Moral Highground


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Scene Title Moral Highground
Synopsis …is a highly subjective place to be. After the fiasco of the Rookery followed by a difficult day, Logan calls in some cavalry for clothing and comfort in the form of Toru. They discuss who deserves to be taken care of.
Date July 2, 2009

Phonecall Between New Jersey and Staten Island

It's dusk, which means that a pretty sunset would be in order. It's disappeared behind smoggy cloud and indefinite horizon of jumbled buildings, making the dome of sky above just seem bruised and bloodless. Logan can only see a small square of it out a high window, anyway, from where he's positioned himself. Cigarette smoke is starting to fill the boxy interior of the shabby motel bathroom, as he flicks ash into the sink from his perch on the closed toilet seat, and so is the sound of robotic beeping from the red and silver cellphone in his hand.

This is the worst and longest day ever. Smoldering cigarette pinched between two fingers, he uses the tips to massage against his temple as he brings up the phone with his other hand to his ear. The number that nags Toru's phone on the other side is a familiar one, at least, identifying itself as his boss of the now rubble-ruined brothel still smoking in the Rookery.

The phone rings.

Toru, on the other hand, is still on Staten Island. He either wasn't awake enough to go check out last night's ruckus, was otherwise indisposed, or just didn't want to get involved - but whatever the case, he hasn't yet left.

He had, however, gone over to the Rookery, or at least the fringes, to see what had gone down, and he wasn't exactly pleased to see smoking rubble where his job was, and not exactly certain what to make of everything, but at least there weren't screaming, half-naked hookers running around all over the place, and really, that's one good reason to avoid any Rookery-based carnage.

So in any case, he's at 'his' house now, throwing things into a duffel bag. He had settled in a bit during his time here, after all, and while for the most part his real 'home' is his apartment in Chinatown, there are still things to gather here. The phone, on a dresser, buzzes its way down to fall on the floor while playing a rather chavvy sounding Eurodance tune; he picks it up and answers, clipped and irately, "What the fuck is going on?!"

Logan's head tips away from his phone at the barking words sent down the line. It seems cruel that the world sees it fit to test his patience today, of all days, but he's silent at first, taking a deep breath of cheap cigarette smoke and blowing it out again somewhat shallowly. "We got fucked," he decides upon, voice coming bitter and short down the line, echoing in the acoustics of the tiled room. "I don't know who yet but believe me, I'm looking forward to slitting some throats once I get back on my feet. For now— I'm in New Jersey until I can figure out what to do next."

It would have been nice if his hydrokinetic had been under his employ, still, just last night. Perhaps he'd still have a building. It's hard to feel much other than anger and bitterness, and confusion as to what to do with injury that Mu-Qian's strange flesh can't fix.

"Have you heard anything? What're people saying down there?"

There are a few thumps on Toru's end of the line, clothes being thrown into that bag still, but he stops and switches hands when Jersey is mentioned. "Jersey, why— " And that last question elicits a sharp, wry laugh. "Heard anything? There's fucking— every— I mean christ, John, hookers running around and screaming and on fire everywhere, I don't think I really need to hear from the fuggin' rumor mill."

He lowers his voice a bit, at least, shifting to sit on folded knees, Japanese-style, though not with as rigid a posture as is tradition. "That was a figure of speech," he adds. "I'm assumin' nobody set any of the girls on fire. Why are you in Jersey? And who…" That thought prompts him to stand back up with a bit of a grunt, pausing as he looks around the room to see if he left anything behind. "…I mean do you need me to go kill anyone? 'Cause now seems like a fuggin' good time for it."

John. Great, he loses his brothel and the integrity and respect of his last name. He can't quiiite bring himself to bitch about it, however, which might explain why Toru isn't bothering. Logan rests back against the tank, hooded eyes hazily making out the opposite wall - his own reflection in the mirror nailed to the wall. He's gotten back some colour, so that's nice, but he didn't get an opportunity to moisturise. The fuck knows what that portends.

He leans to ash the cigarette off a little more into the porcelain sink in front of him, ignoring his reflection for the time being. "I'm in Jersey because I got shot and I can't trust the Rookery any further than I can throw it. Not anymore. 's the only place you can drive from that fucking island anyway. And I told you, I don't know who. What I need— "

What does he need. That's a good question. Certainly, to kill someone, but he doesn't know who. Logan goes quiet on the other end, as if the line somehow died without a tone afterwards. Takes a breath. "I need money, a car. Things." Help.

