Everywhere You Turn


bebe_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Everywhere You Turn
Synopsis Unexpectedly, Logan finds someone to blame.
Date February 6, 2009

The Happy Dagger: Logan's Office

This place is office by name only - there certainly isn't a desk in sight, let alone a filing cabinet. It's decorated almost the same as any other room in terms of colours and decadence, with quality thrown in for good measure. The walls are painted a dark red with warmer golden trimmings, and layers of chiffon surround and cover the one window in the room so that only the lights of the outside world make hazy spots on the rich fabric. Hung upon the walls are paintings, likely expensive ones, depicting erotic scenarios and characters.

A couple of couches provide areas of comfort, some conventional, others more of the old Greco-Roman style designed to recline in rather than sit, and a small round coffee table with elaborate patterns etched into the wood boasts a perhaps ornamental hookah, although it's clearly seen use. The wooden floor is mostly covered by a large zebra striped rug, soft on bare feet and kept immaculate. An antique teatray is pushed into the corner, and holds a stunning array of fine liquor and crystal glasses. Next to it, an antique writing desk, although there's no chair near it and doesn't seem to hold anything, although the locked drawers may have purpose.

Despite it being called an office, this room seems more to cater to luxury and relaxation than business, although business occurs here regularly. Just not as much as pleasure.

Late afternoon brings warm light angling through parted curtains of chiffon. It seems to set the orange on fire, creating a dazzling kind of warm hue beaming into the lavish room, and there's just enough shininess to catch the light and bask. From the golden wall trimmings to the multicoloured liquor bottles, even to the new painting hung up on the wall: an image of a building set on fire, a far cry from the more erotic paintings filling the walls. And this afternoon, it brings out the reds and oranges of the oil painting, making it seem a hell of a lot realer.

Both of Logan's eyes are closed to all this prettiness. His right one is trapped so beneath white bandaging, a kind of rudimentary eyepatch, freshly applied without a trace of red leaking through, not right now anyway. The other is simply shut on its own accord, because even this soft light is enough to stir up his continual headache, as numbed as he's made it.

He's draped himself across one of the couches, and hasn't made much effort to move from this position, dressed in slacks, a silken red shirt, feet bare. They all know of his injury, they being the whores and security guards that stay in this honeycomb of debauchery, and really the only explanation is rumour and guesswork, catching like wildfire throughout the whorehouse's population. Really, he should stay at his own apartment until— until— until it goes away, but there are too many reasons to stay put. Fear. Duty.

And he has an excellent collection of booze. Flavoured gin, expensive of its kind, has been rather haphazardly poured into a repeatedly used glass, one sleeve of his shirt soaked with the alcohol but he couldn't actually care less. It's only silk, anyway. The glass dangles from fingertips, other arm rather dramatically draped over his forehead as he tries to either pass out or maybe die, dying would work too. But seeing as that's not happening, Logan shifts enough to take yet another sip of liquor.

Scratch scratch. The kitten that Logan mistakenly left on the other side of the door wants to be let in. Either that or it's some other cute piece of pussy looking for… what? Saucer of milk? A friendly pair of fingers to scratch and itch? Place in the sun? Hard to say which… but not who. "It's Bebe." Of course it is. Logan knew that before the sound of her hooker heels even began to echo on the stairs; he got the heads up from Eloni who was busy playing bodyguard beneath them both now.

When the gently accented voice of their resident telepath sounded through Logan's head, he'd only flinched and given back the telepathic equivalent of a grunt, and waited. At the sound of his guest outside the door, he takes the time to down a little more of the gin, shuddering bodily and managing, just, not to choke himself on the harsh liquid. Once that's out of the way, he reaches to clumsily set the glass down on the elaborately worked coffee table, flopping back against the couch and resuming his position of diva patient. Not that that's really a conscious effort, but it suits him, somehow, lanky body reclined in all its surrounding finery. The only thing that's out of place is the bulky, medical addition of the white bandages. "Come in." That sounded rougher toned than he'd intended, voice scratchier than usual.

The slightly squeaking creak of the hinges that keep the door hung in the frame is inadvertently prolonged to torturous measure as Bebe leans in oh-so-slowly, appearing first as a sooty-eyed face, then as a whole head, then slim shoulders, before finally the whole package slips in through the gap before she slooooowly closes the door in her wake. Creeeeeeeak.

