Somewhere Nice


hana_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Somewhere Nice
Synopsis Logan invites Hana somewhere at odds with their usual environs for sake of a little dancing.
Date November 5, 2011

An upscale hotel in NYC

While Logan waits, it occurs to him that he didn't specify anything about dresscode. It's not as though he's ever listened, nor needed to, but while he might like to imagine Hana Gitelman in a dress, imagining isn't enough to just materialise it into reality.

It doesn't matter. The world — this city — feels a little like it's on the brink of not giving a shit anymore.

But while it does, here are some observations: the balcony on which he stands overlooks a fountain with lights showing up through its continual misting spray, and the balcony is attached to the bar and restaurant of an elegant hotel that feels a little like a monument to what New York City was supposed to be, red carpets and golden finish, more Broadway than Hollywood. Logan has found a place to lean and wait rather than sit alone at the table he's reserved. More than cocktail dresses, there is the real and present possibility of being stood up.

He's dressed well, anyway, but he would — and has — show up as such to the muddy, dilapidated heart of Staten Island, let alone a chic Manhattan locale. Sedate pinstripe is livened with red pocket square and ostentatious golden wristwatch, which he idly checks in between his regard of the glittery black landscape of the city he can see from here.

"Did you have somewhere else to be?"

The woman who steps out onto the balcony might seem almost a stranger — she is wearing a dress. Red, one-shouldered, it falls to mid-calf. Her hair is loose, its shifting strands alternately concealing and revealing the carnelian drops in her ears; their larger cousin rests just below Hana's throat, pendant on a gold chain. It might be the little black purse over her shoulder that's the most incongruous part of her getup, though — it's just too small to hold anything Hana would find meaningful.

There's a hint of smile, more implied than actual, as she mirrors Logan's lean; the question wasn't serious. But then, it didn't have that tone anyway. She casts a glance towards the view below the balcony, towards softly glowing fountain and the lights of the city beyond, vibrant stars brought down to earth.

As Hana speaks, Logan doesn't all the way straighten up out of his lean, just pivots a little to look. His smile is more than only implied, but pressed thin, concealed, the easy defaults of smug or leer being expressions he captures with the most ease.

"Hello stranger," is acknowledgment of the switch in gears, from little purse through to off-shoulder chic, and the slanted italics at the top of it are there for flattery and approval. He offers out a hand, palmed turned up, that begs she put her hand on his, perhaps just as a means of display between them. "I was waiting on someone, actually, but I think I might start without her in lieu of present company."

Gaze settling back on Logan, Hana's smile blossoms into presence at his greeting, the subtext within it. The expression all but transforms her face, turning stark planes and angles into softer contours. At the offered hand, she steps forward without hesitation, closing the distance between them and lightly sliding her hand across his. "Sounds like she's in for quite the disappointment," Hana remarks. That smile quirks slightly. "Not that I'm complaining. Her loss."

"She might be. I wasn't altogether convinced this'd be her scene."

Logan fingers his fingers to capture her hand, now turning his attention properly to her, and he leans in to kiss her cheek — one of those chaste, vaguely affected gestures that nevertheless has a slow intimacy that he leans into in order to execute. Upon pulling back, they're standing a little closer than they already are. "If I had to guess, you look like you'd enjoy sharing a good champagne."

Something sharp and expensive. It isn't as though he didn't enjoy rough whiskey and dark beer, or else neither of them would continue to cross paths, but as they say: when in Rome. Especially before it burns down.

Hana brushes her thumb along the edge of his hand as his fingers fold around hers, her own closing in kind. "Hm. Well, there's something to be said for stretching one's legs, so to speak. A change in pace." To what degree that sentiment actually extends beneath the light tone of her voice is anyone's guess — but, point in favor, she is here.

An incline of her head presents her cheek for the kiss, and as Logan draws back, Hana shifts stance so that her shoulder comes to just rest against his: a little closer still. "That sounds like a fine idea," she concurs. Regarding him sidelong, she indicates the door inside with a tip of her head. "Lead the way, then," she prompts, where lead is somehow synonymous with walk beside.

