Chivalry
Oh, he'd try to save my darkling girl, would he? From whom? Me? Herself?
What a dear boy. I'd like to give him a call, but if he's in that kind of mood (so noble! so outraged!), I suppose it's best if he comes to me. If I'm lucky, he might even be breathing fire. Illusory, if he's feeling literal enough for it.
I can hardly wait.
10/9/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
An odd phone request from Jason -- of course, what else can be expected? When is a man of such talent and eccentricity going to make a normal phone request? But yes, yes, odd indeed -- meet me on the steps in front of your building at 7 PM. Left on the message in spy game urgent tones, but no joke to the place or time, at least. For it is 7 PM and Jason is pacing in front of Joelle's building like a lion-cat.
Joelle patters down the stairs right on time, peeking through the window by the door before sliding on out onto the stoop. Her glorious rust-red hair is up in an untidy bun, over a grey sweatsuit whose jacket hangs unzipped over a pale-pink tee. She jogs her keys in her hand as she slows a careful, cautious smile (but bright, warm brown eyes) for her visitor. "You gonna wear a path in the sidewalk, Jase. My super'll be pissed."
Jason waves regret -- a path is already there! -- but only for a second. Blink on, blink off, a trick of vision and imagination. Jason flashes brilliant white teeth in a swift, appreciative grin, but it seems a little faked, and quickly subsides to low-frequency nervousness. "Thanks for coming out. Uuh, prefer to walk, then?"
Joelle shrugs on her way down the steps. "Anything," she declares, "that gets me away from homework." Standing before him now, she tucks her hands in jacket pockets and tips her head in a closer scrutiny, and her soft mouth acquires a worried purse. "What's up? You in trouble?"
"No, no. Look -- this is really just a burst of paranoia, I'm sorry to bother you with it," Jason states with some rapidity, leaning back on his heels, which directs his gaze more or less on her forehead. "I just wanted to make sure. You weren't, um, . . . man, this sounds rude, but I mean it in a nice broad . . ." Jason reaches up to run his hair through his fingers, reboot. "You weren't coerced to have sex with me, were you?"
And it's a nice forehead, dusky and broad, and now wrinkling in perplexity. "Coerced?" Joelle repeats. "But--" and she glances around quickly, lowers her voice "--that's /my/ power, silly. I'd know if someone was tryin' to work it on me. And they /weren't./ Is that why you haven't been comin' 'round? Oh, Jason."
"That's not /exactly/ what I meant," Jason brings his voice down to match hers. "Listen," he shoves one hand in a back pocket, "I was just -- when you showed up with that bird cage and the note, I didn't think anything of it, but after I hurt you, uh, a little, and you were okay with it -- /too/ okay, I wondered if you were under some, um, pressure."
Joelle frowns. Then she threads an imperious arm through his, turning him for that walk, slow, up the sidewalk, and brooking no protest. It's a quiet Sunday evening in Morningside Heights, but even this sleepy neighborhood has its stoop-sitters, its window-leaners, its traffic. Aiming them generally at the Hudson, she says calmly, "You think my boss twisted my arm or maybe threatened me somehow."
Jason allows the arm and uncharacteristically doesn't assert his dominance by squeezing it possessively under his. Just is directed, his own eyes and perceptions sweeping and dampening him and Joelle down -- a little indistinct, a little quieter. "Perhaps," he answers. "He's a scary old brute. And he's given me 'victims' before, you know."
Doe-dark eyes slide his way. "I'm sure they deserve it," she tries to reassure him. "And you've earned it. It makes your powers better, right? Makes /you/ better. So it's all for the good."
"I didn't do much," Jason sulks, skulks. "Question is, do /you/ deserve it?"
Joelle takes the opportunity to squeeze his arm between their bodies, and she's a bit firmer in tone now. "/I/ am not a victim, Jason Wyngarde, and /no/ one gives me away to someone. So you just get that thought out of your head right now before I decide I'm insulted and I have to pout at you."
A light teeth gritting -- Jason's pupils move quickly to mark her. "Okay. Okay. Can I ask /why/ you're doing this, then?"
"What, hanging out with you?" Joelle is blithe. Joelle is watching the upcoming intersection for oncoming traffic. "Because I want to. I've told you that. Hasn't changed since then, either."
