Participants:
| Scene Title | Just the Thing |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The Wolf and the Widow share a room without a view. Someone needs to call an exterminator. |
| Date | January 31, 2008 |
Some Smarmy Hotel on the Banks of the Hudson
The door opens to the room that the mismatched couple has called home the last few days. Or if not 'home', then the 'crappy little hotel room we've been forced to stay in.' That might be more apt. Letting in just a little light before being promptly closed the silhouette of the man having just entered views the dark room quietly from where he stands. Dimly lit as usual, the man has been in and out since the good doctor came to make sure she was going to live. And thus Ethan has been proceeding to try and nurse her back to health. Food, water, warmth, everything she has requested has been fulfilled.
Though today there's something different about the man. The man has visited Doctor Bianco once again. Only this time for a different kind of procedure. His face has been changed back to its original form. Rafe is no more. Ethan Holden is back to stay, permanently if he has anything to do with it. The broad shoulders of the man skim against the wall as he enters lazily. A bag of groceries hanging limply in one hand. The Wolf goes to set the bag of groceries against the wall. The sun is setting…
"'Ow are you feeling?"
The difference between dawn and sunset becomes nigh imperceptible in those twilight moments wherein the sun kisses the horizon either hello or goodbye. For a moment, Lucrezia imagines herself back home — not at the Ritz but home in Sicily — and she actually smiles… until Ethan's words register as English — that real, honest-to-God, Queen's English — and she resigns herself not so much to a frown as just a significantly more subdued expression. After more than a few long moments spent considering her words carefully, she chooses one: "Better."
There's the sound of rustling sheets as the invalid opts to assume a significantly less supine position, sitting up in bed instead of continuing to lie helplessly on her back. Finally, she asks, "…why? Why did you do this? Why help me?"
Entering the room the man goes to ease the jacket off of his shoulders. Clumping it together he goes ahead and drops it on the bed. Wallet is taken out, though his newly acquired gun is left in his pants. The wallet is dropped to the ground as the man goes to settle himself at the foot of the bed. He tilts his head back, the words rattling around in his head. Why did he help her? "Because she told me to," comes the simple answer, in his Cockney accent.
Bringing one foot up, a boot is eased off, dropped and the same process is done with the other. Then he looks over his shoulder at her. "Apparently you did something for 'er. That's why. As soon as you can get yourself to a 'ospital, I'll 'ave done what she wanted me to." And he'll be done with her. But that's not necessary to say. "Did you know me? That night at the strip club, did you know me?"
She. Who's she? Lucrezia's black brows fret for a moment just over the bridge of her nose until — oh. Of course. Her. The one everyone else might be so inclined to kill for… or, possibly save for, in this instance. Put a pin in that; we'll come back to it. She opts to address the latter question instead. "I did. I've been watching you for a long time, Mister Holden." With blunt honesty, for once. Let's see how long this lasts.
"'E kept you from me." Ethan says softly, not so much a tone of betrayed, more of one sounding impressed. "So 'e's been keepin' you away from everyone. Even though you 'ave quite a 'igh profile." The man says stonily. He turns partly to watch her. "You tried to kill me." The Wolf informs her, as if she had not been aware before.
Finally! At least there's someone in New York with the class and culture enough to recognize her for who she is out there in the so-called 'real world'… if such a thing really exists anymore. Yeah. Ethan Holden's chock full of class and culture. Deal with it. The recognition, however appreciated, is not enough to prompt a smile, however, and Lucrezia remains passively expressive, letting her voice and eyes relay her emotions to the man perched on the foot of her bed. "I didn't succeed." Just in case Ethan hadn't figured that one out. "You hurt someone very dear to me. That was the price to be paid," she says, dark eyes leveled and unflinching in their determined gaze.
"I'm aware of tha'. If you ever give me an inkling that you would try so again, just know that the girl's wishes wouldn't keep me at bay a second time." Ethan points out. A little snort is given. "Dear to you?" He asks, giving a shake of his head. But that's all he'll say on the matter unless she wishes to pursue it further. He knows who she speaks of, and apparently he doesn't want to breach that subject. "Are you well enough to manage yourself, do you think?"
"So you can leave?" They all leave. "…be done with me?" Just like the rest. She's used up. Washed up. Lost her touch. But, then again, why would she actually want to voluntarily keep company with a killer? "Tell me why," she says, fingers curling in to the floral sheets slung down around her waist. "Why did you do it? Why not just kill him?"
"Why not?" Ethan asks at her first pair of questions. "You want something from me? I'm not the most pleasant of company." He says, going to give her a sidelong glance.
