Participants:
| Scene Title | A Drop Of Bad |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | …Is something that Logan doesn't feel at all when he brings Caliban to Abigail for some patching up and eavesdropping. Amazingly, the only blood shed, is by Caliban and Logan leaves with a bottle of whiskey. |
| Date | November 18, 2009 |
Old Lucy's - Back Room
It's still raining by the time there's a well to do sports car parking up towards Old Lucy's, as much as the sky has gone from stormy grey through to a tone more pitch. Foregoing the front entrance, with black windows communicating that business is closed, it seems as though two very determined gentlemen are making their way around the back. The fact that they know of this addition entrance might be worrying, considering who one of them is.
Bzzz goes a doorbell, as annoying as buzzing insect in someone's ear, and it goes once, twice, before there's a flash of a knife in the dark. No one ever said Logan was a patient man, as he sticks the flat of his pocket knife blade in the gap between door and wall and jimmies it experimentally. He doesn't break into places, typically, but one learns the tools of the trade at least by extension. Not that it works, mind you.
"Hospitals not good enough for you?" he mutters to his companion as the metal scrapes around, pokes and prods before retracting it, closing the knife, and sending an arch glance Caliban's way. "Break up with Linderman?"
Logan's knife has nothing on Alec's beefed up security that Abigail took a chunk… big chunk of Thalia's buy in, to upgrade after Lola and then the attempted robbery. Doors that Swat will apparently have a hard time getting through, Security tapes that are recorded to an alternate location but can be deleted at a heartbeats whim. Lots of other things that frankly, Abby just stared at him when he rattled them off and she'll never understand it.
There's still more than a few steps between the apartment that takes up the second floor and the back door where Logan and Caliban stand and she's not gonna just go down and answer the back door to the alley. Bad shit has gone down in that alley.
Above their heads, a window scrapes open, announcing that there is indeed someone and and a pink haired head peers out carefully at first, then fully, tip of a shotgun pointing down. "Bar is closed, can I help you with something?" Is called down in southern consonants and vowels familiar to both men. One liked, one loathed.
Whatever excuse Caliban might have been about to magic up from his sleeve evaporates like stage smoke when the sound of the window grinding open reaches his ears. He has one arm draped around Logan's shoulders for support and the other curled protectively across his midsection, fingers dark with the blood seeping from the knife wound in his side. Although he hasn't gotten worse since he and the other man left the scene of the riot, he hasn't gotten any better either.
He lifts his chin enough to raise blue eyes to the open window and the figure silhouetted in its frame but is unable to make out more than Abigail's vague outline, blurred foggy around the edges. Rainwater weighs down his clothes, carves paths down his neck and plasters short hair to his rumpled brow so damp it appears dark brown instead of its usual graying blond.
"Is she— Is she pointing a gun at us?"
Pocket knife disappearing into the damp velvet and silk of his jacket, Logan returns that hand to grip Caliban's wrist, peering up at the sound of Abigail's voice and barely seeing any changes regarding pink hair due to the fucking rain. He switches a glance to Caliban, and even in this close proximity, frustration manages to be communicated in pale eyes and the pull of his mouth. "No, she's pointing a sodding fairy wand."
And then steering his attention back upwards, his face moon-pale beneath the low light of evening, blonde hair mattered to a darker gold under the rain, and voice raising as he says; "Robert's stabbed and wanted to see you about it. Open the fucking door. Please."
"MR. Caliban, you have balls bringing him here" And it looks like quite possibly, maybe, she's not going to give a care thanks to who's with Robert as the window closes and there's not a single sound. What they can't see behind the walls is a bathrobe being grabbed and slung around her shoulders, her school duffel bag being grabbed and the pink haired woman tromping down the stairs.
A few minutes pass, enough time to incur doubt that she's coming before there's the sound of beeping, locks being thrown and eventually, the heavy back door is pulled open. "Get in, before cops come around and you get arrested" Blue eyes peer out into the rain, and at the two linder-goons. "Not that I'd mind them arresting you" It's a pointed comment, and everyone knows to WHO it's pointed at.
There's a perplexed expression on Caliban's face when Abigail opens the door that may or may not have to do with the choice of words she greets them with. It takes him an additional moment or two to realize she has no idea why he's been stabbed and that the assumption that the police might be coming for one or both of them is not an illogical one to make.
"He's not done anything," he tells Abigail of Logan, his voice a thin, hoarse rattle in his throat. "Turn on the radio if you have one. We've just come from St. Luke's."