"You didn't know me at the beginning. Did Shaw hand you a brochure?" Jason asks, mild cynicism.
Joelle grins at him. "Hell, if you come with brochures, I did get shafted, huh? Or maybe some kind of infomercial video? That'd rock, man." The light changes, and she breezes for the far corner. The riverside is a gleam of muted green, flashes of bikers and joggers, in the gloaming, not too far away now. "No. He gave me a call and told me about you and asked if I'd like to meet you. I said sure. He sent me the cage, and I got the birdie, all on my own. Wasn't she sweet? I always wanted a bird, growing up."
Jason's nostrils flare with doubt and he hunches his shoulders, his toe taking two scuffs before returning to a proper step step step of conjunction with Joelle. "You should've slapped me after I pulled that drowning thing, you know."
Her turn for cynicism. "What, and have you make me think I was dying again? No, thanks, Jase. Didn't fall off the truck yesterday, y'know."
"So it was an act?" Jason sounds immediately relieved. "For self-preservation? Er. In a manner of speaking."
Joelle walks a few paces in silence. Then: "I wasn't acting. About any of it. What you see is what you get, sorry. Pretty basic, pretty open, that's me. Not a whole lot to it!" Her smile glimmers like the park-glimpse, dim and deep, but it's directed more at the sidewalk than at him, and she lapses back into patient, thoughtful words. "'M not /scared/ of you. Well, I am, a bit, but not in any bad way. You can hurt me. I can kill you. It balances out, right?"
"Right. Of course." Jason's strides briefly mimic confident. Then falter. "Not really. See, uh, look -- when I do that kind of crap, you're not supposed to /like/ it. I mean, not really. That sounds weirder than it is. Besides, you like it, I might get encouraged to do it again, then I'd provoke you to kill me, and there we are."
Joelle immediately tells him, "I wouldn't kill you! That's not permitted. Don't worry, you're safe. I was just sayin', as a comparison. We balance each other out, but I'd never do that. No way."
"Why not? Why isn't it permitted? What if I /really/ tried to mess you up?" Jason turns his head, inclines it, eyeing her warily. "I could kill you, too, you know, if I spun illusions just right. You could kill me in self defense. No one would blame you."
"Not allowed," Joelle reiterates with another loose shrug and a little smile. "You're a valuable guy, you know. I'm valuable in my way, too, but not like that. You're more powerful than me; you've got better connections and stuff. Plans for you, I gotta figure. He's got plans for everyone. --Not that I'm lookin' to die," she mock-scolds him, smiling more, "so behave yourself. We've had fun. No reason to screw that up."
"Freaking not allowed." Jason turns his head back to looking straight ahead and lets his breath out in a woosh. "/Honey/, if positions were reversed . . . I'd be insulted and feel, you know, like some hotter shot mutant could waste me and the boss wouldn't blink an eye. That doesn't /bother you/?"
Joelle snorts. "Oh, hell, yes, he'd blink an eye. Then he'd put out somebody else's, you kiddin'? I thought you worked for him. Should know better than that."
"I work for him. Not closely, though. What plans he got? He hasn't informed me of any -- fact is, gal, he puts out an eye, maybe, but I'm allowed to kill you but not vice versa -- there's something wrong with /that/," Jason repeats, spits, even. "I'm more valuable than you -- what are we, ore?"
And Joelle says softly, "We're whatever he wants us to be."
"No, we are frigging /not/! You frigging brainwashed?" Jason pulls away. "What did he /do/ to you to make you so freaking scary /worshipful/."
She stops and stares at him. "/Nothing./ Jesus Christ! 'Scuse my language, but you're /all/ kinds of weird tonight, man. What the hell? What, you sign up for something you didn't know going in?" A small gentling, a reaching of compassion. "Hey, if you didn't read the fine print first..."
"I didn’t know I was selling my soul and all /affects/. He’s had me do some crap," Jason makes a violent negating motion. "That’s /it/. I didn’t sign up to be cattle and breeding stock /or/ some nice huntin’ dog. What, you /wanted/ to be a pet?"