His arm slides around her waist, turning away from the cityscape and decorative fountain, and into the bar proper where their table awaits. Confident enough in his guess that exorbitantly priced champagne awaits them too, twin glasses poised on classic white linen.

"Next time, we ought to do this at yours," Logan says, as he goes to pull out a chair for her — mysteriously enough that he explains in the next breath, "Israel, that is." Obviously. Like it's the next borough over. "The Middle East knows what luxury accommodations are supposed to look like, and I can't imagine a view of an empty desert wouldn't offer a little peace and quiet, would it?" It's been mere weeks since he's lost her ability, but he distinctly remembers the knots of noise in the more populated parts of the city.

He sits, too, not bothering to call over the help as he takes the champagne bottle into his hands, palm working free the cork.

Short strides to cross the room, decorous, befitting the dress. Neither scoff nor skepticism is cast at the courteously offered chair; indeed, Hana sets herself in it with a brief smile, as that too is part of this scene. Setting the pointless little purse aside, she folds her hands in her lap, watching as Logan moves to open the champagne.

Dark brows arch at the mention of Israel. "Seems like a long ways to go for dinner," Hana remarks, tone shading towards dry. Of course, such a trip would likely involve a good bit more. She casts a contemplative, evaluating glance around the room. "I'll grant," she continues, one hand gesturing in the vein of touche, "there are indeed some splendid places to visit, there."

Her expression shades subtly in the moment after, gaze going slightly distant, tone acquiring a hint of somber undertone. "And deserts do have a certain degree of clarity." It's only been a few weeks since her ability was returned, and she still wakes sometimes with a wistful longing for that former silence. Not that she would admit as much. Hana's eyes lift, refocusing on Logan, and she tips her head slightly. "The kind that comes from being the middle of nowhere. Somehow that doesn't seem so much your scene."

It's not an accidental mention, but whether it's anymore than showing off that he retains basic information about her through to seeing what sort of reaction it might bring about is hard to say, the pressure of his attention difficult to read. Logan is one of those people that always seems as though he possesses ulterior motive, even at its most petty, or unintended.

"You have me there," he says, sliding one tall glass of champagne towards her, keeping one for himself, a little like he's dealing cards. "I'll admit, it's not the desert I have in mind."

He pauses, eyes hooded, looking at his champagne, then back at her. "I'd like to settle a little business, first," he says. "While we drink, and eat fancy crackers with black caviar on them, and then after business is settled, I'm going to ask you to dance. And whatever your response to that business, it won't have any bearing on dancing."

Logan lifts his champagne. "Scout's honour."

Fingers hook around the stem of the glass, draw it the rest of the distance towards her. Hana smiles across the glass at Logan, close-lipped, at his verbal touche; her brows arch in silent inquiry as he continues. She lifts the glass as he outlines his plan for the evening, regarding the slow procession of bubbles on their quest to rejoin the air, taking in the aroma of the wine.

Once Logan's concluded, Hana glances up at him across the glass, narrow-eyed in a pensive fashion. "Business, is it?" She takes a slow sip of her champagne, then smiles, a hint of teeth revealed — a glimpse of the lioness who yet lurks beneath dressed-up facade. In some respect, the seeming presentation of an ulterior motive comes as a relief; such things go hand in hand with elegant settings perhaps most of all. Not that she would have minded its absence, per se — but this fits a familiar, well-worn paradigm.

"I suppose I can hear out whatever business you'd like to present," Hana allows, taking another sip, her gaze holding level on his.

Dancing, she accepts as given. There is always dancing between them, in one form or another.

"There will come a time when I need to leave this fucking country."

His tone gives mild treatment to what could have been sharply delivered phrasing. Logan sets the champagne glass down, the glass stalk of it extending between his fingers and rotated idly as he watches her. "And I'll need to do it with at least two others who would have even greater problems than me when it comes to crossing borders. I know you're connected to people who might be able to make something like that happen, quietly and quickly.

"And I know you're connected to people who'd sooner tell me to go fuck myself," he adds, with a tip of his head. He doesn't love this, this admission as to how depleted his personal connections, his resources, have become since Heller walked through his door, since Linderman first began to wither in his old man body.