"I sort of just meant in general." A wave of the hand, not that Logan can see it. "But I guess'd be better if you were the one doin' it anyway." Frowning at his surroundings, Toru lifts his shoulder, shoving the phone against his ear as he shoves a few more things into his duffel and closes it with an audible zip.

"Okay, okay, right, I'm yer guy. You want me to round up some shit? I'll like, go by your place or somethin'. Get stuff. I dunno if any cars on the island'd be good enough to bother grabbin', but I can try to find somethin' unless you got somethin'." A pause, there, and footsteps on his end of the line as Toru makes his way downstairs, but doesn't exit 'his' house. No need having this conversation in public. "…I dunno where you live, boss." Or rather, lived, which he doesn't clarify.

The next exhale of curling smoke is one of relief, Logan shaking his head, dismissive, despite the movement being utterly pointless. His gaze goes up towards the window, as if judging the hour by the slice of sky he can see. "The apartment block off the corner've Hunter Avenue, room four-oh-two. It won't be unlocked but— " Whatever. Shoot it apart, break it, for all he cares, is what a short amount of pause indicates, while he takes another breath of smoke. "There's a gun and cash in the top drawer of the dresser. You can take some out've the latter and rent something if you need to. Clothing would be grand."

Because what he's wearing right now doesn't completely count. The slacks, the fancy shoes are all preserved, but his shirt is ruined and his jacket isn't much better. The black cloth of the former hangs damply from his torso, the outline of a preserved blood stain barely detectable but certainly there, never mind that gauge of the bullet's path. "I'm at the Dry Dock roadside motel. Look for the van. Don't plan to stay long."

"Hunter Avenue, four-oh-two. Gun and cash in the top drawer. Dry Dock motel. Got it." It's a bit of a walk from where Toru's been staying, but nothing worth bitching about. He shifts his bag from one shoulder to the other, phone moving to opposite hand, and moves to open the door, but pauses with his hand on the handle. "Boss, are you, uh, alright?" There is a vague sort of hesitance in the question; too much concern with appearances making him get all stumbly.

"I mean, like, you said you got shot and… I mean, I know you got a healer and all but are you aight? You need me to like.. get bandages or any shit like that? I gotta pass by a drug store somewhere anyway, so if you want me to pick anything up for ya.."

There's a creak of plastic as Logan stands up from his perch, the tile cold and a little slick underfoot. He unconsciously rolls the shoulder that got a bullet in it as Toru asks that question. "Healer came with," he responds, words not unusually clipped, as irritation is not an emotion alien to the erstwhile brothel owner. Just a little out of place. Tense. "I'm fine. I mean— "

He's not fine. He's not sure if he's going to be fine. Logan unconsciously lets a hand drift out, absently clasps around the handle of the door, but doesn't open it - keeps it firm as if against some unknown intruder. Enclosing himself in this space before the rest of the world can crush him. It's suffocating, but it's better than drowning.

Logan's back braces against the closed door, and he pitches the cigarette into the sink, hand coming up to rub against his brow as if to stave away a headache. "It will be, won't it."

"Y— Yeah." Toru's tone shifts a bit there; confidence replaced by worry and a vague sense of determination. "Yeah, boss. Look, it'll probably take a while, but I'll get there as soon as I can, aight?" He spares a glance out the window to ensure that he isn't being watched himself, not that anyone would be, and returns his attention to the call. "I'm goin' now. I'll let you know if anything goes south."

With that promise made, he ends the call, assuming Logan doesn't stop him for anything else. A last quick glance is given over the house he probably won't come back to again, ensuring everything he needs is in his bag, and he heads out the front door.

New Jersey — Dry Docks Motel

By the time Toru can find himself pulling into the spacious parking lot of the rundown motel, it's gotten dark as predicted. There's a lit up sign next to the road, proclaiming itself to be Full!, rather unhelpfully, even if this isn't strictly the truth. Only a couple of cars make dead weight out from the open motel with its rows of doors exposed to the elements, and the familiar van of designer blue.

The sliding door has been pulled open, and its here that Logan is perched, his feet planted against the asphalt and shoulder leaning against the metal frame, seated and slouching. A glass half full, or half empty, of something is clasped between his hands, and he only opens his eyes when he hears the whine of tires and the growl of an engine.

He doesn't get up, just watches with distant observation and waits to be approached. The alcohol he's currently using to keep himself warm against the descending, inevitable chill of the summer night is sipped from.

