Participants:
| Scene Title | Tomorrow's Problem |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | …is, in Hana's opinion, not a desirable thing to fret over on the night before. She doesn't have to work terribly hard to bring Logan around to her point of view. |
| Date | November 7, 2010 |
On Staten Island
On the night before New York City tears itself apart, in some very belated aftershock of the disaster so many years prior, it is raining.
Water gathers to stagnate in dips of Rookery ground, where gutters have clogged and thus failed to drain the water discreetly in some other direction. Logan had sidestepped his way through the streets in completely instinctive protection of his shoes, although now doesn't seem to mind the patter of rain when most of his body is inside. The only thing outside would be an arm extended to boyishly catch falling droplets against his splayed palm, while the other arm leans against the window ledge in a fold and nurses a lowballed glass that he's filled with wine instead of harder liquor.
There's a brothel not far away, clean enough, that he can go to. Ever willing to make a night of a failed evening, and Staten Island accommodates that in the best of times. In the worst of times too, turns out. He's had a difficult, overly complicated week. The longest week in history, actually.
It could be nicer, his choice of setting, this Rookery apartment, ground level, close to the shore enough that you can smell the river from inside. There is nothing uneasily dirty about this room, being something of a neat freak, but it is small, cheap, and the air of a temporary hideout rather than his more luxurious quarters on the mainland. Fully equipped, and even electricity glowing the lamp in dull gold. No one is really meant to find him here — no one except for exactly two people in the world, Logan reckons, one out of trust, the second— who knows. There are a lot of people in the city that have been made fate's bitch in the last month or so.
For example: the door's unlocked.
She had second thoughts. Not doubts, precisely — weighed and calculated, measured gauging of cost against benefit, too analytical to be counted worry. But she had second thoughts, up until slender long fingers tested the door handle all unannounced and found it permissive. The smooth force which pushes it open also commits the woman outside to stay this course.
'Casey' is dressed differently than her demonstrable norm — if the theme of black in pants and short, silvery-buttoned jacket is ignored to consider their softer, less durably practical materials. The shirt just visible over the top button is deep green, light beadwork at its throat glinting faintly in the artificial illumination. Dressed up, perhaps, or a step in that direction; the shoulder she leans against the doorframe casually disregards any care that might be awarded even Hana's definition of nice clothes. The jacket is darker in rain-dampened splotches, brown hair flattened by being wet.
One room is easy to take in quickly, and the woman doesn't dwell on it; rather, what holds her attention is the scene of Logan toying with the rain. A hint of amusement tugs at her lips, although it doesn't quite touch the shadows in her eyes. He isn't the only one who's had a long week — a long month. "I hope I'm not interrupting." Though, much like any self-assured feline one makes the mistake of inviting over, she fails entirely to present the suggestion of I'll leave if I am.
He's had time to get comfortable — shoes off, and a leather jacket is slung over the back of a chair, which doesn't get much use save for getting clothes piled on it, probably. She will be able to see the holster hung up beneath it, the jut of a gun's handle within. A tall, slender bottle of wine has already been dipped into, and sits on a modest desk where a few more of his effects lie. Keys. Wallet. A radio clock beside the bed with green numbers.
Logan twists enough to glance over his shoulder without actually getting out of his slouch, though he does pull his hand inside again. There is a minor cut, at the corner of his mouth, like he'd gotten hit hard enough for the skin to split, but the bruises have more or less cleared away save for some remnant duskiness. The interruption won't scar, probably, and doesn't pull at the shape of his mouth. Doesn't prevent him from giving her a glimmer of a half-smile in greeting, either. At a glance, one might say he is underdressed, in comparison to her. But no. His jeans are expensive in their make and fit him thanks to alterations. The black sweater is of some elaborately rare blend, with a wide V-neck that most men might only get away with on a runway, showing off some grey wife-beater beneath.
Thin silver chain glimmers around the pale column of his throat, matching a silver ring around his thumb, this last catching the light when he lifts his hand to finish his drink, and set the crystal glass down on the window ledge before standing properly, turning to her. "I hope you are," he corrects, hooking thumbs into the pockets of his jeans as he turns his back on the window.
He pauses, and sweeps a look over her when he thinks to do so. "You look nice."
She remains in the doorway as he sets the glass aside, watching him, spoken words bringing out a little more of the smile, compliment acknowledged with a tip of the woman's head. "Thank you." Straightening, she finishes crossing the threshold, closing the door on the hallway behind her. Quietly, only two sounds notable — the soft snick of the latch engaging as her fingers release the knob, and its twin the bolt sliding home. "It seemed appropriate."
Doesn't take very many steps to bring 'Casey' into the room, small as the apartment is; to bring her across it to Logan, inquisitive fingers brushing across the crusted scab beside his lips. But she doesn't ask questions, even by unspoken look, consigning the remnant of injury to not her business and leaving it there. Doesn't kiss him either, which might be the more disappointing.
