caliban_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Tantrum
Synopsis Logan is infamous for throwing them; today is no exception.
Date October 8, 2009

Morningside Heights — Caliban's Apartment

It's late morning. It's a nice day. Logan, by rights, should be hungover, but the hair of the dog that bit you is a wondrous thing. Blue jeans are about as casual as the man can get, albeit nice ones, new in their darkness. His shoes are leather, zipped at the ankles, coming to a rounded point, and the almost gauzy grey buttonless shirt hangs loose on his torso with a bordering on inappropriately wide neck, obscured mostly with a black woolen coat to stave off the chill of the autumn morning.

Energetic, he rocks up on the balls of his feet as he waits for the door he stands in front of to be answered, arms folded tight across his chest with one hand wrapped, predictably, in white bandaging. He looks underslept but not unwell, golden curls finger-combed even if his jaw and throat are clean shaven. The sunlight from the window at the end of the hallway hits him brightly, bringing up the dust in his coat and the colour in his skin.

He's been doing this a lot lately, showing up at the homes of others. It's probably what you do when you're technically homeless.

The man on the other side of the door has the benefit of a heater and doesn't need to clothe himself in more than a smart pair of slacks, a crisp cotton wife-beater and a pair of slick black suspenders to bring the ensemble together. Later, when he's due in at the office, he can pull on a proper dress shirt and a jacket that matches his pants, but until then he's content to bare his arms and feet as he peruses the morning paper and nurses a cup of bittersweet Irish coffee.

Or he would be, if there wasn't someone waiting for him on his apartment stoop. The door opens, exposing Logan to a sliver-thin view of the man who calls himself Linderman's publicist. Blond stubble flecked with silver defines the angular shape of his jaw and chin; unlike Logan, he hasn't had the opportunity to shave yet, though he grips a glittering razor in the fingers of his left hand. No lather on his face. You never know who's going to be on the other side.


Logan's head tilts, as if better to angle his vision to see through the inch of door that's been opened to him. The name isn't responded to, at first, mouth going into a contemplative line before breaking into a wan smile. "Hello, Caliban." In contrast to the princely, entitled strut in which he'd swaggered his way into Kain's penthouse, he's patient in his restlessness, bandaged hand resting in the crook of his elbow, the other hidden but obviously empty as well, unlike the hidden razor behind the expanse of door. "Can I come in?"

There isn't anyone among Linderman's upper echelon who hasn't heard the series of unfortunate events that Logan has suffered lately. Steely blue eyes move between his face and his hand, then back again, blond brows lowered into a guarded expression of mild consternation. "Fine," he says, and as if to punctuate this statement he snaps the razor back into the folded position and slips it into the side pocket of his slacks. Blissfully unaware of Logan's conversation with Kain Zarek or his current arrangement with Satoru, he operates on the assumption that the other man needs a place to stay until new accommodations can be leased and furnished. "Don't touch anything."

Had Logan gone from Toru to Caliban, perhaps such curtness would be appreciated. Perhaps Caliban would even be correct. A place to stay that is not the heart of the Triad's territory would be ideal, but. But. Defense at this command is countered with a chin lift of gratitude, before he's unfolded his arms and stepping inside. Normally, he'd be looking around and touching things anyway and asking if he has~ to sleep on the couch.

Instead, Caliban will see the brisk flick of the younger man's coat in an abrupt turn around the time the older of the two is shutting the door. Cold fingers and rough bandages descend on his shoulder in a shove, before the fisted ball of his good hand is swinging around in a vicious trajectory aimed for his face.

Body blows are better on the hands. But Logan tends to go for the eyes.

Whatever Caliban's ability, if he has any ability at all, it isn't superhuman reflexes. In the instant before Logan's fist connects with his face, his eyes snap open and grow bright with dawning realization, but before he can raise his arm to block the blow, knuckles are cracking across his nose.

