Dumb and Sweet


delia_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Dumb and Sweet
Synopsis Logan and Delia make a deal, she gets the dogs sometimes and she gets to keep her mouth shut.
Date February 9, 2011

The Corinthian — Delia's Room

Bunch of things got broken. Sorry. It’ll get paid for.

Only one text was sent in apology for the disaster of the room. Less than three days later, everything is back in its proper place, including Delia. There's no sound coming from room 504, to peer through the window from the outside, a dim light can be seen but not much else. The bed is empty, the television is turned off, and in the easy chair, the quietly dozing form of a redhead can be seen.

She's curled into a small ball, her socked feet hanging over one arm while the rest of her is folded up in a plush white robe, damp curly hair soaking the other arm. On her lap the dog eared gift from Eileen is held open with one finger. She was reading, before the quiet and the darkness got the better of her. As such, she doesn't hear the knock, not right away at least.

"Hmm?" she jerks awake, like she just heard her name being called. "Uhm— Minute." Her sleepy voice is just loud enough to get through the door, the person on the other side though, he could likely open it all by himself.

Swoosh, goes the keycard after 2.3 seconds of impatience, and Logan twists the door handle loose, and pushes the door open with a finger. It doesn't creak open, too well-oiled for that, but there's that hint of strain as hinges turn under momentum, portal eased wide so that the lanky Briton behind it can rest a shoulder against the frame. Having mostly just gotten a text while shaving his face and navigating cautious around the bruise that marred it, readily dismissed by the time he was done (and helped along by the fact that texts to him are as intangible as random thoughts), he isn't sure what to expect when he darts a glance around the place.

It's fine.

Well that's—


It's taken him a while to come back. He knows.

"Knock knock," Logan announces, sliding in. Dressed in black, today, and a brutal splash of skin mashed by first some few days ago stains yellow and greenish-blue on the side of his face, broken up on the inside enough to irritate still against his teeth, bleeding anew when anxious.

Giving a self conscious tug of the robe to fit it a little better around her thin frame, Delia cinches it just a bit tighter to keep it that way. "M— Hi," she answers breathless to his announcement, no name simply because she doesn't know what to call him. Mister? It seems so formal. Logan? Too informal. She's pulling herself to a stand, after arranging her clothing, and getting better at it too. A smile graces her features but it wanes and drops when she turns to look at the man standing in the doorway.

"Oh my god… Are you okay?" The few steps that it takes to get to his side are a little off balance, recovered nicely by the fact that the long dresser is readily available for her hand. When she gets as close to him as possible, she leans backward against the piece of furniture. "Come here, let me see." Her tone is gentle, concerned. It matches the expression on her face.

There's a canine wariness in the face of genuine concern, cynicism trying to find her ~angle~ or other such ridiculousness, and it has Logan trapped in the frame of the door before he steps in. Bruises on his face aside, he moves with enough grace that he's probably not hurt anywhere else, barring the scars she now knows better than others who have simply detected his limp in the past, when something happens to show it up. The ones that had shattered bone beneath them and then metal screws. There are several things imperfect about Logan. That one, he'd shown her willingly en route to rooting, as it were.

Others more insistent, and it's a phonecall he'd almost had no choice to spy on that niggles at his brain as he closes the door behind him. Still. "I'm always okay," Logan assures her, mouth cutting a half-smile over her, before moving closer, hands out as if to receive her. "You should've seen the other bloke."

Shaking her head, she lowers her eyes and stares at the carpet for a moment before tentatively stepping forward. Grasping at his forearms, Delia tries to keep herself up on her own two legs rather than rely on Logan. She succeeds, at least for half a minute. "I don't like to see you hurt," she emits earnestly, pursing her lips just enough to set them in a straight line. This is the second time she's seen this type of injury on him.

