Living In Sin


delia_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Living In Sin
Synopsis Eltingville's newest residents receive a warm welcome from the guards at the gate and finally arrive in their new refurbished home.
Date March 22, 2011

Eltingville Blocks

It's lightly raining, beading droplets to roll down the windshield of the car come to a halt at the Eltingville Blocks checkpoint, which is why it's vastly unpleasant when the passengers inside are drawn out of it. Wire gates seem flimsy, considering what they're meant to hold inside, but the amount of soldiers that either mill around idle or stand at attention despite the weather probably means that the weaponry in their hands is the real defense over diamond wire. The fences, too, stretching out on either side, are sturdy things with thick razor wire curling like a vine, designed to shred, pierce hands and stomachs and thighs.

Logan leans against the side of black sports car which is parked just in front of closed gates, arms folded on the roof and sunglasses dotted with the mild fall of water, but looking nonplussed about such things. Anxious, more, at the gates, and the soldiers, and the fucking delay as two men in fatigues confer over some pieces of paper. Delia does not have her card yet, you see.

When Logan spoke over her, and said that she lost it, and here are the request forms for the pending request, it's a special kind of bullshit code.

"I've already spoken to anyone that matters on the topic," he's telling her now, in a low enough voice that it's not meant to be heard by nearby personel. "You're in the clear, they're just checking the i's are dotted, and the like." Beyond the fencing, the spread of desolate suburbia goes on and on, and the white shape of a church rising above some low, squat houses. The immediate street looks like it could be any random white picket fence neighbourhood, save for the dirtiness, the militant presence on the outside, and the razor wire that rings all of it together.

Daring a look over at Logan, Delia's lips quirk on only one side as a small smile of gratitude. The expression on her face isn't nearly as annoyed as his and her demeanor much more sedate and compliant. Crossing her arms over her chest, she might be wishing now that she had worn her thick shearling coat, rather than the sweater over the long sleeved t-shirt that she did, or so her shiver would indicate.

"Thanks," she murmurs in reply. Her tone is a little breathy and awestruck, as it used to be when she first met him instead of the last time they saw each other. Leaning a little closer to the blond man, she whispers rather than speaks in a lowered tone. "I'm… I'm not going to disappear, am I? Because of my dad?" Though her head is tilted down enough that he can see much of the top of her head, her eyes lift up up meet his sunglasses.

The view beyond where they stand isn't much more reassuring to her and she only hunches her shoulders a little more at the sight of it. The ghetto. "Wh-who did you talk to?"

"Colonel Heller."

Depending on the set of ears listening, that name can ring sharp and dangerous. Logan isn't sure— or doesn't remember— if Delia is one of them, but the name is spoken gently. But not flippantly. Fingers pull sunglasses down a little to glance at her over silver wire frames, before replacing them once more. "We're fixing things away with the Department of Evolved Affairs — I figure, as long as your residence is here, they don't 'ave much to complain about. And as for your dad, well— you're on our team now. They can afford to be nice to us."

Maybe. While two checkpoint guards communicate over a radio Logan can listen to regarding what the fuck is up with this Delia Ryans woman, another is returning with Logan's own Registration card. "All tidy?" the Briton asks, tone dry, taking it back and slipping it back in the wallet.

"Pop the trunk," is neutral response, to which Logan rolls his eyes in a way Delia can see, and moves to do so.

The name isn't exactly familiar, so all the answer that Logan receives for the bit of information is lips formed into a round little 'o' and a slight upward nod. Tucking her hands into her pockets, she twirls a quarter turn on one foot and moves to follow Logan toward the trunk. She stops somewhere near the gas cap and places one hand on the roof of the car.

She leans to the side enough to spy the dogs in the back seat. The younger one is jealously guarding a rawhide from the older who is really more interested in sleeping. Tapping the window lightly, she gets their attention though really only focuses on the older dog who is, admittedly, her favorite. Instead of baby talk, just because of her fear of getting shot, she just traces a light pattern on the side of the window, prompting the dog's long snout to be pressed up against the inside.

In her own bags, the most interesting things are a few items of clothing that are a little on the racier side. Something that earns a blush and a turn of her head to look up at the sky, the birds, the clouds, anything but any of the people gathered around the car.

Logan is more interested in what they're doing with his luggage.

Which is being hauled out to the stammer-halted protests of the Briton, torn somewhere between protectiveness over vintage suitcases and their contents, and also not wanting to get shot. He winces, behind his glasses, as zippers zwizz their sound effects, and Delia can feel more than see him sidle on over to her side. And then see, as he takes out cigarette case, and sets about lighting up in jerky movements of stress and suppressed rage blackout. "It's worse than the fucking airport," he hisses, like he's even been in the international terminals since he went from England to Mexico less than a decade ago.

