Participants:
| Scene Title | Speaking Of… |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Roderick invades Logan's space to chat up the other man and be a general irritation. |
| Date | May 22, 2010 |
Sitting indistinguishable from the masses still cluttering the ballroom, is John Logan. He's a gargoyle figure on the expansive staircase that falls grandly into the immense space, all curved back and bent knees, long arms looped around his legs and long neck allowing him to jut his chin up and watch what goes on below. With the dying off of the blizzard and subtle lift of temperature, the crush of refugees seems less — which might also have something to do with the men toting Homeland Security badges prowling around, but no one has hassled him so far. He even has a lit cigarette pinched between his fingers, and you're not meant to do that, in here.
It's all the same breed of fucking cold to Logan, though, so he's still here. Changed out of his sharp suit into the drab combination of blue jeans, a hooded sweater covered by brown suede, wool-lined, and black leather stretched over his knuckles with fingers bare and pale, ending in the glass-cut shapes of his nails.
It's been several days since he felt the ever-present tickle of a cough. Maybe he's on the mend, as mum would have said. The orange tip of his cigarette flares brighter as he inhales smoke.
The sound and vibration of booted feet on the stairs above him is the only hint Logan gets before a figure hops the last step with a heavy thump and Roderick Sweeney drops to sit next to his co-work. "Hello John." He offers in friendly greeting, giving the other man a toothy grin.
Roderick has always been a jeans wearing sort, never been comfortable in a suit. His current pair of jeans has a knee wore threadbare, giving a hint of pale skin under it. Knees up high enough, he leans forward with a soft creak of his black leather jacket, to rest his arms on them. His white t-shirt bright against the black of the jacket.
"I didn't know you were floatin' around. I was startin' to think you were stayin' holed up in that lovely establishment of yours." His brows lift a little his grin widening a bit more. Having come out of the cold weather not long ago, the painter gives a bit of a stiff and brushes the edge of his hand under his nose, the silver rings on his fingers glinting.
Shooting a glance at his periphery as he's abruptly joined for company, Logan's back stiffens a fraction, relaxing again when Roderick's voice filters in above the dim clamour of downstairs. He is more comfortable in a suit — perhaps not physically, not for slouching around the hotel and getting crease lines in Hugo Boss creations, but for when he encounters others in the clan, certainly. Appearances are important. This frission of self-consciousness last for only a second, invisible, before Logan is comfortably stretching his legs out, retracting himself from his upright fetal curl.
"My mum calls me John," is an automatic response to the casual address, a reminder, tapping dead embers in the crystal ashtray next to his hip. "And I've been around, just neglecting to mingle with the little people."
Giving a small chuckle, Roderick amends. "Logan. Sorry, mate." His smile pulling to one side, he turns his head of shaggy blonde hair towards the constantly shifting sea of people below the pair. Fingers of one hand move to scratch the dark scruffy hairs along his jaw, a couple of the nails colored with black.
"Well, feel lucky. You missed out on the fun. After the soddin' polar bear, I was tempted to head back to my flat. Might be cold, but fewer thing that would eat me." The young man huffs out softly. He's quiet for a moment, before glancing at the other British man out of the corner of his eye. Teeth chew on his lip, before he asks cautiously.
Both brows tilt up with curiosity, tip of his tongue playing along the back of his teeth, as Roderick considers Logan. "Speakin' of polar bears. You… ah… you talk to Kain, yet?"
Logan's lip curls, subtle, around his cigarette filter, and he leans back enough to rest elbows back against a lushly carpeted stair. Cigarette winds up pointing its smoking tip upwards as he relaxes his head back briefly, before resettling. "Oh yes," he says, around his cigarette, tip weaving along with each syllable. "I heard all about the polar bear — I can't believe I missed that. Zarek shot it, or something. Mounted its head on the wall like any classy redneck."
Taking his cigarette from his mouth, he finally looks at Roderick, pale eyes curious if dull, in a sense — for all that the other man's eyes have an easy shine of laughter and light to them, Logan is the opposite in this respect. "I haven't had the pleasure lately, no."
"No?" Roderick repeats, looking a touch surprised, brows lifting a little higher. "Oh… well. Just you know… curious if you had." The blonde waves it off as if it's not important, since obviously Kain hasn't seen fit to show off the newest painting to the other man, yet. "I figured he'd be braggin' all over about his conquest."
"But, yeah… the polar bear was rather amusin'. Nicky was so scared." He looks rather amused about that, "Though I think she was more upset about that bloody thing tearing up the place." Stretching his own legs out, ankles crossing, Roderick leans back to rest his elbows on the stairs behind him. "Made a right mess out of everythin'."
