Participants:
| Scene Title | Because You're Not Worth It |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Abigail visits Burlesque to see for herself if Logan's okay and to threaten. But when face to face with him, there's only pity. He reminds her to never come back. |
| Date | October 11, 2009 |
A flashy little strip club, its name advertised in bright neon pink above the door in swooping cursive, with the figure of a woman outlined in the same seeming to kick a leg with each flash of the light. Two bouncers stand by the door, which is a reflective chrome and stays closed unless opened by the security duo, with a red carpeting extending out onto the pavement. They will check you for I.D. before permitting you entrance. You'll be greeted by a woman in full burlesque regalia, with exaggerated makeup, a corset that barely keeps everything in, fishnets and feathers. Provided you can pay the cover charge, she will show you to a table, offer to get your first drink of the evening, and leave you alone to enjoy what Burlesque has to offer.
The main room's focal point is the generous stage, a circular platform with Broadway lights around the edges, and a catwalk that extends further out into the scattered round tables where patrons can sit and drink. The lights that shine down on it are never particularly clear, often shards of pink, green, blue, which hide as much as they reveal. There is almost always a dancer on the stage, even as even more girls move around the room to give more intimate shows on tabletops. There's a long bar that crawls along one side of the room, with a couple of bartenders behind it, a counter of black glass with rows and rows of liquor on display on glass shelves. Leather booths are tucked away towards the back, offering some privacy for whatever purpose.
Despite the proposed theme of the club, impressions of burlesque only factor in with the permanent staff and particular shows of featured dancers. Otherwise, the tunes are standard for any kind of strip club, and the girls will wear what they like. There are private lounges for more expensive, personal shows, and a darkly lit, obscured staircase leading up to both dressing rooms and the manager's office.
In contrast to the glitter and glamour of Burlesque in its evening hours, or even the Happy Dagger at all hours of the night, the strip club shows its age and use when sunlight hits through the gauzy curtains and the show, as it were, is not put on. No red carpet is laid out, and only one bouncer in day clothes paces lazily out front the doors, a cigarette pinched off between his lips and a bored look in his eyes. He checks IDs, including the fake ones, and presses a hand against chrome doors, shoving them open with a chin up to the lads and a leer to the ladies.
Inside, A Whole Lotta Love pulses from a jukebox wired to the sound system that makes the ground vibrate just a little with each drive of bass. Not a feather or sequin in sight, Burlesque is like any trashy strip joint one can come across in this city in the afternoon hours. A woman struts around the center stage, where a handful of men sit separated and watching, and another entertains a couple of men nearest the back. A bartender drags a cloth across the long, glass bar. Logan's presence, in decor or in person, is not immediately felt or noticed.
Abigail could not look any the more out of place. Khaki skirt that comes to her knee's, a plain cotton top and a wrap around sweater beneath her leather jacket. But there she is with her fake ID that reads "Stephanie Tarkin" Low heels complete the look. She plans on attending evening service at some point. Really all she'd need to look even more out of place is pearls.
She averts her eyes from the woman prancing about in her underthings, underthings that frankly probably cost more than her entire outfit and pays attention to the bar, not that it ever got her attention. The redhead waits quietly till the man who slings the alcohol behind the counter offers attention to her before she speaks up. "Could you tell John Logan that Abigail Beauchamp is here" That should get his attention. "And I'll take a cola please"
Her name means nothing to the bartender, who's been working here since before an Englishmen started strutting around like he ran the place. He lifts an eyebrow and tilts his head in a nod, focused more on serving up her cola than he is, initially, at bothering the man upstairs. Setting down the tall glass, he abandons post to send the message through, then it's back to pouring out whiskeys for the scantily clad waitress to deliver to the gentlemen at the back of the bar.
Abby is a good half-way through her drink before she sees either hide or hair of Logan. He descends down a staircase that's lit only minimally, out of the way and almost difficult to spot unless one were looking for it. Fixing his collar as he goes, his expression is solemn as he darts a glance to stage, to seats, to booths, and then finally to bar.
Perhaps he didn't actually expect the message he was given to be accurate. Surely— surely— there had to have been some kind of mistake. Though he's expecting to see a princess of blonde locks, there's certainly no mistaking the rest of her. Face stony and gaze sharp, Logan stands solid at the base of the stairs for a couple of seconds, before a glance away confirms that she in fact alone. He's dressed as well as she could remember him, if much more sedately, in a three-piece pinstripe suit minus the jacket, and an egg-shell blue shirt, collar free of a tie.