"This doesn't happen every time, does it?" is louder, pointed, towards a random soldier that walks by and gives the duo a briefly bewildered glance before moving on. "Oh, here we go." The soldiers are coming back, now, one of which holds sheets and forms and passport to Delia with a glance from her to Logan. It's the most affirmation she gets.

She's legal. Or. You know what I mean.

"You got any paperwork for the dogs?" one of them says.

"Or this?"

And from one elegant suitcase, the shotgun that's extracted from it may seem a little excessive. Sawed off and occasionally called a lupara— but only if you're a gangster, ha ha… ha— it's held up once slipped out from between silken shirts and designer jeans. "How'm I meant to do much job if you people are going to be so picky?" sounds a bit whiny from the once-negator, watching mournfully as it's passed off for confiscation. He moves to round around the nose of the car. "I'm coming back for those," is a threat that goes unheeded, even as he points after the departing officer.

Delia's hand goes over her mouth and her blue eyes widen to the size of saucers at the treatment of Logan's things. She's never been to an airport in her life, she has no idea what they're like. Her mouth opens as though she's about to say something in reply to the Briton but the only sound she makes is the intake of air as it passes into her lungs. Her arms swing down to her sides and she makes a point to brush her fingers against his stopping from actually gripping his hand tightly by digging her nails into her own palm.

The question about the dogs as her planting her back against the window where his dog sits, it's no measure of protection against already being seen though and thus a wide eyed glance is darted toward Logan. As the shotgun is passed over, she inches to the side to cover Cheza's window a little more. She doesn't answer the officers, content to play the part of the mute to avoid getting shot. What she does do is study the officers carefully, with her jaw clenched before moving around to join Logan at his side.

"You'll get them back," she murmurs in a small attempt to be reassuring, "if anyone can it's you." After all, he somehow got her a passport, the man's a genius. "Th-they're not going to take Cheza, are they?"

"Colonel Heller did say I could have all the dogs I want. Do you reckon that he'd appreciate getting hassled over these minor fucking details and won't, say, take it out anyone at all? Certainly not his inferiors." He's talking to Delia. But not really. Too loudly.

The soldiers know better than to listen to petulant civilian threats, but— it's probably a good enough point. The trendy little sportscar rocks as luggage— sans lupara, but all of Delia's racy underthings kept intact— are tossed back into the trunk, and the hood coming down with a slam. Logan watches and waits for cues, which mostly manifests as someone's nod to the gatekeepers, and the electric buzz as the doors open. He tilts his head at Delia, and opens her door for her, a hand drifting to the small of her back in gentlemanly urge.

Moves to his side, and slides on into the cab, hands setting on ignition and wheel both. Tosses sunglasses to dashboard. Pushes Cheza back from where she slooowly edges long nose forward to lick at his ear. "I preferred Staten Island before."

Staring at the Englishman from her side, Delia's jaw just sort of hangs open a half an inch and she takes a breath inward. "You're fantastic," she breathes in compliment and then turns to stare at her hands tucked between her knees. The iPad is held tightly between them and powered off. He's with her, so there's no use for it at the moment. "H-how did you get me a passport and— and all the paperwork without— without them coming to arrest me? I just can't.. wow." Her eyes slide to the side to study him as discreetly as she can, the slight angle of her chin in his direction is only one of the small clues to what she's doing.

Past him the fading snow and brown grass paints a pretty picture of her new home. "I never really came here before," she admits, though that fact really shouldn't be much of a surprise to anyone. She cranes her head to look behind her and lets loose the iPad with one hand the reaches across and between the seats to ruffle between Cheza's ears. "I mean, I was here once or twice before the bomb— but not between then and now."

Once she's finished with Cheza, then Rhett, she twists back and reaches for her seatbelt. "Is that going to happen all the time? Or just while we're moving? I'm just asking because I got offered a job and I wanted to take it if I'm allowed off the island. It's nothing big.. but…" A small tic of a smile on one side and the shrug of her shoulder closest to him complete the thought.

Logan's mouth opens, shuts. If he has to start every sentence with Colonel Heller said, he'll be getting his lupara back only to shoot himself with it. Knuckles tighten around the steering wheel as he drives. Tries again.

"I've been assured… that we'll be in and out with no problem. Perhaps a bit of tension while the last of the sodding bureaucracy is sorted out, but, I've business on the mainland too I'll be keeping an eye on." Cigarette in the corner of his mouth, it weaves a little as he talks, but never falls out, as they go rumbling down the near empty streets. As for how he got her her papers— that doesn't go spoken about. Maybe a conversation for another day. When he isn't driving. Not that Delia has violent tendencies that he's seen.