"I'll be glad to be out of here tho'." The pre-cog sighs out heavily. "I miss havin' my own place again. With my stuff, get back to my paints. Miss that…" The words trail off and Roderick is quiet for a long moment before adding out of nowhere, rather flatly, "Not to mention Kain snores."
Lines make a ladder in Logan's brow at Roderick's surprise, the wave away, and the deft diversion into the realm of polar bears. Deft enough that it has Logan tilting his attention back away, regaining some dignity back into the stiffness of his posture so that from Roderick's lean, he only gets a sliver of profile and mainly Logan's long back, curled shoulders. There's a huff of derisive laughter at the notion of bunking with Kain — but it only goes that far. It isn't like he hasn't slept on the man's couch before.
He taps ash again, more a restless fidget than particular necessity. "I'll take Nicole bragging about it than Zarek. At least she sleeps with me as a result. Why do you care if Kain's bragged to me, then?" This question phrased with needle imbedded, poking for answer without looking back at the other Brit.
"What?" There is surprise at that trickily phrase question, "Well…." The scruffy blonde stumbles over the words. Why would he care? "I don't… care." He chirps out nonchalantly, a single shoulder makes a vague notion of lifting. "You know how he can be." The young man attempts to deftly divert around the question. It's hard to keep up a lie around a group of liars.
His tongue wets his lower lip nervously, blue eyes flicking over to the back of the other man. "Shoulda guessed that Nicole would have told you about it. A sight better on the eyes as well." He jokes lightly. "Though sounds like she embellished it… a lot." His brows furrow a little as he watches a couple of kids chase each other around the ballroom, while their mother calls for them to stop. "Or did she tell you he mounted it's head on the wall?"
The painter seems rather determined not to tell whatever it is. It's a tough game of… who does Roderick want to avoid pissing off more. Right now that's Kain, especially since they are stuck in the same room. Who knows what the Cajun would do in the dead of night when Roderick is dead to the world.
"No. It just seems the logical conclusion for Kain."
Gripping onto the edge of the staircase railing, Logan levers himself up. In contrast to Roderick's determination to keep his mouth shut, Logan doesn't seem hellbent on prying loose whatever information there is to glean — either the topic was so fleeting, or, well. When it comes to pissing Kain Zarek off, he will generally hire someone to let you know how he feels about it.
Sometimes, that person is Logan, if we're talking about immediate impact. "Do look after him, won't you? He's a lonely fellow, when you get right down to it. I'm sure he's loving the company."
That last gets a short huff of laughter from the painter, and a rather sarcastic. "Oh right… I'm sure. Havin' a blast." When Logan sees that painting, he may understand that tone. "I'm sure he would prefer to have the company of somethin' with a skirt truthfully and I'm not about to do that." Roderick tilts his head a bit, to grin at the other Brit, brows gives a slight waggle.
Roderick doesn't really move when Logan does, content to lounge there and people watch. Maybe it's the artist in him, watching the very nature of humanity all crammed together in a small space. There is an odd beauty in everyone and thing. Even the violent types such as himself and the peacock of a man next to him.
The smile falls away, replaced by a much more serious look. "Yeah… I'll look after him tho'" One booted foot, wiggles slightly as Roderick, considers what Logan says. "Not like I haven't… Tho' I know he thinks he's watchin' after me." Being Linderman's pet pre-cog means being watched after, got to keep his investment safe.
Logan turns on a heel as he descends the stairs, managing balance as well as he manages, at least, to cast a bright smile back at the man remaining at their previously shared perch. It's never particularly friendly, when he does it, more like a displaying of white canines — but it's shaped to be that way. A mild jeer follows; "That's fucking adorable." And with that, he turns to face away with a flap of his dull-toned coat, stepping onto the flat surface of the ballroom to mingle in with the swarm of refugees down below.
"Oi.. Logan." Roderick calls from his spot on the steps, once the other man has reached the floor level. "He will contact you. Kain that is. When the time is right." Him saying that, if Logan knows anything about the gift the small man has, the words should be ominous. "Listen to what he has to say. Keep your mind open." With the distance between then, the pre-cog seems a bit more comfortable letting that little bit slip. Pushing himself up to sit, blue eyes narrow down at Logan, before his gives a wolfish grin.
"Just don't let him know I said anythin', mate." Then Roderick leans forward, arms resting on his knees again and goes back to watching the refugees. He'll do that for a time before the irritation of not being able to paint it, will force him to find entertainment else where.
He turns when called for — side on, simply, pale eyes up and expectant at whatever words Roderick feels the need to impart in the last minute of their interaction. One eyebrow goes up, and Logan opens his mouth to speak — more curse-peppered snark, is likely and expected, but it falls mute in his throat, mouth closing once more.
Finally, he responds; "That'll depend on what he says, won't it?" Then, he's off to go mingle in the prettiness of destitute New York— and make it prettier— on his way to the Chambery.