Cartilage pops, bone crunches and a torrent of blood spatters the front of Logan's jacket and the pristine carpet under his feet. Vibrant though it is, it stands out better against one material than the other, and as Caliban staggers back, clutching his broken nose with white-knuckled fingers, he leaves a trail of crimson in his wake.

Fortunately for Logan, his aim is true. Unfortunately, it doesn't take Caliban very long to recover, and when he does he's launching himself at his midsection and driving his back into the wall with enough force to rattle furniture, dislodge plaster and bump an Ansel Adams reproduction from its hook. The print crashes to the ground, scattering hundreds of shards of glass across the floor that protrude in large chunks like teeth from the carpet.

Logan's hands come to clap down on Caliban's shoulders, grunting harshly as he's driven unstoppably back into the wall, nothing left to do but let his legs automatically carry him back so that he doesn't simply collapse once there. There's a flash of a snarl as the world goes a little white around the edges of Logan's vision when his head smacks neatly back against plaster, dazing him.

Pain spikes up his right arm when he realises he's trying to use splinted fingers to grip. He gasps in a breath from the air that had been knocked loose from his lungs, the heel of his right palm digging close to Caliban's throat, the other gripping a handful of white shirt.

"You wanker," is wheezed out. "You did it, you bastard, Zarek told me. Get off me." Violent energy is still winding taut through his body, pale eyes flashing with fury.

"I was following orders," Caliban grits out through clenched teeth, "and you're better off for it." Blood continues to fill his nasal cavity and the hollow of his mouth at an alarming rate, leaving his face parchment white in comparison to the tanner skin of his muscular neck, shoulders and the arms pinning Logan to the wall. He turns his head just enough to spit, a salty amalgamation of blood and saliva oozing past his lips in the form of a long, bubbly string.

The pressure bearing down on Logan's torso abruptly relents, and a moment later Caliban is moving away from the wall without showing him his back, careful to avoid cutting his feet on the broken glass on his way to the kitchen sink. "Did Zarek tell you that?"

Release does not have Logan instantly leaping at him. He almost drops an inch, releasing Caliban's shirt in favour of his hand clapping back to brace himself against the wall. Taking another breath, he spits; "Yes." He allows himself a split second to glance Caliban up and down, dull satisfaction in the bright red smeared on his face and spattered down his front, shared through it might be on Logan's infinitely more expensive clothing.

"But you lied to me. You let me go on thinking that those fucking chinks had done it. You manipulated me. Fuck you, it was mine. Do you understand that?!"

As with most culmination of tantrums from Logan, there's that teeter balance between tears and more anger, and he currently remains poised between both, leaning towards the latter as he assesses the distance between them with another quick glance. The hand braced to the wall is making claws and the other held protectively against him.

Bloodied fingers grapple with the faucet on the other side of the room. Caliban casts caution to the wind, putting his back to Logan and his hurled accusations as though this might somehow shield him from them. Soon, water is splashing in the basin of the sink, gurgling in the drain, and the blond-haired man pauses to cup his hands under the flow and fill his palms.

"Would you have accepted Linderman's invitation if you'd known?" he asks in a wet croak before dashing his face with the water and rinsing the blood from his stubble and the contours of his chin, cheekbones and jaw.

A knife does weigh cold in Logan's pocket, but it's the last thing on the younger man's mind, despite the back turned to him. That question gets bitter laughter, rasping dry from his throat. "Guess we'll never know." Elbowing his weight off the wall, he takes a few steps closer to where Caliban is bent cleaning his face, watching the ridge of his spine through the cotton of his shirt. He takes the time to inspect his own hand, where mottle red is already decorating his knuckles, though the skin never split.

Thank heavens for small mercies. "I don't appreciate feeling like I'm a dog on a leash." The words grit out between clenched teeth, his jaw angled and hard with that fury. The laziness of his usual demeanor is scrubbed down to hard edges and bristling chilliness.

Rivulets of water run in streams down Caliban's throat and darken the collar of his shirt, tinting it pink. He spits again, this time more saliva than blood, and pauses to reach up and wipe his chin with the back of his wrist with one hand while feeling his nose with the fingers of the other. Although this is something Linderman can easily fix, it's doubtful that he would and even less likely that Caliban will ask. Split lips, broken noses and black eyes are a waste of everyone's time.