Joelle says in a hard voice, "Better'n how I could've turned out, believe me." Her eyes are little more than specks of light in dark sockets, especially when she tosses her head and turns it from him, staring up the street at the park. "I told you how it was, with my mom dyin' and all, and him settin' me up for school and a job, gettin' me started in life -- started up /proper./ I'm goin' to business school next year, you know that? Gonna get my MBA; already got a bunch of places tryin' for me. How would I've done that without some help? Without /his/ help? Not all of us had family and a nice house and people to love and worry about us, y'know, Jase. Not all of us by a /damn/ shot."
"But . . . dude." Jason whips his hands through his hair. "I didn’t have any of that crap except a nice house, and I’m not looking to be a lap dog. You’ve got talent and brains -- why don’t you, you know, say thanks for the ride, sugar daddy, but I want to get /off/?" Jason slides his eyes to meet her, blue, sharp, apprehensive. "/Don’t/ you?"
Soft, deep, dark deer's eyes rake him with mingled pity and scorn. "Do you really think I could?" asks one Joelle Parker, wise in experience beyond her toughened years. "Even if I wanted to ... even if I wanted to. No."
"What’s his plan for you?" Jason asks, subdued and irritated and . . . "Does he even have one?"
Joelle's shrug this time is a small, tight thing, and her mouth's an unhappy slot. "I don't know. I just give him information. Meet people, ask questions, run errands, whatever he asks -- and it's /not/ worship, so don't start up with that crap again. He's always been good to me, even aside from the help. He treats me proper. Never even lays a hand on me or raises his voice. I'm payin' off my debt, if you want to think of it that way."
"Couldn’t you get, I dunno, student loans?" Jason looks skyward and exhales between his teeth. Then his eyes slowly go back down. "See, you say all that, but you’re still expendable. And under his thrall."
Joelle huffs. "Everyone's expendable, I'm sorry to inform you, /Mister/ Wyngarde, so don't pull that crap on me, either. And I don't see you crawling out from underneath his thumb, either."
"Big difference between being laid off, and . . ." Jason gestures without eloquence. "I didn’t know I was /under/ his thumb. I don’t exactly have endless contact with him, you know -- but I’d walk right up there and tell him what’s what if I felt he was leaning too hard, you believe me."
A short laugh, not without humor, or fondness. "Oh, jeez. And what d'you think would happen then? He'd apologize, pat you on the head, and send you on your way, maybe with a nice piece of candy to suck on for your troubles?"
"And if he didn’t change the pressure, I’d go right /back/ and make him," Jason insists. "Or I’d leave. I’m no one’s dog."
"Right! You'd make Mr. Shaw do something!" Joelle laughs again, a gay and tinkling sound in the dusk, honestly amused now. "Boy, I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that. You poor dear, Jase. You just have no idea."
"I got some idea. But I’m serious -- I’m sick of bending when I don’t want to, and I’m not doing anything I don’t want to any more. I don’t care if he /is/ the devil." Jason ends this in an emphatic horse snort, his eyes blazing.
Joelle blinks tranquilly. Her mood's back to its cheerful, even keel, and she sways towards him to resume their walk, although she refrains from grabbing him again. For now, perhaps, to judge by the twinkle in upturned eyes. "So you don't /like/ making people afraid. Making them hurt. Sure coulda fooled me, that night."
Jason’s teeth set. Audibly. "Yes, I do, but I’m sick of liking it, don’t you see? I’m sick of all of it." His pace increases, harried. "I don’t like the feeling might be /ruining/ people, who would?"
"So you'd use your powers for the forces of good," she supposes, not unkindly. "How?"
"I don’t know. Maybe I just wouldn’t use them . . . or, I don’t know," is growled tautly. "I’d think of something."
Joelle lets her hands swing free at her sides. They're nearly to the park. Ah, the smell of the Hudson River at night! "I'm sure you would. And you'll tell Mr. Shaw where he can stick his plans for you, and you'll marry a fairy princess and ride off on a white horse to a castle on a hill to live happily ever after."
"Could if I wanted to go mad," goes full snarl. "I don’t mean I’d paint freaking ponies or turn dream world. But too much scare and bogey’s gonna drive me mad, too. I don’t care who’s ordering it."
"Okay, okay -- jeez," Joelle mutters and gives him verbal and physical space while she quick-steps ahead to claim a bench overlooking the river and fwumps thereupon. Hands in pockets. Chin out.
"You’re a nice enough girl." Jason turns after her, but doesn’t follow, just watches. "Doesn’t it ever get under /your/ skin?"