To make things worse, she's clad in airy blue harem-wear that comes complete with a silver belt bedecked with teeny, tiny silver bells that jingle-jangle with every step, no matter how she might try to tip-toe in her ridiculous shoes. "How're you feeling?" she asks while she slinks across the floor over to where Logan is lounging so pitifully. "Can I get you anything?"

Hrrgh. A frown pulls at Logan's mouth at the jingle-jangling, good eye firmly shut as if this would do anything to help, but as she nears with her ridiculous shoes sinking into the fur of the zebra print rug, Logan lets out a sigh and lowers that arm to rest it against his chest, cracking open his good eye to observe her. It's a little bloodshot, but not from injury, and perhaps the half-filled glass within arm's reach has something to do with it. The scent of alcohol mingled with sweat is mostly drowned out by incense, but still a sharper undercurrent, and likely probably familiar. "I can't sleep," he tells her, in his distinctly raw voice. "Have someone go to Filatov's, would you, and get— something that will help that." Even with this wish, he reaches out a lazy hand for her.

Can't sleep. Filatov's. Right. The whore nods her head in quiet acknowledgement of the man's request, though she can't help but stare somewhat wide-eyed at the wound. It's so weird. The last time Bebe saw Logan, he was battering a blind man; jacking Deckard in the jaw with the head of his beloved cane. Funny how her 'I think he's wearing an eye patch' gesture might seem bitterly ironic in retrospect…

There's plenty of room for the girl to take a seat by Logan's side on the chaise but, instead, Bebe sinks down to her knees on the floor by the man's shoulder. It's not an uncomfortable arrangement; the carpet is plenty cushioning. She reaches up a hand to press a pair of cool fingers against her pimp's face, delicately petting the swollen flesh of his cheek as she makes her secondary inspection through tactile means. "What happened to you?"

As she takes a place by him on the floor, Logan relaxes back against the couch, eye closing for a moment as she goes to touch his face. It's tempting to bat her hand away, but he allows it, perhaps the coolness of her skin is refreshing to his own more heated skin. On that note, maybe ice would be a good idea, but he doesn't think to request such as she asks him. It's a fair question, the bandaging covering a liberal amount.

"The blonde downstairs," Logan says, words a little slurry around the edges. His own hand reaches out as well, indecision in the action of where to touch before finally the backs of fingers brush down the side of her throat. "She went into a panic and attacked me. I only wanted to ask her some questions." At this range, the evidence of fingernails finding brief, clawing purchase in his face are evident, faint marks on his other cheek. "She's gone now. Good riddance."

Bebe silently expresses her dismay, confusion, and revulsion in one grand muddle of facial gesticulation that Logan may or may not be able to properly perceive from this awkward angle; her little brown brows plow together over her nose in creased vexation while she purses her lush, ruby-lined lips into a perfect pout. She is not lamenting his touch, however, even if it comes without euphoria. There's an oddly Pavlovian affect that Bebe has begun to succumb to even without prompting. Merely being in contact with Logan seems to make her smile.

Even without a lick of medical training or first aid to lean on, Bebe can tell the difference between flushed and feverish skin. She reluctantly withdraws from his grasp but only for as long as it takes to fetch something from the bottom of a silver bucket that matches his tea service. Ice cubes. Hopefully some of them might be salvageable and not overly melted while waiting to boast a bottle of champagne that hasn't found its way up to the office yet. That's okay. Bubbly booze would probably be a bad idea right now anyways. "Abby did this?!" Hey. She knows the healer's name. Then again, the Valentine's Day incident betwixt Bebe and the broken bottle was no doubt brought to Logan's attention long before now, so that's not likely to be such a shocking revelation. "She seemed so nice…" she says somewhat wistfully. Instead of wrapping her frozen finds in the confines or a napkin, she insists on using her fingers to apply layer after layer of numbing cold to the man's cheek. While Logan may not know it, she's performed this sort of manual maintenance before with another man. More than once. A pirate's life ain't easy, mate.

As if her presence were sinking into perception more and more, by the time Bebe's approached once more, the gaze from his remaining, working eye is a little sharper, more attentive. Perhaps to appreciate the attention he's being paid, breaking through the haze of gin and throbbing, aching pain for at least that much. "Didn't she?" Logan agrees, staying still under the application of the almost sharp feeling cold of icy water from Bebe's fingertips. "Turns out she was a right bitch." He hisses just a little as Bebe's gentle touch seeks out a sorer spot, or perhaps he's just being fussy. Either way. No objections apart from smaller reactions. "I gave her a Bible, you know, like she wanted, and she hit me with it."

