Never A Dull Moment


bebe_icon.gif logan_icon.gif satoru_icon.gif

Scene Title Never A Dull Moment
Synopsis Was it poor or perfect timing that led Toru to make a disturbing discovery in his own living room?
Date July 25, 2009

Satoru's Apartment - Chinatown, NYC

Azn stuff or something.

The sun is hitting the world at a harder angle as the afternoon crawls its way towards sunset as if seeking solitude. Orange, mild, dusky, it makes slices of light through the horizontal blinds tilted low on the kitchen window, and this should be indication enough that the hour is a little too early for Stoli, but Logan's sense of timing is purely subjective and possibly, if you asked him, superior. Two glasses are set out, crystal clarity like the ice cubes he places inside one after another in haphazard handfuls.

"It's tiring," he's saying, almost talking to himself if not for the knowledge that there is at least one other person in the room. "Talking business all the time. That's one thing I'm going to miss about the Dagger…"

The neck of the Stoli bottle clinks heavily against the rim of the glass, and the sound of liquid filling the curving bottom, veining between ice, murmurs beneath his words. The cubes within crack and break apart in subtle, inaudible moments as room temperature alcohol hits them.

"…you could always mix business and pleasure. Never a dull moment."

Logan caps the vodka bottle once both glasses have a sufficient amount, setting it down and picking these up, moving out from the kitchen. Not so much down as dressed apart, with a waistcoat unbuttoned over a shirt with an open collar, untucked over slacks and feet bare against the carpet. He extends out a glass to his guest in someone else's home. "So you can imagine how thrilled I am we've found one another. Cheers."

Logan's guest, another former employee and arguably also one of his most frequently abused victims, sits on the couch with one bare foot tucked up underneath a denim-clad thigh while ready fingers reach out to receive the irregular offer of vodka on the rocks served in someone else's glassware.

Truth be told, Bebe was never much of a drinker but— the times, they are a-changin'. This seemingly provides a perfect sort of excuse for someone still technically underage to begin chasing down an early dinner with whatever particular poison she's been provided with at the time — be it winter wine or bathtub gin. It makes no difference what happens to be in the glass just so long as the company she keeps remains the same; euphoria will inevitably follows.

The tiny (ex)tart's smile seems somehow shallow while still remaining remarkably genuine — perhaps it's a trick of the trade? — but her voice betrays a note of sadness that might even border on misgiving. "More pleasure than business, I hope. Cheers," she echoes, imbibing briefly before turning her chin toward the slatted window as if she might be enjoying the view from all the way across the room. She allows Logan to look at her in profile — that is, if he's even looking at her at all — as she wagers, wondering, "Have you been getting much sleep?" In other words, he does look tired. And that might not be a good thing. "I worry about you."

The vodka is sharp, barely diluted by melting ice - crisp and demanding, tasteless in every other way. Logan'll miss the variety of spirits he could offer people and himself, his collection of colourful glass bottles with labels in foreign languages; creative drinking and smoking implements, from the ridiculously expensive slotted spoons of sugar and absinthe to Turkish hookahs of coloured glass and twists of metal. Gone, now. Exploded, scattered, burned to black. Vodka on ice in whiskey glasses, smoking cigarettes in ceramic trays.

He sits down nearish the heart of the sofa rather than secluding himself in the opposite corner, an arm folded over its back with the glass dangling from that hand. The furniture's been drawn away from the wall, room to pace around it as he's cagily done in the past. "Do you," Logan says, keeping her within his focus, eyes grey-pale as he allows her biochemical system to go unmolested for now.

"I haven't been sleeping well for a long time," he admits, swirling the ice within his glass a little. He doesn't lose the easiness, even with that admission. The corner of his mouth turns up in a smile. "Dreams, you know. But I suspect I'll sleep well enough when I'm dead, right?"