"You're sure?" It seems that she needs the reassurance a little more than he needs the nursing, still she tries. That close to Logan, she takes a few long whiffs of his cologne, the tip of her nose almost touching the skin at his neck. After a few deep breaths, her expression softens and her eyelids slide down partway. "Sorry," the blush creeps over her features as she backs up a pace.

"Mmnm," Logan denies, half-smile dimpling a little genuine as his hands clutch tighter when she tries to pull away, though he does end up inching forward more than forcing. "Worse things have happened, and I'm still standing, aren't I? Come here."

As it happens, he likes the smell of her hair, and there's enough of it that he doesn't have to get too close to enjoy it as obviously as she does his own scent. And he is going to kiss her — hesitant, at first, like maybe he wants to see how she responds. Before he decides not to care, and presses his injured mouth to her more whole one, the ashy taste of cigarettes throughout the day probably less pleasant than the imported cologne he wears at his throat like a collar. It's not exactly a gentle kiss either, not a light peck in greeting as far as these things go. But over quick enough. It's a little like reassurance.

One might suppose. He leans back when it's over, and doesn't— exactly— or at all have to crouch to make eye contact, being on something of a level playing field when it comes to height vantage. "The place don't look that bad."

Delia's eyes light up when Logan beckons her to him, words do so much more than the simple hand gesture that could be taken as a Hey how you doin' somewhere in Queens or Little Italy. At least, way back when, before the bomb. Her head nods just a touch at his claims of being alright, believing but not quite happy about it happening in the first place. That much shows plainly.

There's a hesitant, rather jerky angle of her head as he closes in. The moment their lips touch, her breath quickens through her nose and her hands grip his arms a little tighter. They slide upward, the one on the same side as the bruise on his face winds around his shoulder, instead of cupping his cheek like the other. The taste of his mouth doesn't seem to bother her in the least, in fact, she seems to rather enjoy it. All the cool kids smoke.

When he tries to draw away, her lips follow his for a few inches before she's pulling back to look into his pale eyes. "Mmm, got fixed…" she breathes as a rosy tint flushes across her cheeks. "I'm— I'm glad you came back. I was worried."

"Why?" This is delivered short, sharp, jovial, Logan pulling away and drifting a hand to inspect his own tender skin with a wander of his fingertips. His back to her, then, the seam up the centre of dinner jacket and cutting hard angles of his shoulders — formalwear a little like armor, and it's certainly his, even if he can and does get punched in the face. At least twice, to Delia's knowledge. He glances back at her, raises a shoulder in a shrug. "Why were you worried," he clarifies.

Not, why is she glad, although by rights, he could stand to ask that too. But enough people have asked.

"Because," she starts, her eyebrows creasing in the middle as she looks down at the white socks on her feet. Delia's hands drop back down to her sides and she places them on the dresser behind her to lean back against it for support. There are numerous reasons from personal to not so personal, the one she chooses is the easiest to give. "I was scared that you wouldn't." A huff of breath that follows isn't as much a sigh as it is a noise of frustration, where words fail her. Her eyes travel back up, spanning the robe covering her body before they drift to the back of his black jacket.

"Someone told me I could do better," the addition would be somewhat surprising to anyone not in the know about her short text conversation and the even shorter one by phone. "But he was wrong, it's you that could."


Meander carries him towards where he expects the minibar could well be filled, bending to wrench open the seal-closed door, rather than try to crouch. His hands dip into the chilled interior to peruse for what he hopes will be miniature bottles of gin and whiskey and vodka, unless Delia really is a booze hound, and evades the smaller sized cans of Coke and Mountain Dew. "But I don't strive for excellence and perfection, necessarily. I'm not lying awake at night, wondering who else I could be shagging. I like shagging, and I do like you.

"Want a drink?" Inevitably, there they are, lined up like soldiers and unmolested. Logan figures she is probably of the vodka persuasion if anything at all, and offers it once standing properly, whiskey for himself in hand. "Who the fuck is someone?"

He knows, of course, and the more perceptive— or the people who know him better— could probably call him on it, the way the thought itself gets trapped shut behind some steel door behind his eyes.