Which doesn't completely make up for the thing he wears on his hand, shining metal capturing three of his fingers and glittering with a row of rhinestones. Upon closer inspection, bandages bind fingers together beneath it, but the dazzle could almost hide it. Which is rather the point. His other hand rests in a pocket in his slacks as he strides on over, though not quickly, by any means.
She'd be calm, she'd be cool, collected. The red head would not flinch at the sight of John Logan. If wishes were horses, she'd be all those, but while he's standing there being stony, her heart is pitter pattering away in her check and her stomach is suddenly twisting into a thousand knots and she's got the taste of bile in the back of her throat as she looks away.
Steel herself, suck it up, suck it in. Let him come to her instead of her getting up from the bar. There's a phantom twinge of pain from her midriff when she lifts her face again to settle on him and his progress across the floor.
It's because of her upbringing that he even gets a nod of her head in greeting to him.
If he has a problem with coming to her over the other way around, it doesn't show on his face or manifest as hesitation in his stride. The last time they'd laid eyes upon each other, fire had been roaring from the charred remains of his brothel, sending hell light to mimic his own fury before the crack of the shotgun had near ended everything. Right now, dancing lights from the stage and the dim glow around the bar is nothing even close to the ripples of fire-glow, and whatever anger he has for her now, he's reduced it to a stiff back and a tense jaw as opposed to the culmination of his temper that last evening.
She doesn't get a nod back as he comes to stand some distance away, along the length of the bar. Her perch on the high chair brings her almost level in gaze. "What do you think you're doing here?" A step forward, with a creak of leather shoes. "I mean honestly, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"
His words are spoken gently, voice almost soft, despite his hard gaze, the emphasis, the direct nature of his questions.
"Came to make sure that someone hadn't tried to kill you in my name. What with being shot twice in the leg. But seeing as you're upright and mobile with only your hand looking like you slammed it in the rhinestone maker of some rock star… I'm assuming Daniel Linderman paid you a visit or it was a lie that someone told me" Her hands are tight around the cola glass and blue eyes not very friendly.
"I never asked anyone to shoot you. If I did, they would have gone for your midriff and you would have been picking buckshot out of your kidney's for a month. And it would have been me who did it, not some other person with misguided motives"There's a deep swift inhale, gathering courage and settling it like steel around her spine.
Logan glances down at his hand, lifts the splint with a spread of fingers, before his attention returns back to her. His eyes are squinted as if trying to decipher her words, or at least, read between the lines, but that tension smooths out eventually, leaving behind an expression more sullen than irritated. As the bartender tentatively approaches, Logan allows for the distraction, glances to him and only points to a bottle of vodka sitting high on a shelf.
No need to pay, and erstwhile pimp says nothing until a glass of two measures is set out. Wrapping a hand around the glass, with a gentle clink of aluminum to crystal, he knocks back a brisk mouthful. When he speaks, his voice is a little rawer for it, "And why haven't you?"
"Because sitting here, looking at you, I realize that you are just not worth the hatred that I carry for you John Logan. She was right, Hokuto was right. There's more to you than one can see and you don't get to how you were without something happening to you. I don't know what happened to you to make you grow up to be this when you could have been better but it must have been pretty crappy Logan." Another inhale but this one seems to lift her shoulders, square them, straighten her back. "Because I admire and respect Robert Caliban enough to not want to make his life more horrid than it already is since he's saddled with dealing with you."
The redhead pushes the unfinished cola towards the business end of the bar. "Yes, he told me you were working for him. Told me why you're working for him, and I can understand it. It's Daniel Linderman. No surprise there. So what happened to your hand? You try to kidnapp another healer?"
Somewhere during that, possibly around the word 'better', Logan polishes off his vodka and sets the glass down with a definite if delicate sounding impact of glass to glass. A twist of a sneer at the name Robert Caliban is communicated without a word, something alighting in his eyes although he manages to still his tongue before speaking of it. Speaking of which—
"Still a talker, I see."
He isn't sitting down, still standing with the bar to his elbow and back straight. Temper, now, manages to spark in his voice, though he keeps it to a low volume all the same. "You couldn't care less what happened to my hand except to enjoy the details, so piss off. Needless to say I know something about suffering, but you're wrong. Nothing happened to make me this way and if it did, it wouldn't be any of your business. And no, you weren't lied to - I was shot in the leg, and the shooter was a presumptuous cunt too."
