Participants:
| Scene Title | Threatened |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Hana isn't, and neither is the future. |
| Date | October 16, 2010 |
A Dive
Ambiance is probably not what patrons have in mind when they visit this particular bar. It has some — dim lights and a multitude of placards on the walls take care of that, and the dark wooden furniture is old in the way that almost-antiques are old. But the three distinct spaces — not quite separated enough to be termed rooms — that make up the dive are all small, crowded, with just enough space to walk between tables; the ceiling is low, albeit not uncomfortably so, and the band playing near the end of the counter is a decidedly small-time act.
Despite the music in the air, the sounds of convivial conversation and occasional too-loud laughter, the woman who sits at the bar does so in a pool of silence. The two seats to either side of her dark profile are empty, unoccupied in a way that could only be deliberate rather than accidental. And yet she is just as evidently here alone, unaccompanied by friends or significant other, what might conventionally be implicit invitation.
Not that Hana Gitelman spends much time being conventional, even in her persual of a tumbler half-filled by amber liquid.
Black and white outside, with the evening keeling over into darkness before people are forced to head in when the clock chimes nine. Logan lingers outside, tempted to stay and burn through his pack of cigarettes until the lady within comes out. It has already occured to him to follow her wherever she goes, but it was idle contemplation of a few seconds. He's dressed up a little— if only because that's his default— in different textures of black. Black cotton of a fitted shirt, black worsted wool of a waistcoat with a satin backing of intricate zebra stripe that is concealed by a navy peacoat. More exuberantly, black pants of a shiny, patent material, oil-spill leather, unapologetically eurotrash but elegant in cut and fit, probably far too expensive for its own good.
Pale smoke is funneled out through his nostrils, before he drops the embering cylinder, crushes it out with the corner of his wingtip shoe. Scuffs a hand over blonde curls as if to somehow tame the cowlicks of his cut, before he's shouldering inside, bringing with him the scent of the chilly, humid evening air, smoke, cologne.
The toe of his shoe hooks against the leg of a stool just next to 'Casey', Logan stepping to sit down on it and absently, nonchalantly, adjusting the buttoned cuffs of his sleeves. Such an invasion of space may warrant explanation— all he does is put on an affected show of a glance her way, hover a hand out between them as he says, brightly, "Oh, hello!"
The reason for her buffer of empty space fills itself in when the sudden intrusion is met by a look that would kill if it were a knife — one that is (fortunately for Logan) short-lived in its affront, quickly supplanted by scowled exasperation: Really? …Someone isn't nearly as cheerful as other people today.
With black as a theme, Hana and Logan are a matching pair; or at least, once allowances are made for the fact that she almost never dresses up, even if leather jackets are a fashion statement all their own. She glances to his waving hand, eyes drawn by the motion, then slowly scans back up to his face, past navy coat and the hint of cotton visible at its throat. Considers him, for a long moment, in silence that could as easily be aloof as pensive — a silence needed for gathering persona around her like another layer of clothing, a layer of insulation against the emotions that brought her here in the first place.
"If I didn't know better," 'Casey' muses, dark eyes shifting to the play of light in swirling liquid, "I might think you weren't stalking me." Tossing back the remainder of her drink, she sets the glass down on the ring-marked bar, then glances sidelong at the Brit, one brow arching. "Business must be terribly slow."
"Owch," is said after a second, as if Logan were taking a moment to figure out how much he might choose that to offend him, eyes lidding in a narrow assessment. The corner of his mouth does turn up in a dimpled smirk, but it's removed, swift to fade. That hand drops, comes to lace in with the other one and rest upon the bar top, turning his shoulder to her as Logan tries to invite the bartender over with willpower alone. Shows her profile, subtly clefted chin lifting as he then regards, choosily, the liquor bottles on display.
Has his wallet out, then, a slender thing of black leather. Not as shiny as his trousers. His nimble fingers set about opening it for his bank card. "You found me last time."
'Casey' chuckles softly, glancing to the bartender and indicating her own glass with a subtle tilt of the head. For whenever the bartender is done with the picky Briton. "Let me rephrase: a slow day today." She can fill in the blank, that he came in because of her. Or maybe just make an assumption, see what response it gets.
Initial reactions aside, the Israeli doesn't seem too put out by that conclusion. Slender fingers lace themselves together, hands resting casually on the countertop as she watches Logan ponder his poison; a bit of a smile shapes the lines of her expression, more deliberate than spontaneous. "But you have a point. And maybe business is your least concern — it is the end of the week."