"Then maybe," he suggests lowly and without even an ounce of mirth, "you should stop licking yourself and treating the world like everyone in it is a bitch in heat."

Considering the bluster and hissing of words since Logan had first laid his hands on Caliban, the abrupt silence is a stark change, the Brit's face going pale like he'd been slapped. Rather than a source of kinetic energy, anger renders him still as a statue. Then—

"You don't know me. You don't know the first fucking thing."

More emphasis than volume, enough to crack his voice, his words do little to disguise the thud of foot steps as he hones back in on Caliban, hands out to capture once more, to punish. It would be easier revenge if he knew anything about this man, and everyone knows Logan's first choice of weapons are either words or objects just as sharp.

Caliban is not as strong or as agile as he once was. The gray hairs on his head and the worn quality of his voice are proof of his middling age, and while old does not always equate to wise, he easily has twenty years of experience on the younger man, making up in brains for what he lacks in brawn. With the swiftness of a seasoned boxer, he pivots in the instant that Logan reappears in his peripheral vision and swings his arm in a brutal upward arc aimed at his jaw.

It's his elbow that slams into his face rather than his fist, and in the same motion Caliban seizes a handful of Logan's golden curls in his sopping fingers. The razor he pocketed earlier flicks open in his opposite palm; cold steel presses against Adam's apple with just enough force to dimple skin and draw a thin line of red across the negator's exposed throat.

In spite of the speed and ferocity of his attack, there's something coarse and breathless in his voice when he speaks next that suggests the maneuver wasn't as easy as it might have appeared. "I know everything about you, John," he snarls, hot spittle prickling at Logan's face and neck. "I've even met your mother, if you can believe it. Tell me, does she still go by Selene, or is it Sarah now?"

Pale skin twitches, shifts beneath the cold bite of the razor with unsteady breaths and swallows. There's a red mark where Caliban's elbow had hit with blunt force, snapping Logan's head to the side and dizzying him, rendering the few moments between the stagger away, and the razor at his throat and the hand gripping his hair a blank space in his memory. His hand grips Caliban's arm, fingers hooked like claws and hard enough to bruise, although he's smarter than to put pressure. There's a price to slipping, here.

Fury is a hard thing to contain. Logan has his injured hand braced against the edge of the kitchen counter and he trembles just subtly from the combination of stilled adrenaline and injured pride. He snaps a glare towards the other man at his words, a soft sound that could be a growl whining out from his throat. One of the things that had had him launching himself at Caliban withers away.

A name summoned, harking straight back to the days when he had always been like this. Though he hadn't been wearing Prada, back then. "Don't know," he growls through gritted teeth, voice snide, but subdued. "Guess you know about me more'n I do."

Caliban turns the razor so the flat of the blade is pressing against Logan's throat and flicks his wrist in a sideways motion. With the way the weapon is angled, the gesture is ultimately harmless and does little except provide cool stimulation where metal rakes across skin, though its meaning is as clear as the colour of the man's eyes as he withdraws, tension sparking electric in every subtle movement his body makes.

The faucet squeaks off. Caliban uses the soiled fabric of his sweat and bloodstained wife-beater to wipe the water from his razor without snapping it shut again. "Get out of my home."

Caliban retracts, and so does Logan, reeling back a few steps enough for his hip to hit the corner of the kitchen counter, numbly jostling him. The hand that had clutched to the older man's arm drifts now to his own throat in a much more gentle clasp, staring blank somewhere around Caliban's left shoulder. It galls to obey, but all the same, Logan is swiveling on his heel and making long strides for the door, coat fairly fluttering with the momentum he gains before he's forced to stop start upon the struggle with locks, slip out into the hallway.

The impact of which the door bangs closed behind him and back into its frame is enough to rattle it, a gunshot sound that echoes through the apartment reduced to one man.

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