Joelle's answer comes low and tired. "What do you want me to say? 'Yes, it's awful, it's horrible, I wish I'd died in the gutter or at the hands of my mom's pimp rather than live this terrible, terrible life I have now'? I don't /got/ any good words for you on this subject, I can tell. I'm tryin' to listen to you, though, 'cause that's why you called, I guess, but crap. Crap and damn, Jase." She stares balefully out at the slow, deep, dark water.
"What if you could have a life equally as good -- scholarships, all that, but not have to /spy/ and whatnot for it? What if?" Jason presses, relentless.
"Who'd give it to me?" asks practical Joelle. "That stuff doesn't fall off trees."
"Aren’t your grades good now? And millions of kids get the loans, I even do that." Jason’s voice becomes somewhat gentler.
Joelle's scowl doesn't abate. "I don't /need/ loans. I told you, I'm set up for school, and I got a job. Don't be tryin' to save me," she says, twisting around to give him a dark and earnest stare, tempered only by soft mouth's quirk. "I don't need it, and you're sweet, but you ain't no knight in shining armor, either."
"Nope. But I got some will left in me to become /something/. Of my /own/ volition." Jason half smirks, skids his foot and turns toward the path, as if to retreat. "Just watch. And then I’ll come back."
"For me?" she wonders, and it isn't exactly swooning.
"Yeah, sure," is said with half indifference. "But I doubt you’ll budge. ‘ll try, though."
Definitely not swooning, but tolerant affection. "'Kay. You do that, man. And give me a call sometime when you /don't/ want to sneak around and do all this serious talking. More to life than that," Joelle sniffs.
"We can have sex later. /After/. Then I’ll give you a call." Jason notes, more archly, empowered. Really. Keeps walking.
Joelle lets him go. Just turns around with a smile, somewhat edged, and watches the river and a dog-walker crossing in front of her bench, then a hand-clasped couple in their sixties. Her face softens with sentimentality, following their blissful passage through her life. Then she pulls out a cell phone from her pocket, pulls out her keys from the other, and fiddles with the latter while dialing up a number saved in the former. "Hi, Mr. Shaw, it's me."
[Log ends.]
What a dear boy. I'd like to give him a call, but if he's in that kind of mood (so noble! so outraged!), I suppose it's best if he comes to me. If I'm lucky, he might even be breathing fire. Illusory, if he's feeling literal enough for it.
I can hardly wait.
10/9/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
An odd phone request from Jason -- of course, what else can be expected? When is a man of such talent and eccentricity going to make a normal phone request? But yes, yes, odd indeed -- meet me on the steps in front of your building at 7 PM. Left on the message in spy game urgent tones, but no joke to the place or time, at least. For it is 7 PM and Jason is pacing in front of Joelle's building like a lion-cat.
Joelle patters down the stairs right on time, peeking through the window by the door before sliding on out onto the stoop. Her glorious rust-red hair is up in an untidy bun, over a grey sweatsuit whose jacket hangs unzipped over a pale-pink tee. She jogs her keys in her hand as she slows a careful, cautious smile (but bright, warm brown eyes) for her visitor. "You gonna wear a path in the sidewalk, Jase. My super'll be pissed."
Jason waves regret -- a path is already there! -- but only for a second. Blink on, blink off, a trick of vision and imagination. Jason flashes brilliant white teeth in a swift, appreciative grin, but it seems a little faked, and quickly subsides to low-frequency nervousness. "Thanks for coming out. Uuh, prefer to walk, then?"
Joelle shrugs on her way down the steps. "Anything," she declares, "that gets me away from homework." Standing before him now, she tucks her hands in jacket pockets and tips her head in a closer scrutiny, and her soft mouth acquires a worried purse. "What's up? You in trouble?"
"No, no. Look -- this is really just a burst of paranoia, I'm sorry to bother you with it," Jason states with some rapidity, leaning back on his heels, which directs his gaze more or less on her forehead. "I just wanted to make sure. You weren't, um, . . . man, this sounds rude, but I mean it in a nice broad . . ." Jason reaches up to run his hair through his fingers, reboot. "You weren't coerced to have sex with me, were you?"