"So they say…" The tone of voice she uses suggests that Bebe doesn't buy in to that particular brand of bullshit. But, neither is she interested in trying to lure Logan over to her way of thinking. Instead, she simply kisses the lip of the glass and boldly braves a second wave and wince as the cold fire of sweet Stolichnaya blazes a trail down the back of her throat. The enforced sigh that strong alcohol demands is disguised underneath the words, "…but I'd prefer you didn't." Die, probably. Not yet, at any rate. Not until she's ready to let go or willing to hold the knife herself.

For now, however, Logan remains safe as houses in his former whore's cute company. The toes not already tucked between couch cushions and well-worn blue jeans venture out to stake their claim on Logan's leg bravely. That Bebe's the one who initiates the physical contact suggests at least some small concession to a change of heart since their recent reunion. She isn't exactly unwilling but nor is she climbing out of her clothes already; what she craves exists somewhere in between the chastity of a handshake and the depravity of being bent over backwards, perhaps.

"What sort of dreams?"

A hand comes down to set warmly high on her ankle, fingers dipping beneath the hem of denim that circles it, but nothing more demanding than that. Simple contact, useful contact, although usefulness can come later, and his other hand steers his drink towards his mouth again in tandem as she speaks.

This time, when Logan's nose wrinkles, it's not from the bite of vodka and ice, but the question itself. "Weird ones," he responds, after some thought, voice low and quiet. "Ones with ghosts in them. Threats. And when they're over it's like I hardly got any sleep at all." He allows for a breathy chuckle at the end of it, as if to dismiss his own words as foolish. His hand squeezes where its place above her foot. "But you know what they say. No one really wants to hear about what other people dream. Not unless they're in it themselves."

Bebe obligingly offers an expression that appears to be something significantly less that serious that comes complete with a sloppy silver grin given over the leaded lip of her glass which manifests only very briefly before she asks, "Am I in them?"

Without quite realizing it, she's hitched her bated breath into the back of her throat and holds it there now while waiting for an answer. Hanging. Of course, her already injured ego is remarkably ready to parse the terrible truth or the inevitable lie with equal measure of salt to spread.

Certain senses bear into a blur and become a forgotten part of the unfocused lack of action in the background. The ice melting silent and slow in the palm of her hand fails to arouse. Nothing seems to be more interesting or important than the anticipation of all the dirty details yet to be revealed.

The question makes him smile, almost enough to get to his eyes, but as ever, not quite. Predictable enough to be expected, or perhaps, that just speaks fair volumes of Logan's ego. His thumb rubs small circles against the corner of her ankle, in equal parts affectionate and possessive, and ice scrapes the curving interior of his glass as he goes to take a deliberate sip like the cat that got the cream. She wants to know if he dreams of her. He believes he has her.

And he believes there's no reason to doubt it. Oh, if only he knew. "Not these days," Logan states, honestly, tongue running along his bottom lip to catch the burning droplets of vodka that cling there. His eyes hood a little, lazy, head tilting. "I suspect I'd have no trouble sleeping if that were the case."

It starts, now, the slow dawning of mood shifting serotonin, and this his hand on her skin, it flares all the right, seeks out warm places like parasites might. It's just such a lovely day. "Do you dream about me?"

"That's sweet," she says, adjusting her weight on the couch cushions in order to accommodate a change in position that involves a canted chin and a tilted temple pressed up against the well-worn upholstery on the back of the sofa. There is also a subtle shift in proximity between the dainty digits of Bebe's foot and the very closely guarded family jewels currently housed in Logan's pants. This is, no doubt, noticed.

Those big, brown babydoll eyes fix affectionately on the man massaging her ankle and she makes an easy confession in reply to the question wagered her way. "Mmhmm. Maybe more often than I should…" Not all of them are good. There likely isn't a woman in the world who entertains exclusively pleasant dreams of John Logan, eh, and Bebe's no exception to the rule. No matter how eagerly she might want to be. For once.

