Participants:
| Scene Title | Chemicals |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Logan picks a fight, and gets one. |
| Date | February 20, 2010 |
Wendy's Apartment
The day could have started worse. Before Wendy could head to St. Luke's and see Logan checked out, he'd arrived at her door — whole and healthy if not wholesome, ever. Free of scars, even the more recent ones that had scored him some weeks ago when the Nightmare Man decided to play with knives — likely burned away only to heal again. Not all scars, of course — no matter how many run-throughs the man seems to have with Daniel Linderman's brand of healing, the crisscross rivets running in spiderwebs on his right leg have never gone away.
Girls have lied to him about them before, others ignore them. He wasn't anymore self-conscious that morning than he was the first time he'd undressed for Wendy Hunter.
The hiss of water of a running shower lends an ambiance to the apartment where Logan hadn't bothered to switch on the radio or television for distraction upon waking. Rolled out of bed, located pants — black slacks to match the black shirt he pulls on and leaves gratuitously open, finds a beer in the kitchen and roams around the currently empty space like he owns it. No electronics are switched on by the time Wendy is out of the shower — Logan's situated upon a couch in the living room, feet against the edge of the coffee table and wandering what appears to be a 10 mL vial of Refrain across the backs of his fingers. Not very well — it falls into his lap occasionally.
Everyone has their own scars. Wendy too since the day Danko shot her cellphone out of her hand. Black leggings, green jersey tunic and a tank top beneath, strap bared by the way the tunic only rides one shoulder, she's drying her hair with a blue towel while padding out from the hallway and into the livingroom. She's been thrilled to see him out of the hospital and glad that the broken leg had been mended and for once, he wasn't showing up on her doorstop with one injury or another.
"I was planning on hitting up a showing in Morningside. Gallery that sometimes takes my pieces, she's got some new sculpturist that she said I'd probably enjoy seeing. Not your thing, but if you want, you can co-" Her words cut off at the sight of the blue vial, brown eyes flickering from it up to him, back down to it. "I haven't touched it"
He rolls his attention up from the syringe towards her, and surprise or distraction could be coyly feigned. In this case, it actually seems to be genuine, Logan caught off guard before neutrality sets back in, coiling his fingers around the capped needle and tucking his knuckles beneath his chin. "I didn't say you did," he counters. "And I've got to go to work in about an hour, so you'll just have to drink a glass of champagne for me and feel bored on my behalf." Eyes go slightly crescent in an attempted smile.
And then taking his feet off the furniture and leaning forward. The box is a familiar one, and to Wendy's credit, it's not exactly stocked, not like he remembers. The other one that was rattling around in there is picked out, gathered into the same hand.
She watches him like a hawk, damp black hair bedraggled over shoulder in stringy waves, eyes tracking where his hands go and the grabbing of the second and last vial in her apartment. "You'll have to stare at Jolene and slip some fives in her g-string for me too then, at Burlesque" Wendy does like to go there now and then with friends, be the hen party in the corner and waste money.
'What are you going to do with those?" She's trying to choose her words carefully, looking away from them and to him, slowly massaging the towel into the ends of her hair.
Glass creaks and scrapes together in a closed fist as his other hand bats shut the box, Logan flowing to his feet and pacing away from both her and the couch, into the wider spaciousness of the expansive apartment. "Dunno yet. Suppose I could leave them with you to keep not touching. Empty them down the sink or into my own veins. Sell them for an easy sixty on the street. Or I could do this." Soccer doesn't have a lot of throwing involved, except for sometimes when the ball bounces out of bounds from the foot of the other team, but Logan's throw is still pretty good, enough to shatter thinner glass and scratch thicker as he—
Rather matter of factly pitches one vial at the window in a lithe and fluid motion, forever making up for strength in viciousness and intent. It leaves a blue smear, barely enough liquid to drip but spattered all the same on the window. His own audacity serves to amuse him, a low chuckle something Wendy can hear rather than see, with his back still turned to her.