And it's a nice forehead, dusky and broad, and now wrinkling in perplexity. "Coerced?" Joelle repeats. "But--" and she glances around quickly, lowers her voice "--that's /my/ power, silly. I'd know if someone was tryin' to work it on me. And they /weren't./ Is that why you haven't been comin' 'round? Oh, Jason."
"That's not /exactly/ what I meant," Jason brings his voice down to match hers. "Listen," he shoves one hand in a back pocket, "I was just -- when you showed up with that bird cage and the note, I didn't think anything of it, but after I hurt you, uh, a little, and you were okay with it -- /too/ okay, I wondered if you were under some, um, pressure."
Joelle frowns. Then she threads an imperious arm through his, turning him for that walk, slow, up the sidewalk, and brooking no protest. It's a quiet Sunday evening in Morningside Heights, but even this sleepy neighborhood has its stoop-sitters, its window-leaners, its traffic. Aiming them generally at the Hudson, she says calmly, "You think my boss twisted my arm or maybe threatened me somehow."
Jason allows the arm and uncharacteristically doesn't assert his dominance by squeezing it possessively under his. Just is directed, his own eyes and perceptions sweeping and dampening him and Joelle down -- a little indistinct, a little quieter. "Perhaps," he answers. "He's a scary old brute. And he's given me 'victims' before, you know."
Doe-dark eyes slide his way. "I'm sure they deserve it," she tries to reassure him. "And you've earned it. It makes your powers better, right? Makes /you/ better. So it's all for the good."
"I didn't do much," Jason sulks, skulks. "Question is, do /you/ deserve it?"
Joelle takes the opportunity to squeeze his arm between their bodies, and she's a bit firmer in tone now. "/I/ am not a victim, Jason Wyngarde, and /no/ one gives me away to someone. So you just get that thought out of your head right now before I decide I'm insulted and I have to pout at you."
A light teeth gritting -- Jason's pupils move quickly to mark her. "Okay. Okay. Can I ask /why/ you're doing this, then?"
"What, hanging out with you?" Joelle is blithe. Joelle is watching the upcoming intersection for oncoming traffic. "Because I want to. I've told you that. Hasn't changed since then, either."
"You didn't know me at the beginning. Did Shaw hand you a brochure?" Jason asks, mild cynicism.
Joelle grins at him. "Hell, if you come with brochures, I did get shafted, huh? Or maybe some kind of infomercial video? That'd rock, man." The light changes, and she breezes for the far corner. The riverside is a gleam of muted green, flashes of bikers and joggers, in the gloaming, not too far away now. "No. He gave me a call and told me about you and asked if I'd like to meet you. I said sure. He sent me the cage, and I got the birdie, all on my own. Wasn't she sweet? I always wanted a bird, growing up."
Jason's nostrils flare with doubt and he hunches his shoulders, his toe taking two scuffs before returning to a proper step step step of conjunction with Joelle. "You should've slapped me after I pulled that drowning thing, you know."
Her turn for cynicism. "What, and have you make me think I was dying again? No, thanks, Jase. Didn't fall off the truck yesterday, y'know."
"So it was an act?" Jason sounds immediately relieved. "For self-preservation? Er. In a manner of speaking."
Joelle walks a few paces in silence. Then: "I wasn't acting. About any of it. What you see is what you get, sorry. Pretty basic, pretty open, that's me. Not a whole lot to it!" Her smile glimmers like the park-glimpse, dim and deep, but it's directed more at the sidewalk than at him, and she lapses back into patient, thoughtful words. "'M not /scared/ of you. Well, I am, a bit, but not in any bad way. You can hurt me. I can kill you. It balances out, right?"
"Right. Of course." Jason's strides briefly mimic confident. Then falter. "Not really. See, uh, look -- when I do that kind of crap, you're not supposed to /like/ it. I mean, not really. That sounds weirder than it is. Besides, you like it, I might get encouraged to do it again, then I'd provoke you to kill me, and there we are."
Joelle immediately tells him, "I wouldn't kill you! That's not permitted. Don't worry, you're safe. I was just sayin', as a comparison. We balance each other out, but I'd never do that. No way."
"Why not? Why isn't it permitted? What if I /really/ tried to mess you up?" Jason turns his head, inclines it, eyeing her warily. "I could kill you, too, you know, if I spun illusions just right. You could kill me in self defense. No one would blame you."