"She hit you with a Bible?!" Haha. The term 'biblethumper' has just taken on a whole new meaning. Bebe isn't laughing, though. "I doubt Jesus would have done that," the young woman boldly declares, her objection hearkening back to that whole WWJD? fad that folks only recall nowadays for the sake of parody. What Would Jack Do? Curbstomp some poor fool into the ground. Undoubtedly, he's out there doing it as they speak. If Bebe only knew…

"In the head. And quieter, please," Logan says, hand drifting up to touch fingertips to her jaw, tempted to touch her mouth but who would dream of smearing the perfectly applied lipstick painting her lips? Still, his palm smooths to rest firmly at the base of Bebe's throat, letting her feel it, the first tingles of happiness. Not the full out euphoria, gentle chemical manipulations. It's about then that a sparrow, perhaps out of its depth as the light starts to die into sunset outside, comes to land on his windowsill, but Logan's back is turned and the avian creature's presence goes unnoticed. Even if it did, likely he wouldn't pay that much attention. "At least some people, I can rely upon. I hardly ever did anything to Abigail."

The ice cube clutched between Bebe's fingers slowly dwindles into little more than a soggy afterthought, leaving both Logan's cheek and the whore's fingertips numb in its wake. Bebe hasn't noticed the bird just yet. She's too busy tending to Logan's swollen skin and enjoying her reward, even if she doesn't quite consciously realize she's receiving it. "Mmhmm," she murmurs in a purr from behind a growing grin, voice substantially softer than it was before. "Too much Red Bull. That's why she should drink tea, I told her." Her eyelids begin to feel leaded and then light; the sensation makes her false eyelashes flutter. "…even brought her some from next door."

His thumb strokes the soft skin just beneath her jaw as he lets his magic work on her, own visible eye hooding a little bit as if sharing her relaxation, even if he doesn't. Wish he could, right now, it'd be nice to feel nice. Still, no one ever said he wasn't a generous man, and all. He can at least sense it, the change of her bodily chemicals, the flooding pressure of general goodness that comes from nowhere but his touch. Bored of this conversation of Abby, Logan only 'mm's in agreement, before one pale eye opens up a little more to look at her. "Well that was kind of you," he says gently, still stroking her throat as if she truly were a kept kitten. "What else did you bring her?" Odd question to ask, all things considered, but who cares when the world is starting to seem this fuzzy and pleasant?

"Just some tea…" Bebe's words come slowly but without the sort of hesitation that might be brought on by any concept of apprehension or a desire to be deceptive. She's just caught up in the moment, icy fingertips still stroking Logan's cheek while she looks down at him almost lovingly. "…and some Tree Lizard soup… and some sticky rice in one of those cute little styrofoam cups with the red pandas printed on the outside." This description requires both hands to make, however, since 'cute little styrofoam cup' needs to be defined in the air to emphasize just how adorable it really was… because Logan's probably only seen them a thousand times, what given the immediate proximity of the Sheung Wan kitchen and their take-out wares.

He knows the place. Practically ritual for anyone who works down here to swing by the restaurant on occasion for something suitably greasy, some more than others - Logan himself, once or twice. "Is that right?" he says, absently, his hand leaving her throat and letting the buzz of chemical in her system act on its own accord, to wind away in its own time. "I do hope you cleaned up after her." It really is only now starting to dawn on him as it to how Abby got her weapon, some contraption of plastic and metal, and while he doesn't immediately suspect Bebe it might be a good idea to look into it, he imagines. What if it was deliberate?

Clean up after her? What does…? Bebe appears perplexed, wearing the expression with a slightly more good-natured air than she might otherwise be inclined to don without the added incentive of sweet serotonin dancing with dopamine through her circulatory system. "What do you mean?" she asks, voice bubbly and hovering just on the edge of a giggle without committing to the noise fully. That's, uh, probably a 'no'.

There's a pause, and Logan shifts a little, still a relaxed posture, propping himself up on one elbow, arm resting lazily down his body as he tilts his head enough to get a clear look at her with his remaining working eye, judgmental and thoughtful. The question is on the tip of his tongue, to clarify it for her, to get a clear answer, and all this occurs to him even as the arm formerly relaxed rather suddenly raises to execute a slap across the the woman's face, the impact of it somehow sending a jolt through his injury, but it's nothing compared to the familiar surge of anger he knows.