The car Toru arrives in is not the most impressive of vehicles, though it certainly works; it's old, not very flashy. An Oldsmobile, from one of the very few places left that don't care much about your credit when you rent a car so long as you can actually provide some cash.

He slides the sedan just above the line between the two empty spots nearest the van, with the practised ease of one who has never previously driven a car for a very long consecutive time period. Opens his door, closing it as he exits, keys in pockets, and moves around to the passenger-side door to pull out a small suitcase. Walking over to the open van door, then, the suitcase is set inside the larger vehicle as Toru looks down at Logan, wipes his nose on his own arm, and shuffles a bit awkwardly. "I— got some first aid stuff anyway, if you need it. Figured just in case…" The Asian boy, for his own part, doesn't look much the worse for wear — a bit frazzled for the sudden burst of relocation and activity, but otherwise, well. He wasn't involved in a firefight.

All things considered, for a man who got shot through the shoulder and his business burn down and all his worldly possessions and savings only recently delivered to him in a beat up rental car— he could look worse. The black on black fabric of the clothing he's currently wearing disguises some of his ordeal, but drains Logan of the colour he managed to claim back in recent hours.

His gaze shifts from the younger man's approach towards the suitcase, breathing out a pent up sigh, before looking up towards Toru again. There's the hint of something like a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Said I was fine," Logan counters, brings up the glass to drink from. Not his favoured gin, but darker - likely bourbon, to judge by scent. "There are others— " He cuts off that sentence, brow tensing in annoyance at his own vagueness, tries again. "The healer, and. Ghost. Bebe, too, don't know if she quit before you— " He gestures vaguely with his glass. Before you.

"Eloni's somewhere, too. Thank you," he says, those last two words coming sharp and sudden, as if realising he should say them. His accent seems to join them together, hitched with the sharp consonant at the end and the languid vowel at the start, though the slurriness of drinking might have something to do with it. Toru's seen him in a worse state, quite likely, let himself be seen in a worse state. The degree of inebriation could be described as hazy.

Toru knows the name, Bebe, but never actually met the girl. Or maybe he did without realizing it; the Dagger isn't exactly the sort of place for introductions, after all, but our meta is getting off-track. "I know, it's just, I mean.." He shrugs, waves fingers idly. "Healin's a weird ability, still ain't used to it, someone tells you they got shot you kinda figure they ain't all that great. Even if someone does have healy magic."

He shifts that suitcase back a bit and slumps down next to Logan, pulls a pack of cigarettes and lighter from pockets, and rifles through cancer sticks wrapped in two different colors before settling on one. Pack thrust back into pocket, cigarette lit, lighter hidden, long drag taken as he sits back, contemplatively.

"You're welcome," he adds, after a moment, a bit taken aback by the display of gratitude; it may have been an almost throwaway comment, but coming from Logan, well. "So I guess this is the part where we run away to the city and get help from that guy you were talkin' about."

As Toru steers to sit beside him, Logan slouches forward a little to let his elbows rest against his raised knees, back curving beneath the taut, expensive black fabric of his ruined jacket. The scent of blood is long since gone, however - mostly lingering dampness, soap, none of the exotic scents that used to cling to him. Cheap cigarettes and American bourbon are subtle distinctions that wouldn't have fit in with the ever-present cling of incense, of finer wines and expensive cologne.

"Yeah," he responds, shortly, a glance steering back towards the blocky buildings of the motel. "Tomorrow, I'll be contacting Kain Zarek. Set up a meeting. Not like he doesn't owe me a few moments've 'is time. And I figure I may as well hit the ground running."

Logan's hand then goes out with the intent of stealing away Toru's cigarette. Sharing is caring, and though his voice has a roughness to it that indicates he hasn't had much of a break between cigarettes, he's taking comfort where he can get it.

Toru takes another hit off the cigarette before passing it over, gesturing to indicate that Logan can just keep it. He rolls his own, which may or may not be an unusual flavor sensation for the older man. "I found, uh. A suitcase. For your clothes. Didn't really— I mean, I got what I figured would work for now, but you have a lotta shit, man." There is a sort of half-laugh at the end of that remark, and he runs a hand through his hair.

'What would work for now' referring, of course, to the fact that any leopard-print zoot suits were left behind. "Other stuff's under it." Gun, cash, any spare rounds he may have found. "Sorry the place prob'ly ain't very secure no more but you had to figure I couldn't get everything in just one trip.."