"Not allowed," Joelle reiterates with another loose shrug and a little smile. "You're a valuable guy, you know. I'm valuable in my way, too, but not like that. You're more powerful than me; you've got better connections and stuff. Plans for you, I gotta figure. He's got plans for everyone. --Not that I'm lookin' to die," she mock-scolds him, smiling more, "so behave yourself. We've had fun. No reason to screw that up."
"Freaking not allowed." Jason turns his head back to looking straight ahead and lets his breath out in a woosh. "/Honey/, if positions were reversed . . . I'd be insulted and feel, you know, like some hotter shot mutant could waste me and the boss wouldn't blink an eye. That doesn't /bother you/?"
Joelle snorts. "Oh, hell, yes, he'd blink an eye. Then he'd put out somebody else's, you kiddin'? I thought you worked for him. Should know better than that."
"I work for him. Not closely, though. What plans he got? He hasn't informed me of any -- fact is, gal, he puts out an eye, maybe, but I'm allowed to kill you but not vice versa -- there's something wrong with /that/," Jason repeats, spits, even. "I'm more valuable than you -- what are we, ore?"
And Joelle says softly, "We're whatever he wants us to be."
"No, we are frigging /not/! You frigging brainwashed?" Jason pulls away. "What did he /do/ to you to make you so freaking scary /worshipful/."
She stops and stares at him. "/Nothing./ Jesus Christ! 'Scuse my language, but you're /all/ kinds of weird tonight, man. What the hell? What, you sign up for something you didn't know going in?" A small gentling, a reaching of compassion. "Hey, if you didn't read the fine print first..."
"I didn’t know I was selling my soul and all /affects/. He’s had me do some crap," Jason makes a violent negating motion. "That’s /it/. I didn’t sign up to be cattle and breeding stock /or/ some nice huntin’ dog. What, you /wanted/ to be a pet?"
Joelle says in a hard voice, "Better'n how I could've turned out, believe me." Her eyes are little more than specks of light in dark sockets, especially when she tosses her head and turns it from him, staring up the street at the park. "I told you how it was, with my mom dyin' and all, and him settin' me up for school and a job, gettin' me started in life -- started up /proper./ I'm goin' to business school next year, you know that? Gonna get my MBA; already got a bunch of places tryin' for me. How would I've done that without some help? Without /his/ help? Not all of us had family and a nice house and people to love and worry about us, y'know, Jase. Not all of us by a /damn/ shot."
"But . . . dude." Jason whips his hands through his hair. "I didn’t have any of that crap except a nice house, and I’m not looking to be a lap dog. You’ve got talent and brains -- why don’t you, you know, say thanks for the ride, sugar daddy, but I want to get /off/?" Jason slides his eyes to meet her, blue, sharp, apprehensive. "/Don’t/ you?"
Soft, deep, dark deer's eyes rake him with mingled pity and scorn. "Do you really think I could?" asks one Joelle Parker, wise in experience beyond her toughened years. "Even if I wanted to ... even if I wanted to. No."
"What’s his plan for you?" Jason asks, subdued and irritated and . . . "Does he even have one?"
Joelle's shrug this time is a small, tight thing, and her mouth's an unhappy slot. "I don't know. I just give him information. Meet people, ask questions, run errands, whatever he asks -- and it's /not/ worship, so don't start up with that crap again. He's always been good to me, even aside from the help. He treats me proper. Never even lays a hand on me or raises his voice. I'm payin' off my debt, if you want to think of it that way."
"Couldn’t you get, I dunno, student loans?" Jason looks skyward and exhales between his teeth. Then his eyes slowly go back down. "See, you say all that, but you’re still expendable. And under his thrall."
Joelle huffs. "Everyone's expendable, I'm sorry to inform you, /Mister/ Wyngarde, so don't pull that crap on me, either. And I don't see you crawling out from underneath his thumb, either."
"Big difference between being laid off, and . . ." Jason gestures without eloquence. "I didn’t know I was /under/ his thumb. I don’t exactly have endless contact with him, you know -- but I’d walk right up there and tell him what’s what if I felt he was leaning too hard, you believe me."
A short laugh, not without humor, or fondness. "Oh, jeez. And what d'you think would happen then? He'd apologize, pat you on the head, and send you on your way, maybe with a nice piece of candy to suck on for your troubles?"
