logan_icon.gif nicole2_icon.gif

Scene Title Kicks
Synopsis After some serious conversation and booze, Logan and Nicole get them.
Date September 12, 2010

Solstice Condominiums

It was a quiet cab ride from the Corinthian back to Nicole's condominium in the Upper East Side. Somewhere along the way, the two shots of tequila on an empty stomach coupled with the shock of the evening's conversation caught up to Nicole and so she hands her keys off to Logan after her third attempt to slide into the lock has failed. She leans against the frame of the door heavily, one arm up to make a barrier between it and her head. "I 'preciate you coming back with me," she murmurs. She may think she's playing at being coy, or it could be a side effect of her voice being husky from liquor and cigarettes, and emotion.

With a shot of gin and half a martini settled warm in Logan's gut, he is, unshockingly, quite sober. The dim hallway strikes low light off the dramatically sombre collection of tonight's garb, the matte quality of his woolen coat offering no sheen in return, but manages to catch itself off the small touches of precious metal on him, from ring to cufflinks to the goldish quality of highlights dishevelled curls. He has nothing else with him, his life contained to a wallet, a belt-clipped cellphone, and a weight-based fold out knife whose steel tip has seen the insides of skulls, and beneath Logan's nails.

He could probably be okay, with just this, though a passport and an extra pair of underwear couldn't hurt. He's been thinking, more and more, about what little he could get by on. What little he's gotten by on before.

"Surprised you wanted me to," Logan notes, as he twists key in lock, glances down the empty hallway in some weirdly paranoid-instinct twitch— it's not like he's breaking in, after all— before he steps back once the door is nudged open.

"Surprised? Honest?" Nicole enters the condo first with a nod of thanks for his help. She slips out of her shoes just inside the doorway, leaving them on a plastic mat that appropriately has the word Shoes stamped into it in a whimsical font. "Just leave the keys on the counter," she instructs, tilting her head toward the island in the kitchen. "Could I get you a drink?" She's already making a bee line for the cupboard above the stove where she retrieves a bottle of Disaronno.

Setting her purse aside on the counter, she retrieves a tall glass and sends a look of askance back over her shoulder to Logan before heading to the sink for a can of Pepsi - of all things. "I… enjoy your company, Logan. Especially when I'm…" She shrugs. "You seem to be adept at putting my troubles out of mind."

"Sure," is uttered in response to the offer of a drink, hesitation setting in before Logan sets about undoing his coat, shrugging the collar up and off, sleeves down and taking the dinner jacket beneath it with, hooking both up together somewhere near the door. The keys clatter once dropped onto the counter, and a splash of whimsy is finally visible in the way the backing of his waistcoat is a zebra stripe satin, striking white and black sheen with the pattern growing smaller along his spine, fanning out towards where the seam hits sedate black wool of the front.

A hand comes up to undo Mandarin collar, letting it flag open for the sake of comfort. There is an aura about him, the way his gaze dances around the place with the same interest and movement of a cat's exploration, that implies a degree of making himself at home. "That's what happens when you stop thinking 'bout them," he tells her, palms coming together as if to warm one against the other. "But considering I was half of why you got to thinking— that's why I'm surprised."

"I'm not… mad," Nicole decides, her voice quiet. Amaretto liqueur is splashed into the bottom of one glass, and then a second she retrieves. One more generously than the other. She tops both off with cola and holds the more liquor-laden glass out to Logan. "It's good. I promise," she says of the dubious concoction.

"I don't blame either of you. You… You both have good reasons for saying what you did. For feeling what you feel." Once Nicole has the second glass passed off, she's retrieving her smokes from her clutch. Menthol cigarette between her lips, she fusses with the lighter that won't spark.

After a moment of frustration, she sets her own glass aside on the kitchen island and depresses the tab on the lighter with her thumb, while bringing her other hand up to snap her fingers over the top of the contraption two or three times before the spark created by her fingers ignites the gas and gives her a flame with which to light her cigarette.