The last mouth of vodka, cold against his tongue and then brutally warm all the way down, where it seems to remain if only due to Bebe's fidgeting, is knocked back, and Logan reaches to set the glass down. "I'm not much of a dreamer, usually," he says, his hand drawing away from her ankle if only to smooth up her calf, over the denim of her jeans. "I much prefer the real thing."

And over the bend of her knee, her thigh, and Logan follows his hand by using the other to grip onto the back of the couch, pull himself forward, nearer, over. The upholstery may not be rich reds and golds, expensive to touch and soft against bared skin, and the light might not be silk-covered lamps and dusky with smoke and incense, there is certainly a familiarity to these motions, predatory and expectant.

Not about to descend on her, though, some distance between them despite this new proximity. He's watching her mouth when his head tilts, and he requests, "Come here."

The last line of defense between the two of them had been the forgotten tumbler, melted ice making the alcohol somehow less savory, still clutched between both Bebe's hands. Whatever was meant to happen next would have to take place after this last obstacle was overcome. Luckily, Logan's bidding is something that Bebe seems to be ill-prepared to refuse and when he expresses an interest in making things more intimate, the very first thing she does is discard the glass on the nearest flat surface — quite possibly the floor.

And then — there she is. Inching over. Taking over. Climbing into the man's lap to straddle and come across as the one in control. She isn't. Not remotely. But, somehow, the illusion is enough to make Bebe breathe heavily, heady with the intoxication of the lie. "What?" she wonders while her fingers fidget with the lapels of Logan's vest, the collar of his shirt, even the lower lobe of his right ear.

A long arm wraps high around her waist, hand readily moving to place itself warm on her side, snaking up beneath her shirt so that his dry palm can find skin, a mild graze of fingernails following. Bebe is petite but the weight of her promptly in his lap is enough to ease a sigh from him. "You." Logan never got as far as he did without seeming like perhaps he can look beyond himself to get what he wants. Make no mistake, the chemical play of serotonin and then now, the slow burn release of endorphins, has much to do with anything Logan can claim as his own.

But he's not lying, either, when he adds, "You're so beautiful." A hand comes up to cup her neck, fingertips delicate and firm against her jaw line, as if inspecting her in some ways. Guiding her into a kiss, although he continues to murmur. "So many of the girls had to simply paint it on, didn't they? Just to keep up."

Ooh! Flattery! While she would never admit it, that's something she's been gagging for ever since — well, ever since the last day she was in Logan's arms. After Jack. Before the bridge. Has it really been that long since someone's bothered to feed the beast? The starved id of a twenty-year-old girl (with superpowers!) can be a supremely dangerous thing.

Without any obvious rivals for Logan's attention or chemical-induced affection, Bebe actually attempts to play hard-to-get, even though… you know… she's already been had. In more ways than one. "I bet you say that to all the girls." It's a quip that probably hits closer to home than she might realize.

Her lips bob above his and, though she isn't able to withdraw any more than a spare inch or six while still in his grip, Bebe still pretends she isn't interested in making out until the very last moment passes and she's sighing into him.

It might actually be a sweet sort of scene if any of it was genuine.

And they're both so expert at pretending otherwise. One, a former whore, the other— well he doesn't even get paid for it. Logan's eyes ease shut as her mouth finally meets his, a sweet kiss, a shallow exchange at first before his hand is smoothly gliding to grip the back of her neck, cradle her as his other attends to drawing his own waist coat off, silken lining sliding against the rich fabric of the dress shirt becoming quickly crumpled.

It's about as genuine as Logan can get. If he ever knew the real thing, he might step back and go oh in horrified realisation, but it's been a little time since insight was forced on him, and there's only some bittersweetness as he continues to plague Bebe's chemical systems with levels of his own design.

It could be different. He's just not sure what different is like.

When the kiss breaks, he only chuckles against her throat. "Only the pretty ones," he quips right back, again, skirting around the truth with assumed humour. As if he could somehow make a claim to 'rascal' instead of 'bastard with no redeeming qualities'.