"And if he didn’t change the pressure, I’d go right /back/ and make him," Jason insists. "Or I’d leave. I’m no one’s dog."
"Right! You'd make Mr. Shaw do something!" Joelle laughs again, a gay and tinkling sound in the dusk, honestly amused now. "Boy, I'd love to be a fly on the wall for that. You poor dear, Jase. You just have no idea."
"I got some idea. But I’m serious -- I’m sick of bending when I don’t want to, and I’m not doing anything I don’t want to any more. I don’t care if he /is/ the devil." Jason ends this in an emphatic horse snort, his eyes blazing.
Joelle blinks tranquilly. Her mood's back to its cheerful, even keel, and she sways towards him to resume their walk, although she refrains from grabbing him again. For now, perhaps, to judge by the twinkle in upturned eyes. "So you don't /like/ making people afraid. Making them hurt. Sure coulda fooled me, that night."
Jason’s teeth set. Audibly. "Yes, I do, but I’m sick of liking it, don’t you see? I’m sick of all of it." His pace increases, harried. "I don’t like the feeling might be /ruining/ people, who would?"
"So you'd use your powers for the forces of good," she supposes, not unkindly. "How?"
"I don’t know. Maybe I just wouldn’t use them . . . or, I don’t know," is growled tautly. "I’d think of something."
Joelle lets her hands swing free at her sides. They're nearly to the park. Ah, the smell of the Hudson River at night! "I'm sure you would. And you'll tell Mr. Shaw where he can stick his plans for you, and you'll marry a fairy princess and ride off on a white horse to a castle on a hill to live happily ever after."
"Could if I wanted to go mad," goes full snarl. "I don’t mean I’d paint freaking ponies or turn dream world. But too much scare and bogey’s gonna drive me mad, too. I don’t care who’s ordering it."
"Okay, okay -- jeez," Joelle mutters and gives him verbal and physical space while she quick-steps ahead to claim a bench overlooking the river and fwumps thereupon. Hands in pockets. Chin out.
"You’re a nice enough girl." Jason turns after her, but doesn’t follow, just watches. "Doesn’t it ever get under /your/ skin?"
Joelle's answer comes low and tired. "What do you want me to say? 'Yes, it's awful, it's horrible, I wish I'd died in the gutter or at the hands of my mom's pimp rather than live this terrible, terrible life I have now'? I don't /got/ any good words for you on this subject, I can tell. I'm tryin' to listen to you, though, 'cause that's why you called, I guess, but crap. Crap and damn, Jase." She stares balefully out at the slow, deep, dark water.
"What if you could have a life equally as good -- scholarships, all that, but not have to /spy/ and whatnot for it? What if?" Jason presses, relentless.
"Who'd give it to me?" asks practical Joelle. "That stuff doesn't fall off trees."
"Aren’t your grades good now? And millions of kids get the loans, I even do that." Jason’s voice becomes somewhat gentler.
Joelle's scowl doesn't abate. "I don't /need/ loans. I told you, I'm set up for school, and I got a job. Don't be tryin' to save me," she says, twisting around to give him a dark and earnest stare, tempered only by soft mouth's quirk. "I don't need it, and you're sweet, but you ain't no knight in shining armor, either."
"Nope. But I got some will left in me to become /something/. Of my /own/ volition." Jason half smirks, skids his foot and turns toward the path, as if to retreat. "Just watch. And then I’ll come back."
"For me?" she wonders, and it isn't exactly swooning.
"Yeah, sure," is said with half indifference. "But I doubt you’ll budge. ‘ll try, though."
Definitely not swooning, but tolerant affection. "'Kay. You do that, man. And give me a call sometime when you /don't/ want to sneak around and do all this serious talking. More to life than that," Joelle sniffs.
"We can have sex later. /After/. Then I’ll give you a call." Jason notes, more archly, empowered. Really. Keeps walking.
Joelle lets him go. Just turns around with a smile, somewhat edged, and watches the river and a dog-walker crossing in front of her bench, then a hand-clasped couple in their sixties. Her face softens with sentimentality, following their blissful passage through her life. Then she pulls out a cell phone from her pocket, pulls out her keys from the other, and fiddles with the latter while dialing up a number saved in the former. "Hi, Mr. Shaw, it's me."
[Log ends.]