English Edition


logan_icon.gif tania_icon.gif

Scene Title English Edition
Synopsis A belated translation occurs when Logan gets home from work. "Work".
Date March 29, 2011

Eltingville Blocks: Brick House

If there is anything Tania is good at, it's being quiet and still. After years of being the lone child in the company of adults for the majority of her life, she's always been one to disappear in plain sight, sort of thing. Unnoticeable.

This becomes monumentally harder with a beautiful instrument sitting there, though.

So it is, fairly early in the morning, as Tania decided to wait up for Logan to eventually stroll in — it is possible she didn't really realize how late the man worked, it might have been easier to get up early at this rate — she migrated toward the harp. And still lingers there. The music is soft enough not to disturb the others in the house that may actually be trying to sleep, but it's enough of a distraction to keep her from dozing off on the couch.

People generally don't wait up for Logan. It's a losing battle. Also, he doesn't usually have them. People.

There's the sound of a key unlocking the door after a few scrapes of a key missing the lock, and then it opens to the sound of— not much. Eltingville is quiet, insulated by miles of forest and abandonment northwards, with the occasional growl of the truck going down Hylan Boulevard, or the distant whine of massive engine from Miller Airfield. Right now, the ambient noise is preserved in early, early, early dawn light sitting like fine wine in a glassy east horizon, and it paints into the main room as Logan wanders inside, turns with more elaboration than necessary to push the door shut.

He's had a few to drink. How many is yet to be seen. Clothing sedate, or it is at a glance — all black save for cotton shirt of ivory, but textures make it different. The worsted wool dinner jacket with satin lapels, and the leather of pants as shiny as an oil slick. Her tuneful harp-ing is interrupted when he drops his set of keys with a sharp smack of metal on wood.

"'see daisies," can be heard muttered, as he endeavors to get them back without hurting himself.

It gets her attention, too. Tania looks over her shoulder, missing a few notes before she pulls her hands away and stands to her feet. It's her that ends up scooping up the keys, but she's quick to press them into his hand as she straights back up.

And as much as she's been waiting for him, she know doesn't seem to know exactly what to say. So she stands there a bit, gaze on her bare feet before she manages to come up with an ice breaker.

"Would you like some coffee, Mister Logan?"

Oh hello.

For all that he didn't miss the sound of the harp, what it meant didn't fully register until someone is giving him his keys and standing there all awkward and bare foot. People live here too, and sometimes they won't be in bed when he thinks they will be. Logan blinks pale eyes and straightens his posture some, wandering keys back into pocket and sneaking a peak at the time on an expensive watch wrapped secure around one wrist. Balances himself against the door, and thinks about her question for a while before delivering a settled sounding answer.


That wait for an answer makes her a little more awkward, like she's not sure if she needs to repeat herself. But when he responds at length, she can't help a small, but amused smile before she turns to pad off toward the kitchen. She's only gone a few moments, enough time to pour out a cup and try to fix the bitterness with some sugar. It may not be the best coffee ever, but it's how her mother liked it. Which is the only way Tania knows how to make it.

She ends up peeking out of the kitchen before she comes back out again to pass the mug his way. "I was hoping to get the chance to apologize," she blurts out at him. Sure, he's bee drinking, but if she doesn't try now, she's likely to just lose her nerve entirely.

And at the very least, drunk enough to have key difficulties is probably indicative of being disarmed. By the time she's back out, Logan is perched on the edge of an armchair, having struggled out of his jacket and unbuttoned a notch or two of his shirt collar. Hands reach for coffee in hazy memory that he was getting some, and when he takes a sip, she'll suffer no complaint — with the amount of cigarettes he smokes, it's a wonder he can taste anything at all.

Sip is finished by the time she's blurting, Logan glancing up with the preoccupied look of someone thinking you're still here, are you? until confusion hooks in eye contact. "What did you do?" is a little wary.

Tania glances over toward the harp, then back at Logan, a little puzzled. "I—" Her eyebrows come together a little, for a moment. "The other day, when we were all here. I asked you for a favor?" It's a gentle reminder. "I was very rude. You have been very… generous to me and I should have explained to you. And in English." That last note seems to be what she's the most sorry for, as her lips turn down into a frown.

"I did not mean to be so rude. I was… embarrassed. But if you would like, I can explain now?" It's less trying to give herself a way out of it, and more giving him one, if he'd rather her out of his hair. But she's not skittering off just yet, she's not even looking at her toes just now.