The mix is sipped, probably approved of before he really tastes it — Logan, for all that his taste has gotten a hell of a lot more expensive since he's gotten money, is not a choosy person. Still, it's not something to be endured, either, and the sharper spike of alcohol keeps him hooked enough to take another sip immediately after the first. At the sound of lighter fumbling, Logan cruises on up not to help or anything, but steal a cigarette from the discarded pack and slip the filter between his teeth.

Bird-like, he leans in to make use of the flame she's finally achieved through power use, huffing in a breath of thick smoke to encourage the burning of leaf and paper both. "I suppose this would be a really convenient time for a mass vacation," he mumbles around filter as he regains his posture, fingers up to pinch the cigarette near his knuckle, draw it from his mouth. "Know of anyone else in the Group that has a clue?"

Nicole waits for Logan to lean in to light his own (stolen) cigarette before she lights up her own. Once she's satisfied with the glowing ember she creates on the end, she sets the lighter back on the counter. "I think, if I understood correctly, Robert is aware. Unsurprisingly." The woman's shoulders come up in a bit of a helpless shrug. "I think if you, me, and Redneck all disappeared at the same time, we'd find contracts out on us." Though this is said without too much conviction. "It's a nice thought, though.

"You, me, Barbados?" Nicole flashes a wolfish grin and takes a generous gulp of alcohol and soda from her glass. The smile is quick to fade. "I told Daniel I could have him out of the country before DHS could act, but he says he has no intention of leaving the city. I… am not sure if this is arrogance or if he really does have things under control."

Leaning his elbows against kitchen island, Logan gives more thought to the burning end of his cigarette than, really, the motivations behind Daniel Linderman's choices. Power comes off the man like heat off tarmac, and whatever business relationship he has with Logan, it's been decidedly distant save for when transactions had to be made, as it were, in flesh, on account of over 80 of said flesh having suffered severe burns. Things like that. "Be sure that he's old and wise enough to make good decisions for himself," he settles on, sliding his pale gaze back up to Nicole.

"And," he adds, eyes rolling to regard ceiling, "that there's probably nothing you can do once he's got his mind set on a thing. You don't get to be the most accomplished crimelord in America, in the pocket of the President, without being a stubborn bastard."

Nicole smiles faintly at this notion, seeing the truth in it. "I'm… used to having some sort of control over things." She leans against the reflective marbled countertop to tug a crystal ash tray closer to the two of them, flicking ashes into it before she straightens up again.

"I like your vest," she murmurs, dragging a finger along his spine briefly to indicate the animal print at his back. "It suits you." A plume of smoke goes up over their heads, blown past Nicole's lips to create a billowing cloud that settles into a haze. "Maybe I'm being too dramatic. I'm sure if I said I wanted out, I could walk away. He knows I would never…" Entertain the thoughts she's been entertaining since Kain's departure from ChambĂ©ry? "I mean, who am I anyway? Not worth the effort, I think."

There's a shift of shoulder blades beneath zebra satin and black cotton, in response to the run of her fingertip up his slouching spine. Recalls to him his posture, a little, which is regularly poor whenever he isn't thinking, and corrects it just enough without getting out of his lean. He raises an eyebrow at this last comment, the start of a smile at her prior compliment vanishing in place of a minor scowl — which could be mock, could be serious, as ever difficult to tell.

"The potential arrest of Daniel Linderman," he says, after a moment, with deliberate enunciation, "is not all about you, my love. Come on, let's talk more about me." He takes a sip of his drink as he straightens up completely, moving to bracket her in with a hand coming to rest on marble edge on her other side. "You can be cut up and gutted over another man when 'm not here."

Nicole sighs dramatically, a sound that hitches in her throat and is cut off when he moves to pin her between himself and the counter. Carefully, she manoeuvres her arm to point her cigarette over her shoulder so as not to allow the smoke to direct itself toward his face. Obscure her view of him.