"I'm of the school of thought that effective managers don't even need to be in the building," Logan notes, eyebrows raising for all that he doesn't look at her as he says so. Lifts his chin in a nod towards one of the bottles as he tells the bartender, "Two fingers of Gordon's. Ice, thanks." Sliding his card across the smooth wooden bar top, other hand resting over wallet. If he's armed, it's unclear beneath the layers of his clothes — there's no visible rig beneath his coat, at least.
Pockets have things in it. That one is his own choice of knife, a gravity blade of elegant silver, will have to be deduced as opposed to known. He waits to get his drink, clear liquid of thick gin with a sliver of lime, as if that would even touch the poison-flavour of the beverage, before he's tucking card into wallet, wallet into pocket.
"And maybe I am, a little. You don't seem the type to be easily threatened, though."
The bartender doesn't ask what Hana wants in her glass, but wordlessly refills it; if Logan's drink of choice today is gin, apparently hers is whisky. She nods in equally wordless thanks, folding her fingertips against the tumbler's sides and sliding it across the bar to sit squarely in front of her. Leaves its base touching the counter for the time being, no more than an accessory. From the edge of her vision, she considers the Briton, scanning head to seat and back again; if there's not much to see but the outward shroud of his peacoat, that doesn't reduce the scrutiny.
"I've been threatened by worse, and I'm still here," 'Casey' finally replies; not, in this case, a statement of pride, although it could have been. "I'd bet I'm equal to anything you can dish out." The slight lift of her chin is proud; and in the facade of self-assured arrogance, she can pretend her own words didn't evoke shadowed, too-recent memories. The stretch of smile into grin is a challenge: you going to bet against me?
"So, no, not threatened by a little stalking."
Logan does look at her this time, sidelong, raising a shaped eyebrow — and does not seem inclined to bet against her on that one. Because he might win, in his own way — perhaps not on the scale of fighting prowess, purposeful assassination, but in smaller, darker, patheticer, grittier ways, perhaps, yes. And that will surely not end well. However, these are things that go unspoken and maybe even unknown between them. Sipping his gin, his long nose wrinkles at the taste, but takes another sip in quick succession to get used to it before setting the glass back down. "Good," he offers, with a fresh smile.
"Because I figured," he continues, lightly, "that the chances of you calling me and asking me 'round for a drink are fuck all, frankly. So I figured I'd force it."
Another day — another week — Logan would be right on the money; that's a bet she wouldn't take. But today? There's a moment of inward reflection Hana can't divert, shadows briefly in her eyes as they flick away, to the untouched tumbler on the counter. It doesn't remain so for much longer. "Maybe so," she murmurs around the rim of the glass, half the whisky gone at once — not really the proper way to treat it, but the woman isn't inclined to care. Maybe not goes unspoken, but not necessarily unheard.
Well, she wouldn't call. 'Casey' isn't really supposed to have his number, even if for Wireless it's only half a thought away.
She finishes the rest of it, this time giving the bartender an infinitesimal shake of her head as the tumbler meets the bar. Wait, or no more. Bracing her elbows on the counter, the woman rests chin on folded hands, glance inquiring of the Brit. "Do you have a plan, beyond a little stalking, or is it all improvisation from here?"
Logan watches with cattish curiousity as Hana downs the rest of her drink, his eyes retaining their same pallid, fishbelly quality as she warms her own blood stream, triggers her own chemical reactions, without his help. There is a wondering kind of tilt to his head, but the question isn't put into words. But then he simply follows suit, as if rising to the challenge — lifts his own glassy drink, with its shards of bumping ice pieces and lonely boat of lime.
Neatly tips it back in a few swift swallows, steams out a fumey exhale and gives a doggish shake of his head. But he's clearly done that before in his life. Sets the glass down, picks out lime piece to toy with. "You know what they say about the best laid plans. I work better off the cuff." Another questioning glance, as if to ask, how am I going so far?
'Casey' smiles, slight but amused; that seems to be her answer to the unasked question. Rises from her barstool, negligent flick of fingers leaving bills on the counter. Takes the one step needed to put her behind the Briton, close enough that he can just feel a frisson from her breath creep in around the edge of his coat — or maybe that's a few hairs standing up on uneasy end as she leans even closer. "All right, Logan," the woman murmurs, brushing a touch across the navy cloth, fingers curling over his shoulder. "I'm done here. So improvise."
And let her pretend to be someone else for a little while, with Hana Gitelman's concerns a long, long ways away.