"What are you do-"
The question is cut off when he turns and throws one of the pair at the window. That motion causing her drop the towel and start forward with one hand outstretched as if that alone could stop the vial from shattering. But it can't and the horrified look on her face says it all. "Logan!"
Wendy moves forward after the initial shock, snatching up the towel, lips pressed together. "Did you hit your head in the god damned nightmare?!"
Sort of, he wants to say. He'd like to cite some manner of injury, but even Logan isn't too sure. He uncaps the second syringe, its pixie-eye point exposed and gleaming, held at a cocked angle with his fingers in waiting, as if about to depress the plunger. "Come closer and you'll get exactly what you want," he says, mouth pulling into a sneer. "I swear to fucking Christ." Pale eyes flick down to it, knowing not even a little bit of temptation, his vices contained to cigarettes and, well.
This. "How long?" His voice is less severe, but brooks no argument, no denial, as he steers a sharp look back at her. "How long's it been?"
Oh but to throw herself on that syringe, to move closer and just let him do it. But Bella's call, and then seeing Logan, what was done to him by this entity, this person in nightmares and the price he paid for just one shot of the stuff. Hands tighten into balls and twist at the towel, turning it one way, then the other. But she refrains - pun unintended - from moving forwards, bare toes digging into the wooden flooring.
"In uhh, in two days it'll be two weeks. Since I had some. My friend called to give me shit and ask me to stay off it, get off it" Her attention splits between him and what he's holding in his hand. "I had three syringes but, the, the bank robbery the other day, I gave one to the frontline officer to use on the robbers, before they killed anyone else. Please, put the cap on it and put it back, I need it Logan"
Wendy doesn't come have to fling herself forward; Logan is meeting her halfway. It's probably not a bad deal, he still has his shirt open for the luxurious central heating her condo provides, his movements loose and relaxed from how he's spent his morning with her, and of course, a glimmering, glowing syringe of her poison of choice in his hand. His expression steals away from this, however, something of a mixed signal, all hard edges and a baleful kind of distrust in his eyes.
"For?" he asks, coming to a halt that's an invasion of personal space unless she backs up first.
"To hold it. To touch it and look at it and think about it. It's my last cigarette stuck in the box and put up high. I can't go to the refrain support group, there's too many people there now, I haven't gone in a few weeks, but that, those two that were in the box, they…" She doesn't back up, just twisting at the cotton towel in her hands, looking Logan in the face.
"I get a high, the smallest one, off of just touching and holding them Logan. You wouldn't understand! It's how I've managed to make it this long. I curl up on the fucking couch and hug them John. I curl up and think about how fucking nice it would be to just empty one into my fucking veins and make the need go away. Make it so that i'm not sitting in the bookstore with hands that itch to do it, not sitting beside your hospital bed and wishing I could just shoot up okay? Does that explain why you can't throw that one at the window? Because I made a fucking promise to myself not to buy anymore and that's my last fucking one"
Sharp reminders about what she's done for him the past week could be an attempt to guilt a brick wall. Logan is impassive, coolly so, though it's different to the bad tempered energy that had him destroying her possessions. Eventually, his gaze dips down towards the needle, staring at it, and he recaps it with a delicate movement. Just as carefully, the vial is tossed safely onto the couch, bouncing on fabric of a high thread count, luminous blue patterning across it.
It doesn't end there. He moves forward, arms abruptly snaring around her shoulders, grasping his wrist with the other hand to bracket her inside. They're of a practically equal height, but most people are when it comes to Logan, or taller still. People he makes a career out of intimidating. Muscles flex steely beneath shirt sleeves and he smells mostly like her, still.
"And you like to hold me. You like to touch me. 's why you sit at my bedside, call me to yours."