Caliban can talk to Abigail and Logan will shoulder his way inside and out of the wet, dragging Caliban with him as if he were a particularly heavy, inelegant cloak. They both smell like rainwater and blood, a fact Logan is not particularly happy about as he looks around the interior of the building, it having been a while since he's come this way. Shivering minutely from the cold, he manages to clamp his jaw against teeth chattering as he looks towards her, to snap a question about where to go.
And then blinks, completely derailed. "Jesus. You look just like a hooker with that hair."
"Well, you're the expert in this room on that subject" Comes railing right back at the former pimp. She is really not happy to have him in her bar. About as happy as he was to have her in his strip club. "It's curfew i'm more worried about, not whatever you were involved in at the Church" She's head to tow flannel, pink white branches on the fabric underneath a fleece housecoat. Pink ballet slippers round out the look and she swing her braid behind her back as the door is closed behind them.
"He sure as hell has done stuff, just that he seems to keep getting off the hook through technicalities, and because of your boss" Locks are turned, deadbolts sink home and Abigail's gesturing to the back room. "Couch in there, no one else is home tonight, be more comfortable. You know Mr. Caliban, when I said that I was free to talk this week, I didn't expect you to show up needing stitches too"
"In all fairness," says Caliban, "I didn't expect I'd need them either." There's little that can be said in Logan's defense. No one in the group can deny that crimes have been perpetrated, transgressions committed, and yet any past that they may share is furthest from his mind as he continues leaning against his companion, urging him in the general direction of the couch. It would be nice to sit down even if comfortable is not a word he would even remotely associate with his present physical condition.
He hooks fingers in the material og Logan's coat when he feels his grip beginning to slip, balance off set by blood-loss and a general feeling of nausea. "She looked better as a blonde," he agrees at length. "Older."
"Mmhm. Throw up on me and I'll kick you, old man." If it's possible, there might just be affection hidden murky behind blustery irritation and words with sharp edges, if in fact Logan is capable of such layered responses. An arm goes around Caliban's back when he feels the other Linderman employee sway, bracing himself before directing them both down on the couch, as opposed to simply shoving Caliban in that direction. He pulls clear to settle his back against the opposite arm of the furniture, breathing out a sigh for a moment before struggling out of the clinging material of his jacket.
Though not before Logan is checking pockets for his cigarette case, gleaming silver. Incidentally, he's not rising to his own defense either, if only out of apathy. "I don't think he's hurt badly enough that you can't just," and Logan makes a gesture with his hands, a thumb and finger keeping clasped his cigarette case even as the other eight fingers spread out to indicate the ~power of healing~ in mime, "without stitches."
"Mr. Caliban!" Ugh, midnight and they're talking about her hair while he bleeds. They'll have to go behind the bar, but the door isn't far, leading back to the comfortable staff room, office, downstairs video feeds, lockers and the TV. The couch too, comfortable and inviting. "Right. Don't keep up with your old social circles do you John Logan." If looks could kill, He'd be dead ten times over as she fishes in her pocket for her pink phone, speedialing a number, telephone pinned between shoulder and ear.
"Hey, Derek, I need like, a bag of blood over at the bar really fast, O if you have it pretty please. I had someone walk in and they're hurt" There's a pause, a wrinkle of her nose as someone on the other end talks. "No, don't need Megan, I can handle this on my own, I got everything else left over from the garden. But if I do I'll call again." She scoops up the duffel, moving it towards the couch as her other hand closes the phone with a snap.
"Make yourself useful Logan, go get some alcohol from behind the bar, drinks on me. Something for Robert here as well" There's a smile for Caliban as she's getting gloves on . "So. Someone stabbed you. I'm not as good as say the emergency room, but, I can get you up, till you can see your boss or another healer" She's rummaging, bringing out a suture kit, and a small, small tackle box that has things to make Caliban really happy and pain free. "Lucked out, I just helped someone on Staten the other day and I got leftovers I haven't given back yet"
Caliban is about to insist that no, he's not in need of a blood transfusion, but the phone has clicked shut before his mouth can form the words. Pale lips press flat beneath a bristle of day-old stubble, unshaven and gritty with dirt. As if noticing it for the first time, he wipes off his face with the sleeve of his free arm now that he's seated on the couch, feet a short distance apart. He's taking off his shirt next — or at least trying to. It's difficult for him to maneuver it over his head without hurting himself further after he's freed himself of his jacket.
When he does succeed, it's with a ragged hiss sucked in through his teeth. His chest and abdomen, minus the knife wound, look like they could belong to a publicist pushing forty… if that publicist kept his body in pristine condition and performed a daily regimen of sit-ups every morning. Not that he's going to be doing sit-ups again any time soon.
"She's not a healer anymore, John. Hasn't been since spring."
