Participants:
| Scene Title | The Devil's Hour |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | …is fucking early. 6 a.m. mutterings ensue. In New Jersey. |
| Date | July 5, 2009 |
Dry Docks Motel
Morning comes eventually, signalled by daylight beginning to creep even through closed curtains and blinds; it's hard to combat, and harder still when in a cheap hotel where such amenities are not often replaced, and likely weren't very efficient to begin with. Which ultimately just leads to the fact that Toru has woken up a bit, squinting against the light, and burying his face in the back of Logan's neck to attempt to hide from it.
It isn't that bright out, he's just overly photosensitive.
However, ultimately it gets to the point where he realizes he won't be able to fall back asleep anytime soon, and with an irritated sort of attitude he shifts over to the edge of the bed, digging around on the floor for his pack of cigarettes, and lights one up after selecting it. Rolls onto his back, pulls a pillow under his head, and folds an arm under it, the other fidgeting with the cancer stick as he smokes.
Long time in New Jersey, and longer than he's used to being in an unfamiliar room.
Logan doesn't wake up in a cold sweat, scrabbling for the lamp to beat away the shadows, crying out a plea or otherwise as jittery as a panicked animal from whatever had tormented him during his sleep. No, thank you, that had only been once. Apparently, no nightmares tonight, if he even dreamed, and if he did, it might be of that place without direction or purpose.
Gone, though, when his eyes shutter open, at the feeling of the mattress moving and the sound of a lighter. The sound of the occasional car going by is almost as constant as the hour. And even though sheets have changed a few times since then, air has circulated through the AC, the window, the door, Logan would still claim this place smells of blood.
He gives a grunt as if to alert the world that he is, in fact, awake now, lifting his head briefly to recognise the close walls and the motel decor. Not a leopard spot in sight. His voice is gravel rough when he asks, "Time?"
Languidly, Toru takes a slow drag off the cigarette, exhaling slowly as he looks over at the digital clock on the nightstand. "Six," he replies, mildly irked at his own answer. Sliding down a bit in the bed, he adds, "The devil's hour." If it wasn't for the cigarette, he'd probably crawl back under the sheets.
But instead he contents himself with tug at Logan's shoulder, offering aforementioned cigarette. He never does finish them himself anyway. "I been kinda thinkin' about all the shit that's been goin' on, y'know?" A gesture with cig-hand. "Like, what to do about the assholes. 'Cause it ain't.. like, you can make it so peoples' abilities don't work, so if we just go one at a time I figure things should work out." He's trying rather hard not to make it sound like he feels Logan should have been able to take care of this in the first place.
"'Course it'd be kinda more poetic if we just rounded 'em up and set 'em all on fire or somethin'."
Siiix. Why six. This is normally when Logan is going to bed, not waking up. Squeezing his eyes shut, considering tunneling back into bed and waiting for noon, Logan instead rolls with the tug to his shoulder, the scent of cigarette smoke beginning again to taint the air still cool from the evening. It masks the staler scent of its predecessors, sharper, and Logan pushes himself up to at least slouch, taking the cigarette off Toru and listening.
Kind of listening, anyway, and mostly waking up, dragging a hand through his hair before inhaling a breath of smoke, letting his head rest back against the wooden frame. "Like poetry," he sleepily notes after a stifled yawn, eyes hooded lazily, cat-like.
Something entrapping about bedrooms. Rooms. "Whoever did this apparently threw a Molotov cocktail in through the window. That sound like Evolved ability to you? I heard something back 'bout the Flying Dragons children being behind it, and if it is— " A wave of his hand, smoking trailing after it. "Fuck it. Not worth it. Rookery's about territory, and I don't 'ave it anymore, so."
Freed from the cigarette, Toru, on the other hand, does burrow a bit back into sheets. Rolls onto his side in loose fetal position, pulling the pillow with him. Given that he has a fairly similar sleep schedule to Logan's, this isn't much of a picnic for him, either. So much nicer in the dark.
"You can't just go and give up, yo. And so what if it's like— okay, see, if my ability was I could turn lead to gold, I could still throw a bottle through a window, y'know? Don't always gotta be about abilities, I just meant keep 'em from usin' 'em so they couldn't get away once we got 'em. The Flying Dragons are dumb, they're just a bunch of Chinese who wanna look big." Turning his head a bit, he grumbles into his pillow, shifting somewhat to get comfortable. At six in the morning, in New Jersey.
"Gangs're dumb. So we don't have the Rookery anymore, doesn't mean you should give up on making sure people know they can't just keep fucking with you. Even if you don't go after the Dragons, you can still go after the other'ns who did you bad." Here, he gets a bit of a devious smile as he looks up at his boss; a hand snakes out to trail fingers up along the older man's side. "Like the girl.."