Sighing, he leans back, takes in a deep breath, and idly kicks his feet back and forth as they dangle over the edge of the van's doorway. His hand that is closest to his boss wanders over and squeezes the Brit's knee reassuringly. "Everything'll work out. Things usually do, right?"

The taste of the smoke is a surprise, but not an unpleasant one. Letting smoke stream out his nostrils as he glances at the rolled cigarette, Logan lets a smile twist at the corner of his mouth, somewhat bitter, at the mention of things left behind beyond a broken door. He shakes his head. "'s only things," he dismisses. "Learned a while back that everything is expendable, one way or another. The Dagger's just a place, too. Not my only one either."

Whether he's saying such things for Toru's benefit is unclear - certainly talking to the other man, but his voice is quiet, muttering, as unobtrusive as the crawl of chillier evening. And whether he believes what he's saying is another matter entirely. Logan glances down at the hand on his leg, and that hinted smile grows a little in amusement. "Yes, things usually do. Do I look like a virgin schoolgirl to you? Next we'll be holding hands if you're not careful."

'Just things' gets a bit of a wry chuckle from Toru. "You just kinda seem like a guy who likes his stuff, boss." Shrug. "Don't mean nothin' by that, just.. figured. Whatever. You're pretty much right, though." That last comment, though, causes the boy to yank his hand back, sharply, and shove both into his pockets. Makes his sitting position a little less comfortable, but makes him feel better, at least.

Glancing off away from Logan, he grumbles, "Man, I'm just tryin' ta make you feel better, yo. I dunno what's goin' on anymore, everything's gone to shit, you're…" He gestures vaguely with a hand. "…outta clothes and in New Jersey. Nothin' else that last bit's enough to make anybody feel like shit." With a vague sort of irritated noise, there, he pushes himself a little further into the truck, folding his legs up against his chest and loosely wrapping his arms around them, head rested on his knees.

"You look like shit, your place burned down, I figured you could use some cheerin' up." In the obvious form of knee-gropes, of course. "That's what people do, I think."

"It did cheer me up," Logan points out, just shy off jovially, glancing back at Toru. Mocking people is fun too. His ability unused, his eyes only seem pale and colourless in this light, most things drained of their tone if only by virtue of nighttime (in New Jersey). He hisses in a last, deep drag of cigarette smoke. "Besides," he adds, after blowing out a smooth stream of the smoke and pitching the still substantial but now rejected remains of the cigarette away, to die a small orange glowing death on the asphalt, "maybe I like holding hands."

He shifts enough to pick up his glass once more, knocks back the rest of the bourbon with a slight nose wrinkle, and levers himself out of the van. Shoes far fancier than he feels he should be wearing right now connect sharply with the ground of the parking lot, and with swagger more alcohol-fueled than confidence, he turns back to Toru. "Come on, stop— going all armadillo," he says, a tug at the younger man's pant leg. "It's boring, and I 'aven't got the patience. Mu-Qian's been sulking at me since last night."

"Yeah, and she," Toru notes, "is weird." Not that he's met the healer, but stories and rumors do make their way around. "And anyway, when you say it like that it makes it sound like you're annoyed. Or at least that you don't like it." He grumbles slightly, but at least, once he finishes that explanation, he does uncurl from his defensive posture. Legs dangle back over the edge of the van doorway, hands on the sill, holding himself up.

"Bein' a dick is fun and all but it ain't so much when you're on this side." He runs a hand over his hair, sighs, more out of fatigue than unrest, and leans back. Kicks his legs a few times, all whimsical. "Anyway," and here he shoves himself forward to hop onto the asphalt, folding his arms up behind his head, casual-like. "You said not to plan on staying long. We headin' somewhere else?" Presumably, somewhere in New Jersey.

"Americans." Logan side steps Toru, back towards the van, and pulls the briefcase out. Sufficiently heavy, it drags his arm down as he brings his other around to close up the vehicle. "So sensitive. I can think of only two places that's remotely useful, you know." The metal grinds and clicks shut, Logan switching hands, as if favouring one side to burden the load of the briefcase over the other - phantom ideas of weakness rather than anything genuine, although now, further towards the light coming from the motel, the wormhole of the bullet shot in his jacket is a visible badge of honour on the spared side of his torso.

He regards Toru for a moment, and says, mimicking him in the first couple of words, "We headin' back to the city in the morning. I couldn't fathom thinking on feet much longer. Come, we've probably both stayed in worse places, and at least we can have faith the police won't come barging in."

