Chung Chung


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Scene Title Chung Chung
Synopsis Minutes after Vincent liberates Logan from Cooper's clutches, they manage to make a clean getaway to the nearest elevator before Felix can gimp to intervene. On the way down, territories are marked and intentions are made clear. Sort of.
Date November 15, 2009

NYPD Headquarters

Out the door they go, once silvery handcuffs are gone. Felix has a crowd to struggle through and as far as Logan is concerned, he's home, listening only to Vincent. Arms freed, the first thing he does is fix the cuffs of his shirt and jacket, before smoothing long fingers through rumpled blonde hair. Primping promptly halts, however, and pale green eyes slice on over towards Vincent as he takes a tone with him, Logan angling his chin up a little as pale skin flushes a little pinker at points. Tonight is just—

Brilliant. His tone is acid when he speaks after a moment of glaring. "Well I'll thank you for the favour and be on my way, Detective Lazzaro, although you can stick your book up your own arse, kindly. They hadn't a thing on me that would stick."

Having perhaps heard the tail end of his name being called (it's a distinctive one, even in a department brimming with wops,) Vincent is walking briskly, as Vincents who do not care to speak with federal officials right now do. He still has his file folder too, a little bent around one edge now that it's been shuffled around under his arm out've the way. Fortunately, this hallway isn't as crowded as the room they're leaving behind, and he's quick to turn left and then right into an alcove featuring sextuplet elevators. He pushes the button himself, surveying Logan with a sidelong glare the color and consistency of tar while he waits. And waits. And waits. In silence, we'll note.

Uncomfortable silence.

When he speaks, he does so quietly and reasonably. Maybe even politely, if not for the fact that he is looking at the pimp like he might stare down a cat who has pissed on his very most favorite tie. "Everyone in that facility could and likely will be charged with possession, Mr. Logan. If you can see it, you can possess it. It sounds like Detective Cooper had also fingered you as a source while 'in character.' That takes your tawdry possession charge up to 'criminal sale of a controlled substance.' …Which is a felony. And a sticky one, you'll find, if Linderman expects me to clean up this kind of bullshit regularly."

Logan's mouth opens, somewhere in there, as if he might protest - but somehow manages to think against it and snaps teeth closed again around the time the word felony is being dropped between them. He comes to fold his arms across his narrow torso, looking down his nose at Vincent as much as he can. Still, when silence— albeit less uncomfortable except maybe for Logan— settles between them once more, it doesn't for very long.

"You might want to look into another line of work, then, or he'll have you checking the spots you missed too. My career is this kind of bullshit. Perhaps his people in the precinct would do better to warn me when a raid is going down."

Or, Logan could. Check. And then not hang up his phone. His hands settle on his hips. "What would you like me to say - that I'll be good from now on?"

"Are you really sure you're worth so much to him? You haven't been worth much to me." Only one brow slid into a dismissive tilt, Vincent tugs his glasses down the length of his nose and folds them carefully over, hardly touching the lenses at all. "Powdering your ass was not part of our agreement. You can consider this a one time courtesy. And you're welcome to tell him so."

'Ding,' says the elevator. Vincent stays looking at Logan until his glasses are tucked away and he's smoothed out the lines of his suit again, even going so far as to thumb over the knot of his tie before he steps towards the open slide of gunmetal elevator doors. Expectant that John will follow.

"I'm not the usual uniformed ass puppet here to grease his paycheck. If push comes to shove over our heads, I'm sure my superiors will be willing to discuss new terms to define our arrangement. If you shove me, I will fuck you." He flattens out his expression as he reaches to press at the ground floor button, uncomfortably aware of the camera angled in at the clean line of his shoulders when he steps back into place. "I would like you to say that you'll be more intelligent about your business from now on."

He follows, there not being much choice as to where else to go, although proximity seems to be to Logan's disliking, standing at a not uncomfortable distance from Vincent. His hands tuck into the pockets of his jacket, eyes wandering up to the coloured lights of the floor numbers, watching the G. "We serve different functions," is stated more petulantly than Logan intends, as to whether or not he's worth anything to Vincent.

Or to Linderman, for that matter. His shoulders consciously square up from their customary slouch. "I have no intention of shoving you, so back off, little man. I wasn't at the fucking den on my own fucking time, yeah?" Still, all the same, the words come thin between John's teeth—

"I will be more intelligent about my business from now on."

"I'm sure it was all a simple misunderstanding." Passive aggreement is tacitly more infuriating than direct contradiction, and Vincent's reflection in the closed doors looks sideways over at Logan again, unruffled. Then again, it's easy to look unruffled when what little hair he has is a shadow running 'round jaw and skull to intersect with the scar that's jagged slender across his temple and over his ear. At least in that there is literally nothing to ruffle.

The look he cants at Logan's crotch (also sideways) is nothing short of dourly speculative at the 'little man' comment, but he declines to say anything. He looks at the descending ladder of light through the floor numbers instead, hands falling into a lazy parade rest at his back while he waits. "Good."

Come on, elevators, go ding. Logan waits in uneasy silence, and when the elevator grinds to its halt, he's quick to step out and into the foyer of the NYPD headquarters at a lanky-legged saunter. Better blindly drift for what he guesses to be out, rather then deign to be led around by the man beside him and his polite words. "And if there's anything further I can do for you, detective, doubtless you know where to find me," could almost be a come on or at least a cordial invitation to pursue a civil business relationship, if not for the ice in his voice and glance. It's meant to be a goodbye.

"I do," says Vincent, who does. He makes sure it sounds that way, too: like a promise, complete with half a smile when he reaches to press the 'close doors' button. The elevator doors clamp through ice and careful manners alike, snipping tidy suit away from tidy suit so that the numbers can get back to climbing and Lazzaro can get back to whatever the hell it is he's supposed to be doing.

Logan watches the silver doors shut until the two men are neatly separated once more. "Prick," is muttered, before he's withdrawing his cellphone from an inner pocket and making brisk strides for out while he dials a number so as to fire his failure of a watchman and getaway driver. If only because yelling at someone would be therapeutic.

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