"Logan, I like you," Nicole murmurs, almost with a hint of dismay as tendrils of cigarette seem to twine about her dark hair. "I… don't know what it has to do with anything," she confesses. "I just thought… that you deserve to know." As if she weren't already transparent about her feelings with the way he makes her blush or the way her temper flares up and she wants to cry when she sees him at a function with a pretty girl on his arm.

You shouldn't would be kind advice, and not even near the tip of Logan's tongue as he smiles through what errant smoke curls do work to obscure them both from one another. It's a gentle smile, though, not quite the knife-edge cut of smirking flattery that he usually gives when rewarded. "Thank you," is immediate and as fluid as the smoke in the air, and just as smooth would be the transition from that to a kiss, nudging her face up along with the gesture.

Alcohol and sweeter soda, stale smoke making bitter would would have otherwise been a pleasant kiss, but it's not like Nicole has a room to stand on either, even if he's a little more chain in the realm of smokers.

In times of crisis, different people behave differently. Some withdraw from family and friends. Some throw themselves into their work, or a hobby. Engage their minds, keep busy. Nicole usually opts for the second option herself, but her work is the crisis. And so she finds comfort in a man's arms. Leaving her glass on the counter behind her, she brings her free hand up to tangle in Logan's golden hair, lightly dragging over the back of his neck.

Shining blue eyes slide shut, simple surrender. Menthol tries to disguise the acrid taste of cigarettes and in the back of her mind, Nicole thinks it tastes odd on someone else's lips. Thank you, he said. It should be painful, but all she can feel is numb. And desire. Intense desire for the man whose lips she is kissing, and teasing with her tongue, whether he feels quite the same way or not.

It's a predictable matter of cause and effect: as soon as she gives, he takes. The surrender of glass to table and the tangle of her fingers through curls has Logan winding his arms low around her waist, pushing their hips together and a subtle knock off balance as he steps back with her caught in that bracketing hold. The world tips with dizziness of a little too much alcohol and maybe an edge of other effects too, as he turns her for the kitchen door, breaking away by the time maybe breathing needs to be a good idea.

Oxygenisation is not within his field of influence. Still, his eyes are brightly green in the low light, but that light drains away, leaving them pale, but lazily hooded, backing up from her for a few paces before he's glancing over his shoulder to visually map the apartment. A crooked smile, and a brief pantomime with his hands that query her is this the way to the bedroom, before she's confronted with zebra stripe as he turns for it.

The satin goes slack, because waistcoat is getting removed along with his shirt, bunching expensive fabric in a fist as he walks and undresses at the same time. His back is clear of tattoos, scars, a smattering of aged freckles in haphazard variation.

She feels dazed. Nicole watches clothes wad up, disappear as she works to find her bearings. She sticks her cigarette between her lips and starts to follow after the man quickly, reaching awkwardly behind her to work the zipper down her back to her hips, the dress still held in place by two buttons at the base of her neck.

"Not that one," Nicole directs, quick to stop work on her buttons and take a hand to her lover's arm and guide him away from the doorway he moves toward. "This way," she corrects with a tilt of her head to the other side of the hallway, just past the door to the bathroom left ajar. She sucks in on her cigarette and blows it out the corner of her mouth expertly, the way someone who's practised since their teen years can.

Nicole's bed is tasteful, perhaps surprisingly a king-sized mattress on a shiny ebony frame. The sheets are, as Logan will discover shortly, Egyptian cotton. High thread count. A peacock feather pattern all across the comforter, layered over a turquoise top sheet and purple fitted, with pillows to further match the theme.

He'll chase her the rest of the way, after a mutter of, "so not in the laundry, then?" and a hand grabbing at the backs of her thighs beneath the bouncing hem of her skirt. Colour scheme, however, proves to startle Logan, some sense of de ja vu, maybe from a dream or maybe somewhere as real as the high thread count in the sheets. Peacock patterns and colours, smile vanishing for only a fraction of a second before that moment is passing, because—

It has to. What with his waistcoat and a two hundred dollar shirt spilt onto corridor floor. His hand seeks her wrist, though despite the commanding nature of it, it's a bid to invite him.