Logan only glances down at Toru at his comments about the Flying Dragons, and says nothing; only takes another breath of mingled smoke and lets it stream from his nostrils as if in reference to such creatures. Chalking it up to Japanese racism, Logan only shrugs. It's six in the morning, not the hour to be lecturing anyone on crime circles and their pull, or lack thereof.
His attention is awarded to Toru again at that touch, no response given save for a curl upwards at the corner of his mouth. "I will. Pretty sure I shot the girl, an' I'll do it again if she's still walking around," Logan responds. "But not with ten rounds, a motel room, and a suitcase full of clothing. And you can't blame me for laying low. Soon, though."
The cigarette is offered back. "Just not at six fucking o'clock in the morning, not unless I haven't slept yet. Less you want t'take care've it, and wake me after. Bring breakfast while you're at it."
"Funny." Toru shoves the pillow away, takes the cigarette and a light hit off of it, then rolls over to put it out in an ashtray. "I did have a couple ideas in mind. But yeah.. layin' low's good, I guess. Good point." He nods. Rolls back onto his side facing Logan once again, head resting on one arm, the other hand drawing patterns in the bedsheets. For once, he isn't being coy; it is just genuinely difficult to want to do anything this early.
"That's why you're the boss," he adds after a moment's contemplation. "I wish I'd been there when the shit went down. I feel like a jackass for not being there to.. to kick the shit out of people, or something. I mean, I wouldn'ta been able to get your stuff if I had been, but still.. I mean, I did say before I like the violent shit."
There is another sort of silence there as Toru resumes tracing the sheet patterns, watching his hand rather than looking at the person he's talking to. Finally, though, he does gradually lift his gaze a bit, looking Logan in the —- shoulder, and slowly remarks, "I'm not religious or anything, but … we're pretty much damned, aren't we?"
Hand free of the cigarette and its embers, Logan slides readily back into bed. Boss, yes, in every way except the ones that would make the statement true. Owns nothing but a promise, now, but he's worked off less before. Maybe. He watches the smoke make its last patterns in the air just above him as Toru speaks, words mostly passing by as shapeless as his choice of viewership, smoke dispersing and sentiment too.
He could almost fall asleep again, if not for that that question, which has him looking back at the younger man and the way Toru's gaze hits his shoulder and not his eyes. Arm free of sheets already, the action is soundless as he brings his arm around so that the backs of his fingers lightly brush Toru's cheekbone, around the same time the younger man might shallowly feel a little better about life.
On the chemical level, anyway. Even if that question was not necessarily melancholy, it seems like good timing. "That dream I had, the other night. I dreamed I was already dead and burning, and there was no one that would let me out. I don't know if I'd keep burning after the fact, but it doesn't really matter. 'sides, you're only damned when you die. I plan on living forever just to spite them."
Not melancholy indeed, though as usual, the chemical manipulation does lift Toru's mood a bit. Less feeling guilty about not having been around for the fire, helped both by the endorphins and by the fact that Logan doesn't fuel that particular fire. The question, though, stemmed not so much out of guilt as out of a fear of eventually having to face consequences.
Better to keep killing anyone who might try to make him. Somewhat ironic, for someone trying to avoid prison.
"We all have bad dreams, boss." Not dismissive, but reassuring. "Just don't worry about it, you'll forget it after a while." Toru shifts forward in the bed, unintentionally dragging sheets as he goes, moving to curl against Logan's side. An arm drapes over the man's abdomen, the other sliding under pillows, head resting on same. He makes eye contact, this time, though the angle is more awkward.
"That does sound like a nice plan, I just don't know if even you can pull it off."
Logan's hand comes to settle against Toru's, allowing that eye contact for the moment before closing it off, the gentle post-dawn light given up in favour of the dark interior of his eyelids in the hopes that he doesn't have to wake up properly quite yet. And exist in New Jersey, conscious, for much longer. Even dreaming, with strange ghost women he's never met interrupting fantasies with ice and memory, is preferable to this place.
Although the immediate landscape isn't so bad, as Logan settles into the loose embrace. "Dunno," he responds, amusement in his voice if not manifesting as anything else save for an eyebrow raising a fraction. "So far so good."
Amusement is contagious, it would seem, because that comment does get a small chuckle out of Toru as well. "That's true." It's a little strange hearing him talk like a reasonably intelligent human being, but when he doesn't have to be so defensive, the walls come down a bit.
Any potential further verbal response is cut short with a glance over at the window, a frown as he squints against the light — growing all the more irritating with each passing moment — and somewhat abruptly, he tugs at Logan, pulling him down further onto the bed proper, lying down rather than sitting up.
And, assuming no resistance is given, sheets are summarily pulled up over respective heads; it's much more comfortable in the dark.