This is apparently an easy answer for Bebe to accommodate into her pleasure paradigm because there's still a compliment tucked into the jest, even if it isn't served on the silver platter of another kiss. Or is it?

Logan's little bit of borrowed bliss prompts Bebe to go in for the assist. Dexterous digits pluck anxiously at pearlescent buttons that draw a dotted line down the front of the British man's chest in bisection. Small hands, grasping, slide slow up over exposed skin between silk and shoulders while she simultaneously croons something in French against his lips before allowing her arms to rise and fall with the roller coaster removal of the discarded dress shirt.

Romantic. Only in linguistic origin.

Turnabout is, as they say, fair play. Bebe doesn't linger long outside of the 'shirtless' category, peeling out of her second cotton skin in a swiftly steamy haste. Both hands then clutch at either side of Logan's face before she lays into an extended continuation of their previous embrace.

This is the line that doesn't need to be crossed; the balance between unbridled passion prompted by chemical manipulation and the actual desire that, believe it or not, genuinely exists in the pit of the tiny tart's broken heart. If he pushes her much more, she won't need any further assistance in getting to where they're presumably meant to arrive together (and at breakneck speed).

Situations like these being precisely why most 'roommates' set up signals to let the other know to come back later — something on the door handle, perhaps — but the idea that Logan might go to someone else for sex hadn't even occurred to Toru. When he enters the apartment it's with little subtlety — in point of fact, he's rather more boisterous than usual. Opening the door, he does not give a thorough look-around before calling, "Logan, I got something I want to show you," turns and hangs a bag of suit on a hook on the door as he closes and locks it.

And then he turns and gives a more proper look around the room, and it doesn't take long for him to notice something is a bit amiss. It's a strange sort of feeling he suddenly finds himself having as his eyes lock on Logan and Bebe; the response is less of anger, really, than of fear. A surge of adrenaline courses through his system, and with no place else for it to go, his Ability is turned inward; his left arm goes white to the elbow and he holds it with the other arm, self-consciously.

"I— I d— " He pauses there, taking in a few panting, hurried breaths. "— This is my house!" And there is the familiar flash of anger. "You couldn't jus— this is my fucking house, you couldn't wait five fucking minutes?!"

The sound of the door lock being twisted open heralds the next few predictable sounds, Logan already breathing a sigh against Bebe's mouth and coming to lean right back, head hitting the arm of the couch and rolling his eyes ceilingwards. Oblivious words, door shuts, more informed words—

Logan has a grip on Bebe's waist and one that isn't automatically releasing unless the petite woman is twisting away like a cat already, and no, he's not particularly relaxed in affected laziness and apathy. Tension defines the angles of his arms, the tightness of his jaw, and he's watching her for the time it takes for Toru to sputter out his words of indignation. A few of which have Logan bristling as well, although for the time, he keeps his mouth shut against what impulse would have him say.

By the time he's looking the younger man's way, a still green-eyed glance up and down, hitching over the white-bone transformation visible from this angle, he manages a twist of a smile. His voice comes out dull, disappointed; "Back so soon, I see."

BUSTED! And, yet, Bebe just can't quite find anything akin to bashfulness or shame in her intoxicated veins; she remains poised atop the former(?) pimp but at least exercises the courtesy of remaining pressed skin-to-skin so that Toru is spared any inadvertent indecent glimpses of exposed girl-flesh. The sight of her bare back ought to be enough to incite lurid imagination. Apparently, it is.

It then becomes a question of condition when the young woman's choice of whispered words rolls out as something other than an apology. Indeed, whatever it is she says gets lost against the skin of Logan's throat as she buries her face in against the crook between shoulder and neck.

Indignation. It's a familiar emotional sensation for the woman writhing in Logan's lap. Just… not right now. And, if she had any idea as to who they were being confronted by, she might actually have a few choice bullets to spew, too.