Abby's murderous eyedaggers are mostly met with, well, ice. As ever, ice, the kind that doesn't shatter. Logan has a habit of looking people in the eye, and he manages not to bat his when she starts telling him what to do. Mostly because there's alcohol involved. Not immediately moving, though, he puts a cigarette between his teeth, white cylinder caught there as he roots around for his lighter, putting tip to flame.
Oozing knife wounds aren't attractive, but still, Logan's gaze rakes over the other man before switching back up to his eyes. "You don't resign from genetics, last I heard," he mutters around his cigarette, "but fine. What good is she for, then?"
That's both, why are we here? and why do you care so much? There's accusation in his voice, a glance, before Logan gets to his feet, letting his jacket behind, and he looks almost ordinary in a plain black button down, jeans and boots. There's blood staining denim, as well as his hands, managing the smallest of thumb-print smears on his cigarette, even, and he wipes his palms down his thighs before he's sauntering off for the bar.
Can't hurt to have it just in case. Worst is, the guy gets here and everyone's gone and take the bad of red cells back from whence he came. Blonde brows draw down when Caliban informs Logan about her status as uber-magical healer. She's ready to tongue lash him again but instead of doing that, just tightens her jaw as she's looking over the wound, carefully prodding to see if there's organ nailed, or god forbid something still in the stabwound.
What good is she for? Obviously, something, as he did come here instead of elsewhere. She'll let Logan deal with his employee while she deals with making him feel better. "You want something for the pain or will just numbing it be fine Robert?" She's using his first name, which has been night to unheard from her lips before.
"Got my message it seems"
"I wouldn't be averse to morphine if you've got any in that tackle of yours." Caliban pointedly ignores Logan's question. It's impossible for him not to have heard it in quiet of the locked building, and although it isn't so still that he thinks he can hear mice in the walls, his breathing is scratchier and more audible to his own ears than it was when he and Logan were standing out in the rain, waiting for Abigail to open the door and admit them inside.
As for the message: "I did. Your friend has a very loose tongue." He rests his back against the cushions and cranes his neck as far as his body will allow without protest, tracking Logan's progress and studying the musculature in his back with hooded eyes as he moves away again. His words, however, remain squarely aimed at the young woman tending to him. "You should leave it alone. Stay here in New York."
"I can't stay here. When the pre-cog hands you a plane ticket to Moscow, you go to Moscow." She's digging around the box, small bottle after small bottle picked up and glanced at. The question of how much he weighs is brought up and the answer producing in her head the requisite calculations so that she knows how much to give him when she finds it. "My friend was only letting me know so that I wouldn't be surprised if, somehow, I managed to come across him. Is he under the Linderman umbrella too or am I free to tell my friends that he's fair game for a bullet to the head?" She's joking right? Possible, maybe. Likely, even as she's drawn up the clear liquid into the syringe and a few moments later, Caliban's got relief on the way with the tiniest prick.
"They're going to need supplies, we're going to need supplies. I wouldn't put it past you or even Mr Linderman to have contacts over there. They can't bring their guns, I don't even know the first about where to stay there and if we're going out into the countryside and woods, like I suspect we are, i'm going to need stuff. You wouldn't happen to have things on the not so legitimate side over there would you? Or know people that we can trust an inch past our nose to not screw us all over?" The suture kit is being opened now, letting the morphine kick in and some topical cream smeared around the slice so that it'll be numbed and she can get to closing him up.
"Not the end of the world if you don't, I just.. Well, I thought of you first?"
Caliban is quiet for a very long time after Abigail has finished speaking. His attention has drifted away from Logan, down to the wound in his side which he can see but no longer feel. Fingertips brush the skin around the knife's entry point experimentally, then dip away again. "Mr. Linderman has contacts in Russia," he says finally. "None of which are James Muldoon." Whether or not that's consent for Abigail or anyone else to put a bullet between the former investment banker's eyes—
"I can make arrangements with our people if your sibyl hasn't thought further ahead than booking you a direct flight to Moscow. I don't know about guns, but if there's anything else you need— Supplies is just such a nebulous term." The tips of his fingers curl in on themselves, clipped nails grazing the skin of his palms. "Call me when you get there and have had an opportunity to assess the situation. I wouldn't want to make a promise I can't keep."
Logan doesn't sneak up on them. As distinctive as boot falls against the floor had been when he'd walked off, they return once more during Caliban's last words to herald his arrival as he moves. Though, considering he's only holding a bottle of whiskey and two glasses pinched between the fingers of his other hand rather than everything poured and over ice, something must have kept him—
"I hope his bollocks freeze off." Eavesdropping, apparently. He moves back towards the couch, only sparing Abby a glance when he holds out a glass for Caliban to take, and then dose him with a decent helping of stomach-warming liquor. Logan's expression, however, is one of severity. "How long've you known he's in Russia?" Blah blah supplies sibyls Abby going abroad blah, Logan cuts through the conversation as desired, gaze sharp and surgical.