And Logan offers out a hand. Presumably for Toru's. It's always a game, obviously, but his expression holds no amusement or mockery.

"I been half-livin' in an abandoned house on Staten Island for the last couple months, crappy hotels ain't that bad." Even if they are in… that other state. "I just wasn't sure if you figured on stayin'." That said, he gives a quick look into the rental car to ensure that all the doors are locked, checks the keys in his pocket, and reaches forward to take Logan's hand.

The lack of mockery in the older man's expression is probably what makes him take it without a second thought; it isn't until contact that he realizes what he's done but, aside from a quick glance around the lot, he doesn't, apparently, have an objection. "So when you said the others were somewhere around, that means they aren't here?" His tone isn't hopeful, so much as it is intentionally nonchalant. No reason for asking.

"I mean, it seems kinda rude of th-" And there, Toru tenses a bit suddenly, having finally caught a glance at the bullet hole in the suit. He'd almost forgotten Logan mentioned being shot at all, given that he was clearly rather well recovered, but actually seeing the hole is a bit unsettling. "— k.. kinda rude of 'em, leavin' you alone."

The stammering break is hard not to notice, but easy enough not to acknowledge, for as long as it takes to get from A to B. Long fingers wrapped around and in between Toru's, the older man is leading him towards a designated door. "No, they're around," he states, the texture of the ground changing from asphalt to wood as they head beneath the overhang of the motel's roof. "Different rooms, we got a few. Might've been better've 'em to take off, between you and me, I wouldn't care. You'd think they were the ones who'd lost a fucking business, honestly, or as if I'd set the place on fire to spite them."

Or been used and abused for however long, or exasperated by one's employer's unfounded stubbornness, or hurt by the thoughtless pettiness of photograph stealing, or whatever manner of sins Logan has accumulated to turn his little band against him in this past 24 hours. Escalation. It's nothing he elaborates on - rather, it's a conversational skipping rock over that particular lake.

He shoulders his way inside, suitcase and employee in tow in either hand, the former of which is tossed towards the end of the bed and the latter of which isn't quite just yet. "I've had a bad day," Logan feels the need to report, under the most honest lighting of the small motel room.

Funny how an employee with a particularly personal reason to be upset with Logan is the one who ends up in a room with him at this point. "Yeah, I was wonderin' about that," Toru ultimately replies in a disinterested sort of tone. "I mean, why Mu'd be sulky. Ain't like she lost her business." As Logan … already just pointed out. Regardless, the Asian lad glosses over his own vague redundancy and gives a brief look around the room. Crappy, as promised, but also nothing surprisingly awful.

He kicks the door shut behind himself with one foot, squeezes Logan's hand reassuringly. Gently, almost. "And shit, you did just have your place burnt down," he notes with somewhat of an amused smirk. Not funny, granted, but. "That Cardinal guy. He was talkin' big, remember? I mean, it … man, it was a while ago now, I guess. But still."

Of course, it is as he mentions this that he realizes he doesn't really know who all of Logan's enemies are; but to the best of his knowledge, Cardinal is the most recent and the most vocal. "I dunno about you but he ain't on my list of people who we shouldn't fuck up just in case they mighta been innocent."

The subtle pressure of Toru's hand is rewarded with something just as subtle, the spooling out of endorphins through his system, the fuzzy beginnings of something that could prove to be more intense although Logan stops before he can actually begin. Even his eyes remain the same dull ice-green. "I wouldn't hesitate," Logan agrees, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, not yet relinquishing Toru's hand. Maybe he wasn't kidding, his fingers coming up to circle the younger man's wrist, almost absently.

Mu-Qian, too, would be familiar with the gesture, and maybe a few others. His nails graze against the underside of the younger man's arm. "And she was there. That woman that Flint Deckard was being a hero over. When I saw her— I just knew she was there to watch the place burn down. Bet they were all in on it. I hate them."

Hate is an emotion Toru can relate to completely; the one friend who never abandons you at your darkest moments. He remains standing in front of Logan, for the moment, but makes no attempt to pull his wrist away. Nonetheless, mental cogs are turning as he assesses the situation; it hasn't gone anywhere he hadn't already predicted it would. Perhaps down a side street, but.

"Someday," is the opening he finally decides on. And with it, he moves forward, his free arm dangling at his side as torso slowly moves to come in over Logan's; coaxing the older man into leaning back a bit so that he can rest his hand on the bed.