Why not just kill him? A question that was worthy of some debate inside his mind. An act of mercy? An insurance policy should he need to find Eileen again? Leverage on Volken? "Wasn't necessary. The only thing I have—had is the girl. Keeping him away from her was all that was necessary. I would kill 'im if 'e violated the rules I set. But.." A dismissive hand gesture. "That won't 'appen now." Eileen is gone. "So 'e 'as nothing to worry about from me."
"Vero?" she queries rhetorically. Not that Ethan might have any way of knowing that, really, save for the fact that she immediately follows the word up with, "Swear it." Sicilians. They're big on having one's word. "Swear to me you'll let him alone. Then you can leave." Hardly a high price to pay… right?
"And whot are you going to do if I don't, my beautiful, fragile, injured, actress?" The man goes to stand, turning to face her. The door is closed, the windows are closed. "Think you can get enough of your pets 'ere, before I squeeze the trigger? Twice 'ave I spared 'is life, when I didn't need to." Ethan says crisply, eyes falling to the woman's own gaze. "I've been very generous."
"If 'e chooses to cross my path again, it's 'is mistake to make." Third time's the charm, after all. "And I've saved you once. You owe me." Ethan mutters. "You're in no place to be making demands of me, Lucrezia."
You know that creepy feeling that you get on the back of your neck when you think someone's standing a little too close to you in the elevator and they just might be breathing on you…? Yeah. Welcome to that feeling, Ethan. Only… instead of harmless breath, the sensation is aroused by the crawling of eight, no — make that sixteen spindled, spidery legs climbing out from the collar of the man's shirt.
…and then the rest of her clandestine little army emerges from every possible nook, crack, and cranny; mustered from every infested corner of this suddenly very literal and not figurative roach motel. "Am I not?" muses the Spider Queen, expression still stony and stoic, despite how the tables might have seemingly turned. "I saved her life once. And because you saved mine, I'm letting you keep yours… for now." She pauses and then relaxes the fret of her slightly less than perfectly plucked eyebrows. "How about you don't threaten me… and I won't threaten you? We could act like civilized people. Go our separate ways." What a charming notion.
"Threats are my first language." Ethan practically spits. If he's shocked by the spiders on his neck, he doesn't show it. Those stony features remain focused on the woman in the bed. "Per'aps you're used to getting your way." He starts, tilting his head at her. "Getting things 'anded to you. Or maybe, maybe," He starts to pace the length of the room, his eyes leaving her. He continues in a more conversational tone. "Just maybe, you 'ad to work a bit. And you worked for 'im so per'aps you've seen some things. Maybe you even killed a few people. You might be a bit more formidable than you appear."
"But let me get to the point, we both 'ave reputations. You are a woman who puts naked pictures of 'erself on the internet. I am The Wolf, because I tear people apart. Now Lucrezia, you can get your bugs off of me, and you can thank me nice and proper for 'elping you, or.." He spreads his hands. "You can make me an enemy. You really wouldn't want to do that, love. I will leave the boy alone as long as 'e stays out of me way. Unless you press me, if you press me. I will do whot I do best." No move for his weapon(s).
Some people just can't win for losing; there's just no such thing as having the upper hand for Lucrezia. Not anymore. Ethan's nonplussed reaction was apparently not the one she was fishing for… in fact, when he just spews out more of the same macho bullshit as before, the Italian woman barely avoids rolling her eyes in retort. All of the scuttling legs of her miraculously manifested little legion of creepy-crawlies recoil from their sudden muster and retreat back into the shadows hung under mildewed window sills and ill-appointed cabinet doors. Yes, the spiders that found their way out of his shirt even travel a visible path down the front of his trousers and descend over the laces of his shoes until they're safely scuttled away beneath the bed.
However, the insult isn't so easily forgotten and she sneers a bitter, "Get out. You're no better than the rest of them." Ah, the infamous and anonymous them.
Though his reaction doesn't change when the insects scatter away from him, Ethan does seem a little less angry than before. "Thank you, love." He murmurs as the little critters retreat off his feet and under the bed. "'oo am I not better than, sweet'eart? I assure you I am. You just don't know me well enough." The man says, a little smirk raising up his lips. "It's my room, love. I'll leave when I want to. Besides. It's curfew. You wouldn't want me to get taken in, now would you?"
Finally he returns to the plastic bag. "Now I 'ope you can forgive me for all those mean fings I said, lovely. But if you can't, I 'ave just the fing." Booze. The perfect way for worst enemies to be best friends. "Are y'thirsty?" The Wolf asks, setting the bag on the foot of the bed.
 January 31st: The Bad Touch |
 January 31st: Cheese At Tiffany's |