"You're not a replacement for the refrain. You've never been a replacement for the refrain. You're an entirely different fucking drug John. Part of why I do this, besides the fact that I like you, that I like being with you is that, each time you use your ability on me, your negation, your as bad as the Refrain, maybe worse because you don't cost me any money and there's more to you than a pinch and a nice high afterwards" Part of her distracted at the touch, the chemical buzz that accompanies it when he does.
"But I can't call you at a moments notice when I need a hit. You have a life and I have a fucked up crazy life that takes me everywhere and that stuff.." There's relief at the safety of the vial, not spilling it's contents all over her couch, shifting her face to one side of Logan's own face, dropping her voice to a lower volume "That stuff can be found on every corner. I've been taking that since it came out on the streets months ago. I'm having a fucking hard time imagining life day to day, without that stuff and I know that in a few more days, I am going to wish I hadn't decided to try and get off it and you won't be seeing me because I'll be curled up in my fucking bed and crying cause that is all I want"
She turns her head, just enough to look him in the eye, keeping still in his embrace and wrist loose. "I stopped after you did your thing, I was clean for a little bit, till that fucking nightmare and since then… since then, it's you or it's it"
He's watching her as she speaks with a predator's avidness, words tracked, counted, assessed. Clear eyes show off no power use, but he doesn't have to to sense it, the shift in dopamine in response to his proximity, the same she experiences when curled up around her syringes, stroking a fingertip down numbered glass where blue light inks into fingerprints. Logan takes a breath, and it comes out as a chuckle. "It's amazing how honest you can be while still remaining a fucking liar," he says. "It's not me or it. It's one and the same. Maybe you just started running out of happy memories. It's probably beginning to give you reruns.
"I can feel it, Wendy. You say I don't understand? I do. How you feel when you get your hands on it, when you get your hands on me. The same response, the same everything, in your blood, in your brain. I understand it in ways you can't fathom because that's what I am. And I understand you — you're an addict. Simplest puzzle on the fucking shelf."
He releases her, then, simply letting her go with the apathy of a seatbelt being drawn up from its hold. Not especially flustered, or even visibly upset, although his breathing comes shallow and he's not really making eye contact.
"You understand the chemicals John. The CHEMICALS!" The last yelled at him. "You don't understand the psychological. I never said I wasn't I never claimed to not be an addict. I am an addict, I never stop being one. I just transfer my addictions. I just held them at bay for three years before I gave in again." At the release, Wendy's making for the couch, towel thrown down to one side, the syringe snatched up with her other hand and she turns to stalk back to Logan and brandish it in front of his face. "I'm addicted to this. I'm addicted to you. One does not cancel the other out and there's treatment programs for this"
The Refrain is jerk towards his face before she turns and does what he did earlier, Throwing it against the window where the previous one had gone. It doesn't quite have his force, but it's enough. "But there is no cure for you. There's no detox or rehab program for you or what you can do. Are you happy?" Wendy points a shaking hand at the smears of blue on her window. "It's gone, all of it. You can search the rest of my fucking place if you want. If it'll make you happy."
Snake-quick, his hand goes to snatch her wrist, the one pointing for the window. Her arm is brought down with a tug, pulling her close, it's not comfortable — muscles and bones twinge in Wendy's wrist because they aren't supposed to be going this way. "Don't ever yell at me again," Logan states, each word pronounced clearly, coldly, and he's quick to release her. Struggling would probably break or dislocate something, or make him feel foolish for not being able to hold on tight enough. "Let me tell you a secret — you were going to use it again. You've got no choice. Or maybe crystal meth. Marijuana. Wine. Fucking.
"Me. Everything is chemical. The rest is bullshit fantasy, stories written around simple biology. I've got to go to work now."
