show it. His eyes are fixed on the artist's, head tilting to one side. "The gay community. HIV showed, plainly, just what the medical community thought of me and mine. I won't be a part of that kind of discrimination, even passively. Especially when there are those in the medical community doing /active/ harm to mutants, doing nothing is even more morally repugnant." "Jax, if you're uncomfortable with this discussion, I can see if I can get Mr. Doctor to leave you alone." Melinda starts to push up her sleeves, her lips pursing as her eyes narrow. She glances from Iolaus to Jackson. "You know, if he's pushing too much. He seems to lack sensitivity." Jackson draws in a deep breath, and flashes a small, crooked smile to Melinda. "It's --" He hesitates, frowning downwards, his fingers curling tight and his pencil ceasing its movement. "Not. Entirely. Comfortable," he admits, slowly, "but I think it's important. Sorry, though. It probably weren't what you wanted with your lunch." There is another pause. He resumes his drawing, a little less hard-pressed this time in the lines he puts to page. "Doing active harm," he echoes this slow and pensive, and looks up at Iolaus. "What do you know about that?" "If you wish, I am happy to return another time." Iolaus says, glancing to Melinda, and then back to Jackson. "I have no desire to be causing you discomfort. Quite the opposite." he says, softly, tone apologetic. "I have treated... two patients who have, after some time, told me of it. The parts that are relevant to their medical care, at least. From what I have heard, the doctors involved should be brought to Nuremberg and executed for their crimes." he says, voice hardening. He rubs his nose with a knuckle. "They both were in the same..." he waves his hand, searching for a word. "Death camp. I don't know what else to call it. Experimented on, though I find little scientific about it to use that word. Tortured, more like." "Bah. Don't worry about my lunch. I've got a strong stomach. I just - if I can be of help to you right now, it's definitely worth my time." Melinda tears larger chunks of grilled cheese and dunks it with purpose now, dead set on enjoying herself and staying out of the conversation for now - especially when it takes a turn for the worst. She stops eating. Jackson's fingers clenches harder this time, not an absent cataloguing of scars but a tight fist. "Who --" he starts, reflexively, then ducks his head with a slight colouring of his cheeks. "No, of course you couldn't tell me that. I just --" He exhales slowly, and reaches for his coffee cup, lifting it to take a long sip. His fingers push up beneath his glasses, briefly, rubbing at the hollows of his eyes before letting the glasses slip back into place. His head falls back against the armchair, a slow smile creeping across his face as he looks up at the ceiling. "-- So how 'bout that weather, mm?" "Quite right, I can't. But, if you wish, I could pass along /your/ contact information the next time that they see me. I don't know for sure when that will be, but..." Iolaus trails off, giving the other man a small smile. "I can't tell you who they are, but they can, if they want." He pauses, chuckling. "Warm, huh?" His smile breaks into a grin as he looks back at Melinda, reaching into the little paper bag and pulling out a piece of his croissant to stuff in his mouth, careful not to spill crumbs on the floor. "Don't laugh, asshole." Melinda mutters moodily, her fingers wrapping tightly around her tray, eyes locked on Iolaus. "Your mirth is misplaced." Deadpan tones turn husky in her throat. She looks away, frustrated. "Hey, I don't think --" Jackson wrinkles his nose, looking decidedly uncomfortable for a moment. He scrubs his knuckles against his cheek. "It's not a very comfortable subject," he says, slow, quiet. "I'm sure nobody means to be rude. It's just probably not the best. Um. Lunchtime --" His head shakes, brightly coloured hair flopping down over his glasses. "Sorry. I shouldn't have pushed the questions. Um. If you could pass along my info, that'd be great. I like to try and make sure everyone that we've --" His cheeks colour, and he flips back in his sketchbook a few pages, jotting down an email address in a neat spiked handwriting. 'Jax', is all he prints beneath it, tearing it out carefully to offer it to Iolaus. Iolaus gives Melinda a dubious look as he takes the piece of paper and pockets it. "No apologies needed. I don't suppose you actually took my card, did you?" he says, smile still hanging on his lips. He dips into his pocket and pulls out his business card once more. This time, however, he also removes a pen and jots down another number on the back. "In case you want to reach me and don't want to go through official channels," he says, extending the card to the other man. "People need to stop caring about me. Yeah, I'm here, okay, I get it, but seriously, trying to see if I'm comfortable or /uncomfortable/ -" Mel levels another glare at Iolaus, "isn't important. You guys needed to talk. It was important. Let's leave me out of it." She wrinkles her brow as she turns and sets her tray elsewhere. "Just here to help," she adds in a quiet mutter. Jackson rubs at the back of his neck, dipping his head in one quick nod. "Sorry, miss," he says with a wince. "I'm just kind of used to people freaking out over -- er. All of this." He reaches up to take Iolaus's card, blushing a little darker. "No, I didn't," he admits, looking over the card this time before slipping it into the pocket of his black corduroy jacket. "Are you human?" It's a blunt question, and he asks it to Iolaus direct and unapologetic. "Somehow, I figured." Iolaus winks, playfully. "You're actually... the first person I've told that I'm not pitching to get money out of, or trying to get to work at the clinic. Or, you know. My lawyers, who keep insisting that I must be out of my mind." he leans back, lips spreading into a smile. "Yeah, I am." "Well, it's freakout worthy - but this really isn't about me," Melinda adds quietly, rubbing at her nose as she turns back toward the group. Her face is a little flushed, but she's keeping herself under control for the most part. "You /are/ out of your mind," Jackson answers, amusement in his voice although his expression is quite serious. He takes Iolaus's answer with a quiet hum and thoughtful press of lips, and