"His name is Nick, he said you and he aren't friends and that— " There's a sudden furrow of Delia's eyebrows as she reaches for the bottle, cradling it in her hand as she studies Logan. "That you wouldn't be as pretty next time I saw you… Did— He didn't. He wouldn't." The problem is, she knows that he would.

The frown on her face smooths and she angles her chin to look down at the floor as she twists the cap off the bottle. There's no cheers, no toast, just the unceremonious sip from the bottle that takes maybe a quarter of it before she makes a sour face and wipe her mouth with the back of her hand. A shudder courses up her spine as the liquid warms down her throat and it ends with her hair being shaken and a a breathy ugh. It takes her another few seconds to collect herself from that and look up at Logan with another frown.

"I'm sorry," her voice is barely above a whisper. "I'll make it right somehow."

There seem to be a lot of things Delia thinks people wouldn't do.

This gets a small twist of a smile from Logan, despite the bruises next to it and the cuts inside it, and watches her as she goes to take a swig of vodka. Shrugging a little to himself, he goes to do the same with whiskey, letting about half of the stuff glug glug glug from bottle to mouth, air boiling up to the glass bottom of the container. That also fucking hurts as alcohol washes against the sore insides of his mouth, and so he winds up wincing for utterly different reasons.

Worth it, though, seeing as he takes another sip, smaller this time. "If we're talking about Nicky York, then there's not much you'll be making right, sweetheart. He's wrong all over. Don't mind him, or me, for that matter. Blokes like us sometimes like excuses to hit things. Or get hit. And you, you're a smart girl. You see into heads and can make your own decisions. How'd you come by that sorry bastard, anyway?"

The cap on her little bottle is folded between her fingertips, ruining it for the purpose of saving the rest of her bottle. Lucky thing she's not letting it go to waste anyway. Delia follows suit with a second swig, this time a longer one that nearly empties the rest of the bottle. This time the shudder is a little more contained and she's able to keep the vile expression off her face. Somewhat. There's still the grimace that appears on her lips for a moment as she takes the burning swallow.

Bookstore, park, bookstore, park, … infirmary.

"I lived with him— I mean, I lived in his head for a little while. When I was lost." Not in a coma, she was lost. A breath out results in a small cough that's covered by the plush elbow of her robe. Her expression is somewhat downcast when she nods to Logan's assessment of the dark haired man. "He says the same thing about himself," she whispers in admission. A tried smile ends up a little bittersweet and she tips the last of her bottle past her lips. The few drops left are shaken into her mouth before she pitches the empty at the trash can. In true athletic form, it goes in for two points. Nothing but net.

"How did you meet him?"

"Same football team," is a blatant lie, but delivered too easily and simply to sound as such — a rueful shrug punctuates it. "We go back a ways. Smallest biggest city in the world, innit?" Logan finishes off his own whiskey, tossing its empty self into the trash can, underhand, before he's backtracking to get a couple more. For the road, it seems, seeing as he drops them into his pocket, the dull clinks of glass together in satin lining.

The last is tossed, caught. "Don't matter much. He just cares about you and doesn't like me and likes to express himself. Now— what did I come up here to ask you. Wasn't about Nicky. Oh." Epiphany strikes bright behind his eyes. "My dog. I don't suppose you'll be here much longer, with you up and all that, but I'm sure you two wouldn't mind the company."

"Few weeks, maybe," Delia agrees with a slight nods of her head, then a puzzled look as she tilts her head. "We two wouldn't mind the company?" The young woman shakes her head and gives a quick glance about the room. "Unless you mean me and Cheza… I'm the only one here. I never got a hold of Tasha. After the room was trashed, I didn't really bother." Or maybe just after the look Vincent gave her.