"Back so soon," Toru repeats, mockingly. "This is my house, of course I'm going to come back at some point!" He just stands there awkwardly for a long moment, glance shifting quickly between Logan and Bebe a few times as he visibly struggles for something more to say. "I jus— you knew I'd be back, you don't have to go calling in some hooker— you don't fucking fuck on my couch!" Bebe looks vaguely familiar to the boy, but only in the sense that he thinks he's seen her at the Dagger — who she actually is is apparently unclear.

It is at this point that he storms into the kitchen, which isn't actually separated by much other than a countertop and a change in flooring, and opens the refrigerator, angrily, digging around in it in search of something. "If you want to go fucking someone else at least have the courtesy to do it somewhere else, I wouldn't have cared.."

The fridge door is slammed when he finally finds a wee six-pack of alcohol samplers, the only booze that was actually in the fridge at this point. "I should have fucking figured this was going to happen, nevermind you like what I say, she has fucking tits!" And he's storming across the living room to his bedroom as he says this, slamming the door behind him.

The door opens again after a moment, and he leans out long enough to throw a necklace across the room. "Tucker sold your shit, by the way!"

Draping an arm across Bebe's shoulders as she huddles against him, Logan endures, other hand gripping onto the upholstery and clenching in repressed anger born of hurt pride. And maybe other things too - he does have a girl crushed against him and writhing, toes curling a little. The play of chemical through Bebe's system is entirely unconscious at this point on Logan's part— projecting, in some ways, and it's no longer endorphins flooding her system, but adrenaline. It makes the heart pound, makes the walls seem closer, makes flesh, air, gravity all seem like things intended to imprison.

He looks towards where the necklace is being thrown, skittering across the floor, twinkling joined of flower, expensive metals and stone. With a squirming shove more intended to get out from under Bebe than do harm, Logan manages to get his feet onto the ground, abandoning girl, waist coat and shirt as he goes. A slight stumble follows, before he treads close enough to scoop up the necklace, allows it to tangle between fingers in inspection before casting a glare at the closed door. Perhaps if it was worth less, he'd throw it right back at the door.

As it happens, Logan only flings words. "Tell me," he says, just loud enough to carry through wood, "is this jealousy, Toru, or is this your usual instinct when confronted with naked women? I had no idea it was quite this severe, I really didn't."

He glances over one pale shoulder at Bebe, and shrugs it with, "He often gets like this. Sensitive."

H— hey! Bebe really rather resembles— er, resents that remark… much to her own chagrin. For all the world that she might like to deny being labeled as a whore, the only real flaw in Toru's argument lies in the timing. Technically-speaking, she was a hooker. Past tense. So, you know, it's probably pretty easy to make that mistake, given the circumstances. Of course, it's no excuse for the fit being literally thrown across the room and Bebe flinches against Logan's chest as Toru punctuates his tirade with a door flung hard against its hinges.

Bubbling bliss and pervasive pleasure flooding Bebe's blood and brain soon subside in favor of something significantly less pleasant; the running rabbit sensation of her heart pounding like a big bass drum within the cage of thin ribs hidden beneath her pale skin and small breasts. When Logan abandons her to the couch cushions in favor of something shiny, she curls into a bit of a ball before finally finding a yoke capable of containing her uncertainty and fear.

The solution? Speed. She channels her nervous energy and increased adrenaline into brief bursts of supernatural swiftness; there's a shadow, shirted, soon standing by Logan's side, lingering at his elbow expectantly with those big brown eyes aimed at the barred door behind which lies an apparently angry azn.

Toru, of course, has slumped onto the floor and elected to sit against the door. Leaning forward, he rubs his bone-arm quietly for a moment — though when he hears Logan mention 'jealousy', he punches the door with his good hand. He's not jealous! … At least, not that he'll admit. He spends a few silent moments trying to make himself calm down before the bone spreads even further, as tends to happen when he's as angry as he is.