It's a worrying amount of time before Logan latches on to what she's on about — not for a lack of validity in her earnestness, but it does directly contrast with how often he can storm out of a room and at how many triggers. When he does, vapid confusion firms up, tilting his head as he watches her with more sharpness than prior hazy alcoholism, coffee clutched by the handle in one hand, the other dangling paw off the edge of his seat. And in English, is what does it, triggering a brief half-smile before he wills it away to eye her coolly instead as she speaks.

He doesn't seem to rather her out of his hair, it's already tousled by his own combing fingers and the chilly wind on the way home in case event.

A hand wanders out, but gets no where, retracting to fold upon chair frame. "The bloke, whatsisname. I remember. I could find 'im, if you want. Steal his credit card details, contact information. 's he someone bad?"

"Ah," Tania's brow furrows again, but there's not a very long pause there, this time, "I do not… know if he is bad or good now. I think it would be better if I explained. Just— please don't laugh?" There's a sweet little, hopeful look there before she moves to grab the chair by the harp to drag over and sit down in. Why she doesn't pick a more comfortable one is anyone's guess.

"I had a dream that I think is maybe more than a dream. And it sounds very silly, but I think— I am sure it was no simple dream." Whatever made her nervous to admit that the other day doesn't seem to be there now. "I was older, and John Eaddy, he came to me for help. He said he lived here, in Eltingville, and that 'they' had taken his daughter. And he needed help finding her. I asked you to see if he was real because… I just had to know if it was a silly dream or if there was some… kind of truth in it."

Coffee slow to grow tepid is sipped from again, but Logan keeps his eyes on her even if they mostly want to relax their stare, go into blurry double, slide lids closed. He doesn't do any of this, but listens instead. He quite decidedly is not laughing — laughing at dreams brooks bad things.

Settling uneasy deeper into armchair, Logan tips his attention into his coffee for a few moments. "We live with a dreamwalker," he says, a hand going up to scratch under his jaw, slightly canine. "The redhead— the other— Delia. The one that sleeps'n the streetside room." As if there'd be a shadow of doubt how many other redheaded women who aren't Tania might live here. "You could ask her. I guess also I could find this guy, wouldn't be hard." But there's a heavy reluctance in his voice, because he has enough problems and it's very early in the morning to be promising much of anything. Even propositioning her successfully would probably end in passing out too early.

"Thank you," he says, suddenly, remembering why they're having this conversation, "for the apology."

"She's a— Oh," Tania says, as if everything suddenly makes more sense. But that, she doesn't explain, she just looks back over at him and shakes her head. "No, no. Thank you, but I am not sure what good it would do to find him. I am not sure what to say. I think I like to try to only look crazy in front of people I know." That comes with a little, self-depreciating smile.

"I think I will talk to her, when I see her next. Thank you. And for not laughing." She blinks a little at his thanks, but she waves a hand, "You're welcome. I will try not to need to do that too often, yes?" She smiles more genuinely there, although it's still quite an understated expression. There are no wide, beaming smiles from this girl.

"To see him for yourself," he supplies, a little late. The conversation's moved on. But he had a thought. Logan vocalises it.

And leaves it there, ultimately apathetic for all that he does not consider dreams to be a laughing matter. "Da, darling," he says, words that echo hollow as he takes another mouthful of coffee, the key of genuineness in her smile seems to have as much effect as any other smile might. "Although on the contrary, I do like people owing me things. So maybe you can make a habit of it if I figure out a thing I'd want from you."

That thought is enough to give her pause, but ultimately, she sets it aside. Maybe another time. Maybe. But Tania moves to stand up, dragging her chair back over to its place rather than answering those last words right away. There's a glance over his way, briefly. Smiles are gone now, but that nervousness from earlier is creeping it's way back into her stance. And she doesn't seem to have anything more to say, before she starts for the stairs.

But she does pause at the base of them to look back his way. "Good night, Mister Logan," she offers before she starts the climb up to the second floor. Maybe it's safer, him not knowing what she'd be good for.

Nose wrinkles a little by the time she's no longer affording him her attention, and it's unfortunate because Logan was really only just now affording her his. Which may explain departure. His body tilts a little to watch her go, but he never gets up, limbs too leaden feeling and head too full of wool to really assemble the cognition necessary to get to his feet in time to be in any way, shape or form following her. "It's— " Hic, interrupts that sentence, a hand pressed to chest. "— morning. Actually."

And by the time he's risen, he's dragging limbs and jacket for the kitchen, out of sight and out of mind.

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