"I didn't hear you complain while we were fucking a few hours ago" Wendy dares to yell and declare at him again, only after he's let her go though, nostrils flare, the folds going white when she does and anger seeping further into her face and her body. "And last I knew, you weren't a fucking pre-cog either" Shot back at him. "You go to work, try to enjoy your day John and your negation"
This is kind of how it broke down with Toru too, and pretty much everyone else before that, which it probably didn't have to, much like Wendy doesn't have to take Refrain. His eyes flash— not the unnatural kind, just the stupid mundane oh no you didn't kind— when she somehow does what he told her not to do, and like a hairtrigger, Logan's hand comes up as if about to deal an open palmed slap. He's going to regret this later— the not hitting back— and fingernails dig into his palm instead, taking a jerky step back as if he needed to.
Instead, he asks, icily, "That a threat?"
"That afraid of anyone finding out what you really do?" There's an angry smirk on her face, hands drawn into fists at her side, she was anticipating him doing something. "That fucking afraid of what will happen if they know you can give someone such a fucking high that they'll do god knows what? That you can addict them to you? That negation is only one trick your bag?" Her chin lifts a fraction, staring him down.
"Take that, take that and multiply it by about a hundred and that's how fucking afraid I was after he blew my fucking fingers off and blew my ear off and how fucking afraid I am to get off one of the two things that make me fucking happy"
Wendy's shoulders rise then fall once in a shrugs, turning on her heel and taking the first few steps presumably away from him. "Don't you worry about me. I'll be fine. Bella's trying to find me a place not filled with Evo's to help me get off this shit. Go get dressed and get to work before your dancers wonder whether you're still in the hospital or not"
"No," Logan snarls at her back. "You don't get to dismiss me. Fucking listen. I tried to get you off it. I did everything right and you still— " Rage shorts out his vocabulary, elegant features finally flushing with anger, mouth in an unpretty scowl that shows teeth and true colours both. He should probably pick a thing to be angry at and stick with it, although by now it's all kind of meshed into one sort of messy thing, the same blind anger he has for Hokuto for things he can only express if he takes a moment to breathe.
So he does, this time. Before she can tell him to leave, he's moving, headed for the bedroom where he kept his clothing, bare feet still managing to sound loud against the floor as he sweeps by.
"Think I haven't thought about asking you to do it again?!" The bedroom was where she was going too, not finished dressing, needing to blowdry her hair still. "That I haven't spent more than a few times with a finger on your phonebook entry on my cell and asking you to try again? You did everything right, everything right to get me off it physically. It's not all Chemical John. "What you do works, but I don't want to take the fucking easy way out again. It doesn't teach me a single fucking thing. Fuck, this is like the fight about your fucking boss all over again. Wendy, why haven't you asked me to have him heal you, wendy, you should ask me to have him heal you"
Rather pettily, Logan bats the door closed as he goes, although not quick or hard enough for it to shut in her face or bounce bruises off the woman trailing in after him. "Yes well maybe I think you're pathetic for weakness defining you. Too afraid to get off Refrain, too afraid of getting told no, and you're only telling me to leave because I'm just a fucking phonecall away. Knight in shining fucking armor." Buttoning up his shirt, he's careful not to miss a button and have to redo it.
Mission accomplished, however, he snatches the jacket he'd draped over the end of the bed and swings it up over his shoulders, pushing his arms through the sleeves, mouth set into a line against words that are getting more and more Brixton as he hisses them.
"What part of it's almost two fucking weeks was not-" She cuts herself off, bar foot kicking at her door vicious enough to make it bounce off the wall inside and rebound back to slap against her palm. "Fuck you. Go back to your dancers and your bar, call me when you actually care" The door is slammed shut, cutting him off from her and she stomps down the hall to go into one of the spare bedrooms and slam that door behind her too.
He has words, a whole bunch of them, and it's entirely possible that there's a coherent argument in there somewhere even if it's a bit like sifting through the sand for golden glimmers of rationality. It doesn't much matter — she's two slammed doors away and can only hear him stomping around until, finally, perhaps a minute and a half later, the crackshot blam of her front door shutting closed is ricochets an echo through her apartment.
It should be noted he didn't leave behind the key, although whether this was a conscious decision is yet to be determined.