turns back to his drawing, slower and more distracted now. "A mutant clinic? You're gonna get bombed your first week. /If/ the city even /lets/ you open." Which he sounds skeptical of. "I mean, dude, they've shut down mutant /support groups/. Did you hear that, uh," he snaps his fingers once, glancing to Melinda. "I don't remember the name of that shelter down on Avenue C, folks have been saying their new management is talking about kicking /all/ the mutants out. And that's always been one of the safe ones." "Quite a bit. I've found someone to coordinate my security, and we're going to probably open in a space that I don't think anyone will be crazy enough to bomb. But that's my security head's problem, and I'm confident she can take care of things." Iolaus says, tilting his head to one side and chuckling. "You can see why I've been a little tight-lipped with the information. But if I can get the doors open and the licenses in place, I can make it awful hard for them to shut me down. I've just got to... get to that point." "Really? Damn. I can't believe it." Melinda's frustration levels out to a low growl as she leans forward and rests her elbows on her knees. "You guys can send people to Helping Hands, but we have a very strict policy of not mentioning anything on this topic to hopefully stay under the radar. As much as that is possible." She purses her lips and looks to Iolaus. "Put it on Staten Island. No one goes there." "Really really," Jackson says, with a displeased frown. "I guess there was someone complainin' -- I don't know why, really. Gonna be a lot of folks screwed over if it's true, though." The comment on Staten Island draws a smirk, and a quiet snort. "Probably nobody would even notice," he agrees. "Quite right. When the first donor writes me a check with nine figures on it, I'll buy a building, and have enough money for the private army I'll need to keep it defended." Iolaus says, bemusedly, grinning at Melinda and Jax. "The only problem is," he mock-whispers to Melinda, "No patients, no point. That's why I'm not sure Staten Island is the best choice, unless I just like burning cash." Melinda shrugs and leans back again, crossing her arms over her chest. "Fine, blow off a perfectly good idea." She picks up her bowl of soup and starts drinking it. "If you build a dedicated mutant clinic, I think people are going to come from the other side of the /world/ to visit it, not just the other side of the city, sir," Jackson says with a quirk of his lips. "It'll be the first of its kind. And there's sure plenty folks who need the help. Though I guess on second thought it's /possible/ that there's already people who live in Staten Island. I can't imagine who, though." "I'm not sure you could call them people. They're Staten Islanders." Iolaus says, conspiratorially. He crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs. "I don't know. I want to get the thing /open/ before I start dreaming about what I will do when the /money starts flooding in./" His tone turns somewhat sarcastic. "I'm more worried about keeping even a skeleton staff in a rented space open for long enough to help." He sighs. "Still, perhaps one of the donors will be more generous than they said, and I can switch to looking at real estate." A slight frown furrows his face. "Though, looking in Staten Island..." he winces, face briefly pained, before mirth breaks through and he grins at the other two. "I trust you both will keep this in the utmost confidence until the press release goes out?" "Oh, don't worry. I am not going to talk about this." Melinda promises heartily, finding her sandwich and returning it to her mouth. It is far too cold for stringyness now. "Cuz there's boatloads of billionaire mutants out there just dying to fund a project with such a big target painted on it," Jackson says -- cheerfully! Bright grin. A little /too/ fierce. "In all seriousness, though, it sounds like an amazing project. I'll, uh, keep an eye on the news. -- Does utmost confidence mean --" Jackson frowns. "S'just I know people. Who might be interested in helping. Maybe. Or at least could talk with you about how other similar projects turned out." Iolaus gives the other man a careful look. "If you are one hundred percent - no doubt whatsoever - that they are trustworthy... give them that phone number that I gave you. But be careful. I trust very few people, and on this, I suggest you do the same. You never know, and things right now are so fragile..." he trails off, shaking his head once and glancing between the two. He pulls out another bite of croissant. Om, nom, nom. "No one I know has money," Melinda admits as she finishes her sandwich and rises. "I am sorry, but I have to run - if you're okay, Jax." She frowns as she picks up her tray. "Just gotta run some errands before the businesses close." "I'm --" Jackson hesitates, but then smiles, quick and bright. "Yeah. Thanks. I'll be okay. Hey, next time we should get together not-by-accident. Maybe I'll see you 'round the park, though?" He sounds hopeful. His hand rests across his sketchbook, finding the page he tore off before and quickly jotting his email address for Melinda, too. She also gets his phone number, though. "Most folks I actually know don't have any money, either," he acknowledges, amused. "But some of the people I went to school with have -- experience. I'll be careful," he promises Iolaus. Iolaus gives a nod. "It was good to see you again. I'm sure we'll bump into each other again at some point." He smiles at Melinda, giving her a little wave. "Your croissants are wonderful. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon." He turns to leave, but pauses and leans in to whisper into Jax's ear, "And good luck with that /adorable/ graffiti artist." Grinning and smirking, he straightens up and strides to the door, with just a backwards wave. "Yeah, definitely," Melinda takes the piece of paper and looks it over. "I'll email you from the bus." She blinks at Iolaus and watches him leave. "He, uh, knows I don't work here, right?" Who knows. With that, she gathers up her things, waves, and leaves. Jackson's eyebrows hike upwards, and he flushes a deep scarlet, clamping his mouth shut tight. He is possibly too busy concentrating on not blushing himself to death to answer anyone. He bows his head over his sketchbook, returning to his sketching. Rather /intently/.