Despite that, the redhead's entire demeanor seems quite a bit uplifted with the mention of the canine. "I'm hoping to get better soon… but I still can't walk too much farther than around the bed." Mostly, she stands and leans. With a grim smile and a shake of her head, she tilts her head down toward the carpet before lifting her eyes to meet his pale ones. "You know what's silly, I was torn between staying in the chair and walking. I get to see more of you here." In the literal sense.

"I can bring Cheza round now and then. Get a groundskeeper to see her out and about or something. She's old and sleeps, mostly," Logan shrugs. And has dreams, too, large paws set twitching and guttural yips to break Logan's concentration over the latest Italian Vogue. He hesitates, obviously on the cusp of breezing on out, but he pauses at her last sentiment, and looks her over, before a hand settles on her hip once he closes some distance with a few light steps.

He remembers, something, of black space and flying green letters, of restless sleeping that drives him out of bed and fumbling after the waning, waning supply of negation injections he only uses for the nights it gets bad. That night had been different, a figurine of a woman spinning through the text. Delia has value.

But he doesn't need to tell her that. "That is very silly," is what he affords her, injecting kindness into his voice. "You'll find I'm very difficult to get rid of, actually." Unless you're. Toru. To a point.

"I know, I used to visit her when I lived with my brother." Delia admits in regards to Cheza. At the self reminder of Russo, Delia's eyes go to the mirror for a split second before she's stepping close enough to Logan to rest her chin on his shoulder. Her hands touch lightly at his waist as she's being careful not to jostle the bottles in his pocket.

She's too proudself-conscious to ask him to stay and keep her company. It's rationalized by the fact that she has a book.

"I'm not worried about getting rid of you," she murmurs with a small sigh, the smell of vodka still seems fresh on her. "The opposite, actually, it's everyone else that gets rid of me." Her arms tighten around his waist for a brief moment before she lets go to pull back. Her eyes don't move from a spot on his dinner jacket, though she lifts her chin like she's going to look him in the eye. "I'll— I'll see you then? I mean— you have a keycard and you could probably…" She glances to the door and then back up at him. "Can you open it without one?"

"No," isn't a lie, in that he actually can't, but not for the reasons that such a swift denial implies. His tone says, 'no, how could I do that?', whereas what he should mean is, 'no, there's no wireless access to the mechanism', but even then, Logan really only gets the gist of the implications behind the question after automatic defense. Enough that once he pulls back to look at her, he stupidly hesitates for a second, mouth parting and closing, and then he squints.

Hm. "Well, have a good— evening. I'll drop by again, we can have dinner, paint each others' nails, and such."

Sashaying on by only gets as far as two steps before he reverses and grips her arm. Not unkindly. "Look," he says, deciding that neglectful denial isn't the best option he has. "Fuck. Whatever it is you— think you know about me. Can you do me the honour of not telling anyone? Not Nicky, or your dad, or your brother. Or anyone. Promise?"

"I wouldn't do that to you," Delia says quietly, her eyes avert quickly from his. It's almost as if she's telling a lie but the dip of her head indicates that it's something else entirely. Besides, Logan has seen her try to lie before, she's really not good at it and it's much different than this. "But I promise, I'll never tell anyone."

Finally, she lifts her head to look at him as her eyebrows knit into a slight frown. "It's because it's dangerous, isn't it? You're different than you were. You dream differently, it's much— noisier." Chewing on her lower lip whose corner has taken a downturn in worry, her blue eyes catch his briefly. "I won't tell anyone, just promise me you'll be careful? I don't want anyone to hurt you." You're too nice and perfect is implied, he already knows it.

"The only danger is if the wrong people find out," Logan says, firmly, carefully. "Long as we understand each other on this point." Some of the automatic tension eases again, and why shouldn't it — Delia is dumb and sweet, to say something of how he might see her, and he has booze clinking merrily in his pockets. Enough that he allows for a last smile, hand squeezing gently. "Be good," is facetious, before he's letting her go, and headed for the door.

Clink clink clink. "And no more trashing the place. You can party hard in someone else's hotel." Or mountain made of diamond.

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