Participants:
| Scene Title | Poor Thing |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Bebe comes by Filatov's to fill Logan's prescription. Eileen has other ideas. |
| Date | February 26, 2009 |
Bebe hasn't had a lot of time to recover from her most recent encounter with John Logan but only due to the fact that dawdling while en route to complete this particular task would probably push her pimp just that much further away from friendly, right over the edge of completely fucking hostile. He's right. She'd made a stupid mistake and it cost the man his eye; she's lucky he let her toddle down the streets of the Rookery with both of hers still intact. For now.
Filatov's isn't far but, while Bebe's well-aware of where the building is, she can't rightly recall if she'd ever actually been in it before now. The first noise that heralds her arrival once she's inside the door is a muffled sniffle while she struggles with impatient tears that just can't wait until she's safely tucked away in her room again to make their appearance. She hastily scrubs her damp cheeks with the heel of her right palm and sucks in a stilling breath before she calls into the clinic a throaty, "Hello? Is anyone here?" Surely, there must be. The door was open.
The sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor echoes and creaks through the clinic, and a moment later a young woman appears in the doorway that leads into one of the clinic's back rooms. Only a sliver shorter than Bebe and not much older, Eileen Ruskin studies the other woman with eyes bordering between gray and green and a solemn expression that adds several years to her already gaunt face.
If she notices the wet sheen clinging to Bebe's cheeks, she doesn't comment on it. Instead, she weaves her way around the nearest examination table and moves toward the dressing screen where a bloodied towel, discarded some hours earlier, hangs off its upper corner. "Is there something Dr. Filatov can help you with?"
Eileen's arrival provokes a ready response from Bebe, who summarily straightens her spine by a degree and hastily slaps on a sad parody of a smile in order to deliver a slightly prolonged, "Hi." Crying? Who was crying? Totally not Bebe. "I was wondering if maybe you might have something to help me sleep…" Seems a simple enough prescription to fill, eh?
In Eileen's experience, prescriptions are never simple. Especially when the person asking to have one filled isn't the individual the prescription is meant for. She pulls down the towel from the screen, flicks it a few times to straighten out the rumpled folds of fabric, then slings it over her shoulder. "That depends," is her measured response, slow and contemplative. "How long do you need it for, and how much money are you willing to spend?"
Oh. Yeah. Right. There's the rub. Bebe lets her gaze rove around the immediate vicinity for a contemplative moment or two before she finally confesses, "Well, it's not actually for me. It's for…" The guy who put those pretty bruises on her exposed upper arm. In Bebe's haste to change into clothes deemed safe to walk through the early evening streets of the Rookery, she failed to remember to grab a jacket and rushed outside in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that proudly proclaims in an intricate cursive script that's she's FUCKING CLASSY. "…my boss." Given the very pronounced state of her heavy and Middle Eastern-style eye make-up, odds are Eileen probably knows who that might be. "He gave me some money," she says, fishing into her pockets to pull out the bills that actually found their way to her courtesy of Vivian.
The bruises on Bebe's arm earn the lingering stare that her tears did not, but Eileen still says nothing. She doesn't have to. Disapproval is written all over her features from the deep creases that leave a series of lines on her brow to the downward tug pulling both corners of her mouth into a troubled frown. "Your boss," she repeats, tone as lackluster and bland as her pallid complexion. "All right, then. Far be it from me to refuse business from the infallible John Logan."
Diverting her attention to one of the wall units, she opens an unmarked drawer with an ornate brass handle and removes a wooden box that's entirely plain in comparison. "You should tell him that he should make an appointment if the problem persists," Eileen adds. "Medicine can only do so much — I'm sure he must be very stressed."
Bebe may not fully reckon that Eileen's apparent dismay isn't so much directed toward her means of employment as it is her employer; after all, just because a woman works in the Rookery doesn't mean she's automatically okay with hookers and whores and Lord knows that Bebe's met her fair share of those who weren't. It's still something she's getting used to herself. All the same, she pretends not to notice the other woman's expression and tries not to pick up on the subtle inference in her tone. Instead, she just smiles and stands there looking naively hopeful while Eileen begins to fill the prescription.
"He is," she concedes with a small frown momentarily mounted and allowed to mar her expression. "Someone…" No. Maybe she shouldn't say. Then again, it might make a difference in the medicine he should be given. She leans in a little closer and almost whispers, "…someone stabbed him in the eye. Poor thing. Can't catch a wink of sl—" Oh. She catches herself in the midst of an inappropriate metaphor and suddenly swallows heavily. It's not funny. He could have killed her for that mistake. "He needs to get some rest," she finally says instead.
"Rest is certainly something we can provide." Whether or not the additional information Bebe provided the doctor's assistant has any bearing on the prescription remains to be seen. Eileen slides open the lid as if to ensure the box's contents are what she was expecting, then snaps it shut again with an abrupt flick of her wrist. "There are written instructions inside," she explains as she holds out her arm, offering Bebe the box. "He'll need to watch his dosages and make sure he doesn't drink while he's taking it, but this should help. Call it fifty dollars for two weeks' supply."
Bebe nods obediently as the box is handed over and accompanied by a few verbal indications as to how the medicine inside ought to be administered. She's committing it to memory even while fanning out three twenties from the small stash of petty cash lent out for just such a service to be rendered. "Keep the change," she insists, leaving a ten dollar tip for the sake of… what exactly? It's hard to say for sure. Maybe this is her version of professional courtesy — working girls of the Rookery, regardless of vocation, ought to stick together. "Thanks again," Bebe says just before she finds her way back out onto the street, her expression seemingly lighter and more uplifted than when she first arrived. She doesn't have a clue the sort of trouble she's toting back to her boss in that unassuming little box of doom tucked under her arm. Poor thing. Poor thing.
If Eileen has her way, the poor thing isn't going to be poor for much longer. As far as she's concerned, Bebe is delivering the catalyst to her own salvation. There are no second thoughts, no last minute pangs of regret or remorse that might inspire her to call out after the other woman — she made this decision long before Bebe set foot in the clinic. John Logan needs to die, if not for what he's doing to Abby and what he's already done to Teo, then for what he might do in the future.
Eileen's eyes track Bebe's progress through the glass window that separates the front of the clinic from the street outside, gaze returning to the red-stained towel she wears on her shoulder only after she's out of sight. What's a little more blood on her hands when she's already swimming it?
 February 26th: Everywhere You Turn |
Previously in this storyline… Next in this storyline… |
 February 26th: Sharks |