But when he does finally open his mouth to reply, his voice comes out cracked, with moist-sounding halts between syllables. "It's my house," he notes yet again, hitting the door once more. "You could've— there's other places— " He is, just barely, managing to hold back tears. "If I'm not good enough for you you could have said so.. why would you bring her to my house for this, you had to know I'd come back!

"There's hotels and.. and did you want me to walk in on this or something, are you trying to get rid of me?!" At the very least, more talking leads to him being progressively able to speak better, although it also means his getting angry again with no silence to leave him alone in his thoughts. "I can— if you just tell me what you want, I can be better," he adds after a moment, barely audible enough to be heard through closed door.

Logan jumps, just a little, when there's a whoosh of superspeed and quite suddenly there's a young lady by his side. She only gets a glance at first, the former pimp watching the door along with her as it shudders on its hinges under abuse, the tirade of words dwindling, down and down into mutters that no longer seem to be on the attack anymore. At least, not in Logan's direction. Which is the way it should be.

As Toru speaks into the closed door, Logan turns his back on it and unstoppably curls his arms around Bebe's frame, drawing her in to drop a kiss onto her temple. "Sorry about all this, my love," he says, quiet enough for words only to be shared between the two of them, muttered against her dark hair, spoken beneath the sounds of the younger man's anger behind him. "Timing, you know, I had no idea he'd be back so soon. Pillock."

A flicker of a reassuring smile accompanies this sentiment, but it doesn't last long. His thumb brushes over the tangle of silver in his hand, a moody glance slanted that way, which is only shifted back towards the door. "You could start by making less of a spectacle of yourself," Logan calls back, voice more sharp than loud.

Tucked under Logan's arm as she is, Bebe is too easily albeit temporarily tamed by the silver tongue whispering those wooing words which she does so very desperately long to hear. The deceptively sweet conceit, of course, is that Logan loves her and that's the whole and heart of her concern— until she suddenly realizes what this whole argument is all about.

Initially dismissed as a dispute over casual courtesies and Logan sorting out to be a lousy roommate, the more Toru rails the more Bebe reckons. This is a lover's spat. Between her lover… and another man. Big, brown eyes first go wide and then narrow, regarding the Englishman she'd so recently been nuzzled up against with an almost accusatory gaze. She's taking a page from the catalog that belongs to a certain estranged redhead whose most recent public display of affection manifested by way of slamming a car door onto her former employer's hand. Tough love, that. Tainted, too.

However, it isn't John Logan who ends up addressed when she does finally find her voice again beneath previously bated breath — not that there isn't a tempest of choice words brewing on the tip of her tongue just for him. British bastard! She sidles over to the door, presses her cheek up against it gently, and then says in a surprisingly soft and sighing sort of voice, "I know exactly how you feel…

…but, if you're going to continue to call me a whore, the very least you could do is have the decency to say it to my face."

On the other side of the door, Toru just sits hunched over, his good hand entwined in his fingers, other arm laying in his lap. Sobbing, silently, though the occasional hiccup can be heard through the door; Logan's words are flinched at, and Bebe's are given less regard, though he does see the ploy to get him to come out of his bedroom. And, given his current desire for attention, it is a ploy that works, of course.

There is some shuffling on his side of the door as he scoots over to one side, opens the door and pulls it open — don't fall in, Beebs — just enough for him to swivel-scoot out, still seated. His head is tilted up just high enough so that he can, by sheer coincidence, look Logan straight in the waist-area; no need to show off moistened cheeks, after all. He keeps his eyes hooded.

He's also acquired a baseball glove since entering his room, and that sits in his lap now; he rubs it absently with his good hand, using it as a sort of security blanket. "'didn't call you a whore," Toru finally mumbles, his words addressed to Bebe despite his looking at Logan, though casting furtive glances around the room; he pulls his door shut so that he can rest his side against it. "'m not bein' a spectacle, 'm tellin' the truth an' maybe you really should leave." This directed at Logan, of course. Rage having subsided into teenage misery, Toru's words come out in a quiet tone of resignation.