"You have never made a promise, that you haven't been able to keep, or you at least warned me ahead of time that you weren't sure. You have yet to really disappoint me Robert" Abigail's voice is quite, breath rushing out over skin as she hunkers over the older man's form and sets about to doing on a live person, once again, without Eileen's help and bearing in mind all of Megan's hours of tutoring and observation. "Sometimes, it's really hard to understand what the pre-cog wants, but she's… She pulls through. I'll call when we're there, if no one else has any vehement objections to calling you. The usual, I owe you, if I need the help? Or something else?"
She can hear his footsteps and Logan is ignored. Flat out ignored. She's got a curved needle and thread, deftly working tools to bring flesh together just inside the wound and take her time. Not like Caliban can feel what she's doing.
Muldoon. She hates the name, like she hates Logan. She hates Logan more though, but Logan's untouchable it seems. "Which bottle did you take?" So she knows, whether he was an asshole and went for the good stuff that costs a pretty penny, or the cheaper whiskey.
Caliban arches an eyebrow at Logan, his tone mild when he asks, "Are you saying that because he abandoned you, or because you have a sincere dislike for the man?" as if one precluded the other. He's careful to keep his focus on the other man rather than Abby's fingers on the needle. There's just something about watching it pierce and glide through his own skin, trailing thread, that puts him on edge more than copious amounts of blood does.
"As far as I'm concerned, you don't owe me anything after tonight," he says to Abigail. "I'd have gone to St. Luke's, but the emergency room there is undoubtedly packed to gills and I'd rather not fill out forty pages with of paperwork for what ultimately amounts to a scratch." He lets out a slow, uneven breath, and if hearing Logan's inquiry for the first time directs his eyes elsewhere, evasive.
"A few months. There's no evidence to suggest he's still in the area."
It's a high shelf whiskey bottle, to be sure - he would have had to reach, bypassing the cheaper liquors. There's even a fine layer of dust on its curved edges, considering most people won't want to drink from the $80 range. The bottle of Glen Breton Rare is angled so that Abby can see the label, and then the amber liquid is carelessly sloshed into Logan's own glass. "I'll buy it fair and square, if you're going to get all harpy," he states, more acid in his voice than usual, even for Abby.
It's directed, more fairly, towards Caliban in the next moment. "It's none of your business," Logan states, leveling a look down at the other man. "But it is mine. How is it she knows and I don't?"
"Or the inevitable thousand or so dollar bill that will come out of the visit and your insurance. I am discovering the joys of actually needing insurance" Pierce, wrap, wrap, knit, tie off, snip, go again, neat little rows, likely to be a scar because she is not Sonny Bianco god rest his soul.
"Nope, take the bottle, I'll write it off. you brought my friend to me when he needed me. I'll give it to you" Yes Logan, she's giving you a bottle of whiskey. "I tend to try and keep track of the assholes who kidnapped me and make me look like a holocaust victim Logan. It's because of this man here that you're not parked in some cell in a really dark hole and being injected full of chemicals that make your subtle manipulations non-existent" There's no venom in the pink haired woman's voice, it's matter of fact.
"Remeber what I told you in the basement that you so conveniently seem to have forgotten? I have friends, in really strange places. Reliable ones that don't run at the sniff of trouble to save their own arses because I've helped them before with no expectation of getting anything back." Abigail leans back straightening to roll her head and crack her neck before she's diving back in to do the last few stitches. She and Caliban had that conversation before. Expectations of returns with regards to business
"Don't suppose you're hurt and I need to sew you up too do I?" She glances over shoulder, solid braid of pink hair moving to look over the Burlesque owner as she snips.
Caliban allows Abigail to complete her work in stony silence, unwilling to meet Logan's gaze for more than the time it takes their eyes to flash across one another. This has suddenly turned into a very awkward conversation, and that perhaps is saying something when you consider it started with her pointing a shotgun at them from her bedroom window.
"I didn't tell you because I didn't trust you not to run off and join him," is what he ends up offering Logan as an explanation, hardening his voice in order to make it sound less flimsy than it really is. "I didn't tell her, either. Elisabeth Harrison did, and you know how Elisabeth Harrison feels about your former associates." There's a pause, and he arches his back, just so, lifting his pelvis off the couch so it's a little easier for Abigail to stitch him shut.