"Did you clean up?" Logan snaps a little brokenly, pushing himself up to sit, to grab her arm, to shake her once. "Or did you leave something behind? Something sharp that she could use against me?"

BWUH! Bebe's brown-haired head slams to the side with the unanticipated strike and her body is suddenly fueled with a fit of mixed signals as it tries to reconcile the slap with the lingering bliss that had been bubbling away just beneath the surface of her skin like the effervescent carbonation that makes champagne tingle on the tongue. This is the reason that her expression has settled into a textbook example of what it means to be literally dumbstruck, even as she's shaken. It takes a few panicked seconds for her brain to piece it all together and then — oh shit!

"I'm so sorry," she gasps, both hands now clinging to Logan's silk-covered chest as she pleads. "I didn't know!"

Logan growls out something, a mix of 'get off me' and some insult that never quite makes it out as he grabs her grasping hands and pushes them aside, getting to his feet despite the increasing throb of headache and injury inside his skull. The heel of his palm is pressed lightly against the bandaging, breaths coming shallowly. He wants to rant, but he barely knows what to say, it just hurts that much, and it's so— "Stupid," he finally snaps, turning towards her and that hand lowering. "It's so fucking stupid." He points at her, accusing. "You did this to me!"

Poor Bebe. Overcome with a genuine brand of panic not brought on by Logan's chemical induction — or is it? — the little whore suffers from trembling hands as she reaches out even after being rebuffed only to recoil with the accusational finger gets thrown her way. "No! No, I— but…" It's a fruitless fumbling of inept syllables. There really isn't anything she could possibly say that might bring back the sight in Logan's lost eye but still she struggles to find words that might sooth him anyways. "Please," she pleads pitifully, cheeks glowing with embarrassed and earnest blush beneath her heavy make-up. "I'll fix it! I'll… I'll…" She has no idea what she'll do. "Go to Filatov's! You need to sleep. I'll go get something so you can sleep! Please…"

Please don't kill me.

His hand is moving already, not a slap but something more vicious, a backhanded fisted blow, but he stops himself, the movement aborted sharply to rest his arm at his side. Managing not to tremble. Just. Finally, he grabs an arm, hard enough to leave tracks in her skin as temporary as they may be, urging her up, onto her feet. For all his anger, Logan's remaining eye doesn't particularly communicate it - it's in the harsh grip, the angry line of his mouth, but the look she gets is lifeless, almost lost seeming. "You can't fix it," he says, a raw whisper. The reek of alcohol is obvious at this vantage point. He doesn't even think to use his power as he grips her arms. "But you can make it a little less worse."

As if disgusted, Logan pushes her away, trying not to swoon as the injury beats its steady drum of fresh pain. Stagger back to the couch, lay back down, fend off attempts to help him. Meanwhile, the swallow on the windowsill merely hops to and fro, as if watching this display.

Those big, brown eyes are already shrink-wrapped in tears as she sucks in a sharp breath and waits for the pain of a second blow that never quite finds its way to her face. The fingers that clutch her arm while she's brought to bear with the very worst side of John Logan that she's ever had the misfortune of meeting make her cringe and silently hiss in a wince with her elbow bent and fingers curled protectively to her chest.

The clunky cacophony of noise made by Bebe's ridiculous shoes as she's shoved across the floor must be agony to sensitive or already aching ears. She huddles near the door for a moment while her muddled mind does its best to regroup into something a little less confused. "I'll be back soon," she says, trying to sound sweet as well as reassuring even though she's all a-tremble and choking on no small flood of fear. "I promise."

Logan has his back now planted against the couch, breathing still shallow as pain sunbursts in his eye socket, the other squeezed shut. "Good," he says, voice wavering, attempting to keep it even, and gives a dismissive hand wave. Just go. When the door clicks shut, and no possible caution from Bebe can make it quiet enough, he flinches and turns his back to it like a petulant teenager who doesn't want to get up. Happy to curl up and feel sorry for himself.

A few moments pass, and near the street, outside of the Happy Dagger, people might suddenly hear a smash of glass, the twinkling spray of shards as they break on a windowsill and go flying like a splash of water, and the frantic flight of a sparrow as it ducks out of the way, to go whisper secrets in someone's ear.

February 26th: Two Fists

Previously in this storyline…
Gentle into that Good Night

Next in this storyline…
Poor Thing

February 26th: Poor Thing
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