But it's always the quiet ones.

The population is still low while the urban settlement of houses is dense — grass grows thick on neglected lawns, weeds between pavement cracks, paint flaking off houses as they leave the checkpoint behind. "What's the job?" is perkily conversational.

"A clerk, at a store in Greenwich Village.. a weird sort of store that sells skeletons in cages and things like that." Unkempt lawns and peeling houses are given nothing more than a cursory glance as they pass by, it's people that catch her interest. If there are any about. "It's not a career or anything, but he wasn't asking for papers and I sort of need something." To line her pockets and perhaps occupy her time.

As they pass by a few more blocks, she leans forward in her seat and stretches out her neck to see just a little further. "Where am I going to be living? With you? Or are you putting me somewhere else?" A genuine curiosity, though she doesn't look at him while she asks. Instead she's looking out at the sky through her window. When she does look at him, it's only briefly and over as soon as she notices him looking back.

"I've a house. It has room. If better arrangements're needed, we can sort something out, but for now, yeah, with me. What're you watching for?"

The sky, after all, is not pretty, still spitting rain like a leaky tap, and the colour of abusive bruises. Logan doesn't bother checking it either, occupied on letting his window down an inch, the rush of air outside doing something to vacuum out the dry smoke he breathes out in draconic curls of thick white from mouth and nostrils. They wing around a corner, headed more coastal. A view of the ocean, maybe. Or at least, if you get up high enough.

Slowing indicates their destination, especially as the building is a property set apart from others, broken off from the crush of suburbia. There's an aging prettiness to it, all red brick and solid foundation, thickness in its build around a wooden door with brass fixings, and square windows that are even intact. A black roof, with small, peeping attic windows. It looks abandoned on the outside, with an overgrown weedy front, but tiny glimpses available through the glass indicate an amount of renovation.

Gravel crunches beneath wheels as the car noses towards the space allotted for vehicles, open to the elements.

"No, I'd rather be with you," Delia replies, finally looking away from the window to give the Briton a sidelong glance. She focuses her slightly squinted blue eyes on his hands gripping the steering wheel for a moment and then turns a wane smile up to him. It drops almost as quickly as it appears when the house finally comes into view and all the breath whooshes out of her lungs in a breath of awe. Even with the state of the yard, it looks much more habitable than the rest of the houses they had passed.

Before the wheels completely stop, her hand is reaching for the clip to her seatbelt and with a small click she's unfastened and reaching for the door handle. The redhead shifts and leans a little closer to the driver's side but then at the last moment veers to peer into the back seat. Already Rhett is sitting up and nosing at the window, looking for a chance to escape. "Welcome to home for now, buddy." Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she raises her eyebrows at Logan uncertainly and twitches the corners of her lips up a little. "For now because he'll be going home as soon as his owner gets better."

Explanation given, she swings her door open and steps out of the car. The light sprinkle of rain catches on her face and spots of her sweater, creating an odd polk-a-dot pattern about the shoulders. Rhett leaps from the backseat and skitters across the passenger seat to escape without invitation. "It looks nice, and big."

The other passenger door opens, and Cheza flows out in all her long limbs and rangy gait, bristled fur up against the rain and the chain around her neck glinting silver. Logan more or less ignores her as she wanders off to nose around the overgrown front yard, trusting she'll follow in her own time or at least not go so far as she can't be found. Or. Well. He cares, in his own way.

"Yeah. Tried to get something nice. Ish. 's better than the digs I found for myself back in the day." Suitcases get dragged out, Delia whistled for to grab her own things as Logan wheels his own after himself, navigating uneasily over the uneven terrain, pausing next to her to evaluate the front of the house — sizeable for two people, quaint. "What's wrong with his owner, anyway?" And up the bricked in pathway, Logan sending a distracted glance towards where Cheza's shape is inevitably wheeling around to follow.

An antiquated looking key slots into brass lock, but the door opens to that vaguely new house smell, with fresh paint and clean carpets. The slow filling of furniture — a wardrobe for coats in the immediate hallway, a sofa with upholstery that's either elaborate or ugly in faded golds and reds to the left in the living room. The curtains lack drapes and the walls lack pictures.

"Mind the carpets," is reminder, although there'll be no stopping the dogs from tromping rain-mud paws into the house short of locking them out.

"Flu," Delia murmurs as she balances a duffel bag, two backpacks, her iPad, and a potted bonsai tree between two arms. One of the packs slips down to her elbow and throws her a little off balance to stumble one step to the side. She doesn't have to whistle for the dog, he's on her heels and (possibly for lack of anything better to do) doing a great job of getting in the young woman's way. "I'll find her in a few days to see how she's doing. After we're settled."