Or not; they both have some idea why she's here. Dark eyes drop briefly to the crystal, and Hana's smile quirks sideways when they lift. "Do you have another glass," she prompts, "or were you planning to share that one?"
The tip of his tongue touches the corner of his mouth, faintly, in the same time Logan is lifting his chin and a fraction away from her fingertips when he realises their intended mark. He breaks off a second later, the only touch in return coming in the form of his shoulder gently brushing by hers as he heads for where the bottle sits, placing a hand over a second glass. "Always expect company. Learned that from my mother." Strangling the neck of the bottle in a fist, Logan upends it to babble white liquid into the crystal container.
Turns back and offers the drink out imperiously — however, she might note the tension in his arm that indicates he'll retract the offer when she goes for it. If not, then she'll be drawn in a small game of coy keep-away. The white wine is not so expensive that it should be an effective lure on its own merit — but maybe the man behind it fancies himself to be so.
Tension is notable to Hana; more so when it comes with attendant suspicion is he going to reach for a weapon, but even if there's already a measure of alcohol disseminated in her blood, she's still feeling her way into at ease here. Discerning what he would do is harder than the fact the game exists — a game is virtually inevitable.
She's feeling generous enough to play along, find out what the mischief is. 'Casey' glides forward one long stride to reach for the glass. In the space left by its abrupt revocation, rather than stopping short, she continues — until Logan's choices are to sidestep away or be pinned between her and the desk. "Did she also teach you to be rude to your company?" is asked lightly, for now.
Stands his ground, perhaps unsurprisingly. As much as a chase might be fun, he'd prefer to surrender, his hips leaning back against the desk as she steps forward. Hand comes to curl inwards, glass hovering just above his own shoulder. The only weapon in the room is the one in its holster on the chair — Logan doesn't even have a knife on him right now. "Not on purpose," he responds, that half-smile growing a little, enough to set brackets around his smile, as cold as his eyes ever are.
He's not going anywhere, and neither is the glass. Rather than outright offer, he just angles the base of it for her to take. His other hand more intent to brush fingertips up the slope of her thigh, and pick out a belt loop.
She presses up against him, not heavily, just enough to deny any space between. Any distance. "I see," 'Casey' says quietly, breath brushing cool against his face. "That's all Logan, then," she continues. Reaches for the glass without looking left, its position calculated and remembered; right hand sliding up past his shoulder, into his hair.
"I'll forgive you — this time" could be equally playful or serious, or both at once: she doesn't kiss him now either, hovering, lips a breath away. There's difference between a moment's grace and letting him keep the upper hand.
His eyes go hooded, a fraction, at the feel of her fingers gliding through blonde curls. He relinquishes the glass to her, hand finding itself more at home at the base of her throat. This is, obviously, when he should kiss her, when Logan might kiss anyone in this position. Two fingers hook solidly into belt loop, some insurance at keeping her close, a much gentler, warmer presence than the digging of the desk edge into his tailbone.
"Do you want to do this tomorrow instead?" seems— out of place, off-script, and like her serious/playful tone, his is much the same in ambiguity. Although there is a feline kind of added mischief to it, except rather than batting Hana around in his paws, it's more this one, tiny prophecy that he throws into question, on its precipice.
He hasn't let go of her beltloop.
There's a shift, more internal than physical, which telegraphs itself through the contact between them. A suggestion of distance that isn't measured in space, but in the hint of tension beneath her skin, some subliminally recognized change in the angle of her head. The way a disgruntled cat might flick its tail, ears beginning to angle back as it considers the option of departure. She doesn't pull away, yet — but 'Casey' is threadbare tonight, and the very last thing Hana wants to reflect on is tomorrow.
Bringing her hand forward, pad of her thumb tracing along his jaw, 'Casey' smiles just slightly. "I think tomorrow… is tomorrow's problem."
He's responsive to touch, apparently, tilting his head a fraction to expose more skin to the fingertip along shaven jaw. "Big problem," Logan mutters, maybe agrees. He isn't letting go, nor really trying to drive her away. Playing coy, much like the dance of glass of liquor, and the suggestion of shucking destiny after this casual cat and mouse. He chases a kiss, then, head ducking and angling enough to press his mouth to hers as he pushes back, bodily, to where she has him against the desk.
The flood of serotonin that comes is maybe unshocking, maybe expected. How wanted it is— well, Hana's body, human as it is, is designed to like it, but there is no greater war than that between mind and flesh. Not something Logan is actually very aware of, anyway. It's not selfless, particularly. Who doesn't want to be amazing?
Unshocking, yes; expected, not quite. Wanted? In other contexts, it would be shunned as vulnerability and manipulation, rejected as anathema; here and now, the influence of Logan's ability is welcomed. It's only now that matters, by intent. Heels anchored to the floor, 'Casey' refuses to yield before the pressure, leaning into his kiss. Her hand glides back of its own accord, restored to its purchase in his hair; the other unobtrusively lowers, finding the surface of the desk, shedding its burden of crystal glass and untouched wine.
She can finish indulging in alcohol — later.