"One of these days," clarification, "We can just take 'em and.. well like how you did with Cardinal, right?" Voice lowering, even as he does stammer a bit while he speaks. Performance anxiety, though not on a carnal level. "Nice and slow, cutting and breaking and.. and whatever else. I just.." He cuts off, there, glances off to the side with a hint of a blush, and clears his throat. Well, yes.

Logan eases back as Toru moves in, a hand moving to brace himself against the cheap sheets of the motel bedding. It's an adequate derailing, stealing away memories from the night full of smoke and chaos, the crack of the shotgun followed by the world crashing up to meet him, enough to make his shoulder twinge— away from that and forward. Or at least, to the very present.

Hate is there. Anger. All still there enough to make him ache. Anticipatory, now, however. He releases Toru's wrist in favour of smoothing his hand up the boy's chest, over a shoulder, leaning in just enough to let his breath curl warm against Toru's throat. "Like the way you think," is murmured, as fingers go up to wind through Toru's hair, steering him into a kiss that's about as nice and slow as he's describing future violence to be.

Toru's acceptance of the kiss is somewhat demanding, lack of experience in getting this far resulting in a certain amount of impatience, uncertainty. With his hand freed, however, he slides it under Logan's back in a supportive sort of way and draws hesitantly away from the kiss, though only far enough to rest his forehead against his employer's, breathing in short gasps against the older man's lips.

"They have it coming," he replies with a mildly irritated sort of sound. With some shifting, he kicks his shoes off to the side, with a few light pecks scattered in between thoughts. "They keep to themselves then it wouldn't have to happen."

His is a forced sort of slowness in order to prevent overenthusiasm; one hand rests on Logan's shoulder, fingers plucking idly at the bullet hole, and he lowers his head a bit with a quiet chuckle. "You really do kinda look terrible right now, boss."

Eventually, Logan rests his back against the bed, taking a breath as if to calm his nerves frazzled by both the day and the alcohol still leaking through his system. "If they'd left me alone," he can only agree, although his focus sharpens on that last bit. Teeters on the edge of being insulted; falls back. He knows he looks terrible. He feels terrible. A breath of a chuckle escapes instead.

He glances downwards towards where Toru's fingertips brush ruined fabric, before Logan is bringing about a hand to brush it away. With prompt, efficient movements, he unbuttons his own shirt, the black fabric sporting the edges of the blood stain that had soaked into the threads that night, open enough so that he can push it and the jacket away and back. His chest is clean of blood, if still pale, and his palm smooths over where the neat bullet hole had made such a mess beneath skin.

"It could be worse," he states, hand drawing away, up to the base of Toru's throat, thumb tracking down the front of it and into the hollow just above his collarbones. For all Logan's complaining, none of the specifics of the day come up. A sense of shame greater than simple enemies being idiots accompanies it. "Your words were prettier before. Let's talk more about breaking things."

Of course, Toru realizes a bit late that he'd said something he shouldn't have, but the relatively goodnatured response keeps him from having to get defensive. Tugs a bit at the cloth when Logan brushes his hand away, but does allow his hand to be redirected — it's fascinating to an extent, knowing how recent the injury is and not seeing much of a trace of it, but it is mildly insensitive, all things considered.

One hand comes up to rest on the hand on his throat; no gripping, there, though he does try to sort of nudge it away. "Lemme up," he murmurs, and in doing so moves to pull the rest of himself up onto the bed; next to Logan, though, rather than atop. He drapes an arm over the man's chest, comfortably, and moves in to continue, thoughtfully.

"There's just so many people who don't get how easy it is to get rid of 'em. Eventually there's nobody around who cares anymore that they ain't there."

Logan is still and patient as Toru settles himself, and then languidly melts against him. A leg eases and hooks around, claims possession of the younger man's. "All it takes is a bullet a few inches to the side," Logan agrees, and fails to see the irony of his statement. Of how precarious his own life is. "Or a few more seconds of time. I don't think they've quite realised how merciful I've been. All of them could have died at my hand. Cardinal, Abigail, Flint, Eileen— all of them."

And this somehow doesn't translate as mistake. No. Logan's arm moves so that he may grip onto the bed on the other side of Toru, pull himself up and over the other man, a crush of a kiss, a scrape of teeth. No, it's encouragement and validation, for what has to happen next.

Just not in the very very immediate future.

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