"Cutting out my tongue John Logan, still didn't stop me" She expects the flare of green, of ability to kick in and make her flush and grow giddy, for his eyes to take on that luminescence that she came to know and expect. "You'd be surprised what I care about Logan" There's a glance to his leg and a purse of lips. "I came to say something else, but it's pointless as well. I need to thank you though. I really do" Abigail pushes away from the bar, a five dollar bill laid down for the bartender as tip.
Viciousness keels into indignation and spiteful confusion, Logan watching with glassy, pale eyes as she sets about putting money on the bar. There's no flare of green, no pin prick of ability to send her into a panic or into bliss. Rapid blinks of irritation as that bait is set out, and, he can't help it— he takes it.
"For what?"
"For making me a better woman John Logan. For making me a stronger woman and realizing there's worse things out there than fear" There's a smile on her face, not a shit eating grin or gloating one. Just one of self realization, affirmation.
"There's pity Logan. Worse than fear, is feeling everyone else's pity. Have a good evening, I have service to go to. I'll pray for you" She turns then, heading towards the exit. "There's a healer, her name is Mrs. Hadley. Piece of Cake Bakery. If you ask nice, she'll take away your hurts maybe even give you a cookie afterward. Try not to kidnap her. You'd be surprised who'd come after you, Linderman's protection or not"
The concept of being prayed for gets a slow blink, the idea of love thy enemy one he sees very little worth in even if he could understand the basics of Christian morality. She's wrong about one thing - it wouldn't surprise him, not anymore, about who would come after him. Logan slants a gaze away from her to look in the warped reflections in the bar, about ready to turn towards it and order another shot before climbing back upstairs to curl up with his thoughts and what passes for feelings.
Instead, he pushes away, though doesn't quite follow her. "Wait. Just— hang on a moment."
She's seen him flustered before, in the middle of rage and fear. This is a more subtle brand, a nagging at his attention that makes his expression seem puzzled. At least he's asking her to stop. Protection or not, broken hand or not, he rarely asks for anything - as Abby would well know.
She turns towards him three quarters, glancing at the blonde man. She'll stop, give it to him, these few moments. Not like she's alone. There's someone waiting outside for her and her cellphone is set to speedial at a press of a button in case he tried something funny.
As ever, there is a knife on his person, although it's left in his pocket, both hands at his sides though they soon come to rest against his arms when he folds them across his torso, remembering to tip his jaw in a proud cant of his head, finger splint glittering in the crook of his elbow. "I've got two questions." How many he expects her to answer can't be said— both of them, perhaps.
He steers a step forward. Dancers dance, bartenders clean, men watch the women who aren't dressed in church clothes. Logan and Abigail have themselves to themselves.
"Who's Hokuto?" Unsettling, that name, for reasons Logan couldn't even begin to fathom, though Abigail could probably take a stab in the dark. He pauses, glances down towards the floor between them before levelly asking, "And what were you going to say?"
"You know who she is Logan" The way he's looking at the floor, that he asked her to stop. "You don't need to ask me who she is. She's visited you, I can see it in your face. As for what I was going to say. It's pointless. I trust him." Who him is, is up for any interpretation. Her shoulders are still squared, uncow'd and chin high. "You want to know who Hokuto is, just call out for her, she'll come. Just be nice to her. I have a feeling there's a wolf somewhere, beneath her lambs wool"
"There is." It's a short answer, clipped and defensive, but without the snarling that is so often present when it comes to Logan and what things fall on the side of bad. Perhaps Hokuto and her wolf-ness does not, at least not completely. Glancing around, Logan pushes his hands back into his pockets. "I don't think I need to say this, but I'll say it anyway— don't come back here. Give my love to Caliban, in whatever way you seem to."
It's his turn to step away, moving to pivot on a heel. As she'd shown her back to him, he trusts the same that nothing will befall him - or that if it does, it won't be so critical a mistake to not be worth it.
In unison it seems, heels dug in, pivot, stride off. Leonard's outside and waiting and Abigail will more than gladly obey his last request. Stay away. Not a problem there as she offers a smile to the bouncer and slips him a tip and a polite thank you. How many people actually thank them? It's not till she's outside and heading towards her SUV, climbing into the drivers side and buckling her seat belt that she'll turn to her passenger and let out a pent up breath, turn on the car and drive the hell away.