Logan's been looked at that way by women for as long as he can remember. Few times it makes an impact. The last time it did. This time has him allowing Bebe to move out of his embrace and pad towards the door, leaving him to look back at the empty space she formerly occupied. There's an inexplicable sense that accompanies it - not guilt, but a fear of it, guarding himself from it. It had hurt that day. The necklace is studied once more before it's slipped into the pocket of still intact slacks, hands coming together to run palm against palm for a moment before turning towards the sound of the opening door, chin up.

It's all going to be okay. He's always okay. The look down Toru gets is a cold one, for lack of anything else, arms coming to cross against his bare chest, although he starts to take steps towards where his clothes lay carelessly abandoned on the couch, scraps of finery and label.

"Maybe I should," Logan says, voice coming clipped, tight with defense. "But you don't have the bollocks to turn me away." The shirt is scooped up, flapping dramatically as he brings it around over his shoulders, to negotiate his arms down the sleeves. Unstoppable, more words tumble out, ones he might have wanted to grip onto and analyse before they do, but they occur anyway, sneering defense. "Neither of you do."

"That's right," Bebe acknowledges with an expression that very nearly reads as thoughtful. "You called me a hooker. I stand corrected." Wow. Sarcasm. Really? It's true. Everyone in the room has carefully honed their own very special method of defense when it comes to situations such as these. Until now, the tiny (ex)tart's preferred solution had been to run away — which might make for irony when considering the stolen supernatural speed still staining her DNA — but, that isn't the route she takes today. Tonight. Whichever.

Petite palms splay out spider fingers as Bebe crouches down in order to be on equal terms and ground with Toru, at least insofar as stature is concerned, and she tilts her chin a little to the left in order to favor Logan in subtle indication. "You know, I once had a man ask me why men cheat…" Regardless as to whether or not the soppy-eyed Asian man gives her his attention, the young woman steals a glance over her shoulder toward the shared object of their manipulated affections — perhaps to apologize for the terminology or maybe merely to make sure that Logan had not, in fact, left yet. Without her. Again.

The return to the conversation is swift but still soft as the girl goes on to explain, "I had to confess that I didn't know. But, I do know this…" Brace for incoming enlightenment! "…whatever it is that you have with Logan, it's between two men. If he had wanted to be with someone who felt compelled to sob themselves into oblivion at the drop of a hat, then there are any number of wilting women he might have chosen from for the task." Eeeee. That's a bit harsh, eh? It might be made a bit more so if she reckoned that Logan likely included her among such a ninny number. But, not today.

One small hand darts out and grabs the baseball glove rested in Toru's lap — too fast to defend against to impede — and she tosses it onto the floor at his feet. Gauntlet thrown. Quite literally. "Man up!" She stands and takes a step back, closer to the Englishman who appears to be all for redressing — a pity — and then adds on one last sentiment. "…and maybe you ought to take a moment to consider which of us was betrayed first." Oh snap.

Sadly, despite all of her sweetly stinging words, Bebe just can't seem to find the strength to actually blame Logan aloud for any of their shared heartache. In fact, she even goes so far as to sidle back over to his side and try to reattach herself to the man's hip. That's what Stockholm Syndrome does to you.

Logan's words sting just as sharply as they're intended, however foolish on the Englishman's part — and he holds an arm up by his head, actually flinching at them. He knows it's true, of course, as much as he'd like it not to be. But he can't think of any way to respond to the barb, just now. And so, his attention is brought to Bebe, who finds herself lowered down to his level and looking, albeit temporarily, into the rather moist and streaky face of a crying Azn. Formerly crying, at least; the tears have stopped for the most part, though every few breaths comes with a hitch in his chest.