His focus on her is intent, but isn't beseeching. His eyes remain pale, leaving off any temptation to twist her mood to his liking. "All I need tonight is the possibility opened to me."

Hana takes another sip of her champagne, regarding Logan across the top of the glass as he elucidates his problems. When he's done, her gaze shifts away, turning a profile to him that is flatly inexpressive save for the hooding of her eyes. She doesn't like the line he's proposing to cross, the personal and what amounts to professional, smuggling out what she takes to be three (or more) criminals rather than unjustly persecuted innocents.

But then, under this government, they're all unjustly persecuted… and there are precious few innocents.

Her grip tightens slightly on the glass. Looked at objectively, it's truly only for personal reasons that she wants to say no. Weighed in the balance, those reasons aren't good enough. "I'm connected to a lot of people," Hana replies, downing the rest of her champagne — etiquette be damned — and setting the glass on the table. She looks back at him. "Some of them wouldn't even recognize your name."

"Now now," Logan says, with a tip of his glass towards her, eyebrows up, "you don't have to be hurtful about it."

They are, after all, talking of his reputation.

Perhaps, if he knew it was an equation of innocents, he'd bring up Tania Kozlow's name. But then he would have to be bring up Sasha Kozlow's name. Allowing her to do her calibrations, imagining that it's just so many rats like himself disembarking from the sinking ship, will have to be good enough for the time being. He reaches for the champagne bottle and recharges her glass.

"I came to New York for the opportunities it presented. Leaving it won't be much love lost." He tops off his own glass while he's at it, and eases backwards in his seat. "Everyone's thought about it."

Hana arches a brow right back at Logan, then settles back with her refilled glass. She rolls it slowly between thumb and fingers, watching the bright bubbles shake loose and flit up to the surface. "No, it's not much of a city to love," she agrees; wasn't when she first came to it, and even less so with the way this year has been going. Too, Hana has never been one to love cities.

She takes a sip of champagne, fails to speak of any departure intentions of her own. Instead, she smiles at Logan across the glass as she lowers it, adopting a slight, inquiring tilt to her head. "Are there other cities you have your eyes on?" Hana asks more lightly. "New opportunities you intend to explore?"

"Mm," Logan says, around his last sip of champagne — thinking on the answer as it tugs, a little, at the threads of recollection. "I was promised a great deal of places when I was working under the Group. Berlin, Tokyo, Tel Aviv. Cities you could love, one way or another. The only time I ever came close to having a proper sense of the scale of things, you know." And she does know. And he knows very well how. "Now?"

His wanders a gesture with his glass, one that encompasses the future, and the present moment. "I'll take my chances where I'll get them."

Sort of like the here and now, is the implication of a quick and cavalier smile, followed by a less than elegant finishing of his fresh glass of champagne. Above them, chandeliers glow, and the music is mellow and classical. It will become too cold for them to keep the balcony doors open like this as winter pulls in, but for now, the air still tastes as clean as it did on the balcony, and the glittered landscape of New York City — even with its dark patches, now — is relegated to a casual background element. Diamonds and velvet.

He pushes his glass aside, and his eyes have begun to shine a brighter green themselves, which is not something he feels a need to hide — his smile even goes crooked when Hana will notice the tugging at her own mood, the warming of champagne leaking into her system. Good vibrations — only the best, even.

With a dash of irony; "Would you care to dance?"

Hana occupies herself with her champagne as Logan considers; raises a brow at the named cities, the mention of scale. "Promises," she echoes musingly. "They do tend to evaporate." Gone like dew in the morning sun when it comes down to it, even the well-intentioned ones.

The flash of smile refocuses her thoughts before they can finish reaching; the telltale glimmer of green, the tickle of warmth in her blood has Hana lift her chin minutely, even as she relegates her own glass to the care of the table, offers her hand to Logan.

"Lead on," is said with a pleasant smile, one that reveals just the barest hint of teeth underneath: a promise of a sort, the kind that has nothing whatsoever to do with distant futures and lofty assurances, the kind too anchored by nature both fundamental and base to fear its evanescence.

The dance begins; the dance continues.

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