Delighted giggles bubble past Nicole's lips as his hands grab for her legs. Not in Sissy's room is the more accurate reason. The laundry would have been fair game. She allows her wrists to be captured but comes up with one hand to brush her thumb over the man's cheek. "Lemme just get rid'a this smoke," she murmurs around the smouldering stick between lips and teeth, slipping free of his grasp long enough to cross to the opposite side of her bed from him to crush out the blowing embers.

Her back is exposed, flawless, creamy flesh much as he remembers from their last liaison - if he remembers much of it. Details are fuzzy for Nicole. She makes a twirling gesture with one finger and points to the bed. "Sit."

He does. Sit. There's a hesitation that serves to underline the decision made to do so, but inevitably, he perches against the side of the bed and takes the opportunity to lever off shoes, patent leather, pointed toe and short laces, black business socks beneath that peel to expose pale feet. A pair that don't look like he's ever been any kind of athlete — it would be difficult to imagine the kid he used to be, a fucking cold 7 am morning in London with frost clinging not only to the grass, but seemingly to the dirt as well, ice laced into the mud like poison.

Soft soles settle on expensive carpet. "You do get a kick out've telling me what to do."

"I do," Nicole confesses. She enjoys telling men what to do. Some shrink would probably have a lot to say about that, given the opportunity. Her eyes are alight with mirth, with her ability. "You are so gorgeous," she compliments coming to stand in front of him and brush her fingers through his hair fondly once.

Those hands then come up to settle at the base of her neck, where buttons are still fastened. Her blue dress hangs awkwardly off her frame with the back undone. "Tell me I'm beautiful," she requests with sincere eyes.

It might be the remark someone gives a cat, if that person were a cat person, and there is a feline nudge of Logan's skull against her hand. Also: it is the kind of remark exchanged between two human beings. His hands go out, touch the drape of her hanging dress, watches the play of it at a tug with his gaze tracking from there and all the way to her eyes, only deviating towards the more interesting dips and curves and lines her frame makes. "You're beautiful," is spoken effortlessly, accent softening it.

"And I think you need to come here," he adds, hand gripping expensive bedsheets as he levers himself backwards all the more, partially lying back on propping elbows, loose belt buckle dragging. If sex could be mutual compliments, Logan is all up in that. As it happens, there's even more to enjoy about it.

Nicole grins and then chuckles softly, watching him recline with the same marked interest he gives the curves of her body, misshapen as they are beneath her dress. Buttons worked free, she drops the expensive gown to the floor, letting it create an electric blue puddle around her feet, which she steps out of to come bring one knee up on the edge of the bed first, and then the other, straddling Logan's half-reclined form.

Not to be outdone in the feline analogies, Nicole purrs, "Tell me I'm sexy," with a curl of her lip. A flash of fang, a bat of lashes. She trails one finger down Logan's chest gently, skipping up at the waistline of his pants, which she doesn't immediately move to help him with. Instead, once his hand is clear of the buckle, she allows a spark and crackle of blue that matches the shade of her eyes - or perhaps it's the other way around - to dance from her fingertips to the buckle's face.

She'd rewarded by a start, full-bodied gesture that bounces her briefly and the hissing beginnings of a curse. Fucking Evolved, a sentiment that currently works on two levels, and she can probably watch the way muscles clench up in wariness beneath the mildly scarred flesh of his belly. An exhale follows, along with a smile and assisting to save face, a rich chuckle that springs immediately after, as raw a spark of sincerity as naked electricity leaping from fingertip to designer buckle.

"Will when you prove it," is challenge back at her now, eyes remaining their dilute chillness as he snags her wrist again, and this time, he doesn't let go. Not for a good quarter of an hour.

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