"It— it isn't cheating," he explains in response to that bit. "I d— I don't care if he's with other people. He jus, he knows I'm here and it's disrespectful usin' my house for it it's like if you made him dinner or somethin' an' he went and ordered takeout, I don't know— " He closes his eyes, lowers his head, and shivers a moment. "It just sounds dumb when I say it out loud," he notes, muffled in clothing and knees.

But when the baseball glove is taken, there is a probably unexpected and almost definitely unwarranted flash of anger there; when Bebe actually tosses it on the floor, an angry sound erupts from his throat; the glove is snatched back off the floor, held to his chest with both arms — the left one rather abruptly no longer being bone. "— Anyway, who're you to go on about all this crap anyway?!" He pushes himself to his feet, staggering just for a second, glove held to his chest with one hand, the other pointing accusingly.

"I mean whoever you are, maybe there's a reason why he ain't with you no more, huh? He's stayin' here after all, and this is my place. Not yours!" Well, looks like he's made up his mind. "So maybe you're the one who oughta leave, huh? You don't come into my house and go rubbin' on my boss and throw Kazuo's shit around and tell me how to act!" No attempts are made to attach to Logan, though the compulsion to use the man as the rope in a game of tug-of-war is certainly tempting.

There are points at which that Logan could potentially dig the verbal spade a little further into the hole that's not as deep as one might expect. Such as, indignation of this accusation of betrayal, which has him opening his mouth and— intelligently— shutting it again. Things, things he can deal with later. Bebe is trying to cuddle up to his side and Logan is inclined to let her, shirt-clad arm curling around her waist and fingers dripping up beneath her shirt to press the pads of his fingertips against her skin.

As if in an attempt to douse a fire, Logan attempts to make a shift of serotonin smooth over the fire of Bebe's temper she's suddenly found within her. Nothing he wants directed at him any time soon. It's harder to combat a mood already installed within someone's system, but not impossible. In this light, with the afternoon still angling in through the windows, his eyes strike a vivid green. But, hey. Could be due to the colour of the shirt he's half wearing.

Bebe is maneuvered almost in front of him, still in a loose embrace, chin gently grazing her hair as he casts a look over her and towards Toru, watching him with all the attention of a predator. He speaks to Bebe, however, quietly if not inaudible to Toru. "I think you hurt him," he says, with a whisper of amusement veining through his tone, although it's more affected than genuine.

There are funnier things, to be honest. Logan's other arm curls around her, coming to press against her back, still watching the other man while he speaks to the girl. "What's say we pick up where we left off when I have better accommodations? I think I have an ego to stroke for now."

For all Toru's railing, Bebe's expression remains flat and non-plussed. Unimpressed. But, those big, brown eyes burn with a hint of barely contained fury. She wants to spit out something bitter and biting but— she just— can't. Chemical flame suppression for the soul. The steel in Bebe's spine melts and her shoulders very subtly slump in response to the shift of serotonin. It is, perhaps, a blessing in disguise for all of them that Logan has such a way with people; the escalation of his lovers' verbal confrontation might have gotten much uglier than anyone would have enjoyed.

Summarily dismissed by both men, Bebe has no other recourse than to do as they wish. It's just as well. However, before she departs, she sees fit to wrangle her ever-so-enticing Englishman by the unbuttoned collar so that they might enjoy another another long and lingering kiss. Purely for Toru's benefit, of course. Salty and wounded. The necessity to breathe takes precedence over the desire to remain attached at the lips and, at last, Bebe relents in her grip and lets go. Before she has the chance to stray too far from Logan's ear, however, she softly croons, "Let's hope that's sooner rather than later, hm?" Even if what she might really mean is I won't hold my breath.

With an eye cast over her shoulder at the unhappy Asian left in her wake, the tiny (ex)tart allows her expression to soften as she abides by his riled request for her to leave. She slips her small feet back into the black cloth flats left by the door and shows herself out.

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