"You have to promise me you won't go after him." And that is directed at them both. "No one is leaving here until you do."
He isn't happy. About Abby's sneery words and Caliban's leash tightening, Logan's chin angling up as if it were a literal thing he could tug against. Instead, he just knocks back the rich single malt whiskey, not so ignorant to high class that he can't savour the taste for a moment, gripping both emptied glass and bottle by the neck. He's quick to pour a second helping. "You wouldn't want me to out wear my welcome, Caliban." That's not exactly a promise, as he flicks his gaze down to his drink, then to Abigail.
"I haven't forgotten, Abigail. And neither of you get to think for a moment that I owe either of you for mercy or otherwise. I can take care of myself, and I've done worse things to better people."
"Have I gone after him?" There's a gesture with the suture needle in Logan's direction before it's dropped into the tray with a soft plink against the plastic. "I've only killed once, and I have no desire to do it ever again. I'm not that kind of woman. Was just asking you because I didn't want to… walk in not knowing. I can't say the same for those that I'm going with but, I won't put a bullet in his head unless he tries to attack me" Alcohol wipe is swiped across the stitching, cleaning it up, followed by an antibiotic cream and snowy white no stick gauze with medical tape to anchor.
"As if I expect Mercy from you of all people Logan. you nearly killed me when your brothel was burning. You don't feel a drop of bad for what you did and you'd like do it all over again. I bet you were thrilled that Robert had you bring him here" There's a heat cruising up towards her cheeks as she's coming out of work mode and realizing she's nose first almost against bare chest and midriff. "You're done. I think I have some pain killers I can give you, some vicodin for when it starts to hurt again" Bloody gloves peeled off and joining the suture kit waste.
Caliban must be satisfied by the answers he receives, because he doesn't press the point any further. That Abigail and Logan are in the same room and he's the only person bleeding is nothing short of a miracle. "I'll stay here on the couch for the night if you don't have any objections," he says, eyes lidding shut. "Won't be here when you wake up in the morning. I can let myself out."
For mercy, not Logan's mercy, as it's true that he has none, but he doesn't correct her. The idea of understanding on any level between them is preposterous at best. The second helping of whiskey is gulped down, the side of his thumb up to brush at the corner of his mouth as he glances back at Caliban when he makes his weary announcement. His back stiffens in some misplaced affront at this news, before he sets his glass aside and caps the whiskey bottle. As much as he might dislike the woman, he's taking the token of her appreciation for seeing Caliban here.
And leaving him here. "So can I. Because no," he emphasizes, with renewed venom in Abby's direction, "I was not thrilled about coming here. You know nothing about me. Not a thing." More slyly, he adds. "Not as much as I know you."
His heels hit the ground heavily, not quite stomping, as Logan— completely forgets his velvet jacket on the couch and makes for the door, the Glen Breton Rare under the wing of his folded arm.
Only Caliban can see the roll of her eyes. Sure, everyone knows more about her than they should. Obviously, not enough or he would've known about her being unable to heal anymore. Blue replaces the roll of white as the pink haired woman nods. "I have some spare clothes upstairs, I can get you. You also don't look too pale, Derek's parcel might not be needed, if you don't want it." Logan's not getting a goodbye, but you can be sure that when she eventually goes to lock the door later, there will be a shotgun and she will be looking under the tables for him.
"I don't know how you stand him" She's making no effort to not be overheard by Logan, nor to make sure it's heard by Logan. "You're right though, just a scratch. You'll be right as rain in a week or more" She rocks back to sit on her heels, cock her head to the side.
"Treat him as you would a petulant child and I think you'll find that he's actually quite easy to get along with," Caliban says, settling in on the couch, making himself comfortable with subtle shifts in his body language and posture. There's no thank you, no verbal acknowledgment for what Abigail has done for him in addition what he's already offered — which has been very little.
"I don't know that I ever can Robert, treat him as anything but what I think he is" Which is scum of the earth. Not like Caliban has endured at the feet of the pimp, just had to babysitt him. "I'll get those things for you, get you settled in down here and I'll write down the number for the security system for you to punch in before you go" So he doesn't set it off. It's late at night, there is blood on the sleeves of her robe, and a little her and there. Nothing she can't take care of in the morning.
"I'll bring you a basin of hot water too, so you can wash down. Bathroom's upstairs, if you're feel adventurous later" She trust Caliban, which may be very stupid but the man's never really done her wrong. The remote is pulled over and put into his hand. "I'll wash your clothes, there's the TV to entertain you. Derek comes in just send him away" And the pink haired woman is gathering her trash and heading for the re-enforced door that leads to the upstairs apartment.