When the door opens up, Rhett slips past both his de facto owner and Logan. "Rhett come back, stay." The command has the young dog pausing in midstep and trotting slowly back toward the door, leaving behind a fairly large smudge of mud. "Sorry, I'll clean it up." After letting her bags slide to the floor, Delia pulls her boots off with either foot and pushes them neatly to the side.

Hugging the potted plant tightly to her chest, she inches forward a few steps to duck her head into the livingroom and give a low whistle. "You've already put so much work in…" she breathes, obviously thinking Logan did it himself.

"…yeah, well."

Not like Logan is keen to correct her! Perfect isn't something one tries to evade lightly — or at least twice. Even if the shine is gone. It can be earned back. He wheels suitcases to rest up against the wall, pacing around behind Delia as he takes in the place once again — this time with her in it. Resting on her back, his hand splays fingers, a friendly and familiar touch with the V of thumb and index finger following the shape of shoulderblade. A glance down at the leafy green plant she holds close to her chest. "You can finish it up if you like. I can lend you the credit card."

Voice nearer, then, breath smokey from the cigarette still lit but abandoned outside where dropped on the way in. "Perhaps you should have a look around, take the dogs for the adventure. I've a few things to attend to myself."

She shifts to lean into his hand before her breath stops and her body tenses just a little. Turning toward Logan's voice, Delia takes a deep breath in before finally allowing herself to relax. The plant gets in the way of facing him fully. Its stature, though small for a giant redwood, is still fairly sizable and the twist of branches angling toward her chest poke into her sweater, crushing a few of its miniature leaves.

"Y-you want me to decorate?" Craning her head to catch his eye, there's a sort of shock in hers. "I— uhm.. never really decorated anything but my bedroom before." The Gun Hill apartment doesn't really count since she didn't do much aside from put together a few sticks of furniture and toss them against the walls. "I promise no giant daisies and pictures of unicorns all over the walls."

It's then that she finally greets him with an easy going smile that seems to illuminate her whole face. Drawing in another deep breath, she angles her head toward the Englishman while looking up at the walls, perhaps picturing what sort of things to occupy them with. "I like the couch, it's bright… but yeah, I'll go look around. Find somewhere to put this.." is said of the plant. "Is my room beside yours?"

Her phrasing— you want me to…— and the look of bright surprise catches Logan off-guard, but he's not bad at adapting. Saying good things by accident, but it makes sense — hand the girl a colouring book while business is attended to. The side of things he might not want her to see until the last second. His smile is swift, and he tilts his head towards solid stairs that wind up and disappear into a second storey. "It's the one down the hallway, the street-side view. I took the master, but you are ever welcome to join me."

A quick kiss to her cheek signifies him passing by — if he would have tried anything else, it may have been circumvented by the greenery and winding branches of the thing she's gripping between herself and the rest of the world. And if it occurs to him to help her upstairs with her luggage—

Well. There's no excuse, there, except it just doesn't, as he takes his cellphone off his belt in thudding steps for the door, automatically stepping passed Cheza as she finally enters in her own time.

There's no need to call Rhett. As soon as Delia moves, he's ambling alongside her until they reach the stairs. Taking the lead, he runs up first and waits at the head for both the redhead and Cheza to catch up. Balancing the plant in the crook of one arm, she uses her free hand to open and close the doors one by one, peeking into each before finally getting to the master bedroom. That door she leaves ajar as she heads across the hallway into her own space.

The two dogs are a little better at exploring than she is. Rhett, being an untrained and unruly animal, is up and down every available pillowed surface. Though his feet aren't as muddy as they were when he first entered the house, he still leaves tracks across the bedding at odd angles. "Rhett down!" The stern command is given just as the canine crouches and readies himself to jump up onto Logan's bed. "Get out of there, come on."

Once the dogs are both in her own room, she sets the plant down on the dresser and bids them to stay while she skips down the stairs to grab her duffel bag and one of the backpacks. The other, Rhett's things, are left near the door for now, just on the other side of her boots. Unpacking is simple as she doesn't own enough to occupy more than a few minutes. Some of Nick's and one of Toru's shirts have made a permanent place in her wardrobe and are now settled comfortably at the bottom of a drawer.

The backpack is filled with bawdy romance novels, one of which is plucked out immediately and the pages leafed through until she finds a dog eared one. Then with a long sigh, she flops down on the bed to wait for Mister Logan to return, occupying herself with a heated passage between a man named Rodrigo and a woman named Scarlet.

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