laura_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Unofficially
Synopsis Logan ignores Kain's request to guard his penthouse from tiny blonde women. Laura recruits for something strictly off the books.
Date June 10, 2010

Dorchester Towers: Kain's Penthouse

Right from the doorway the sheer size of this penthouse seems designed to impress. The walls and ceiling are painted in a soft eggshell white that seems to only enlarge the perception of the living space, with lightly-stained hardwood floors reflecting the daylight spilling through the partly closed blinds. Immediately across from the entrance is a raised living room with three shallow steps leading up to the carpeted landing it sits on. A plush white sofa covers one wall, with a long glass-topped table between it and a matching chaise lounge. The entire opposite wall to the side of the sofa is a gigantic window that affords a view of the nighttime skyline of New York. Sliding vertical blinds are drawn drawn closed, but twisted so they remain partly open, giving a slatted view of the New York skyline. Up against the window is a jet black leather sofa with a tall lamp with a ball-shaped shade.

Further into the penthouse, there is a large open kitchen that is in plain view of the sitting room, a black marble-topped island divides the kitchen from the main floor, and beyond the island more counterspace and brushed-metal faced kitchen appliances fill the walls. From here, a hallway can be seen that is lined with four doors; one leading to an office, two more to bedrooms, and another to a bathroom.

The penthouse is large, luxurious — and empty, its proper owner being out of town. Or at least it should be, particularly at this rather absurd morning hour, the clear summer sky just beginning to take on the palest of blue tones as the sun sneaks up on the horizon. The blinds on the large living room window have been drawn aside entirely, leaving the vast expanse of glass open and accessible; but that can be ignored because it isn't even past dawn yet. The penthouse is quiet enough, too, all as it should be for a lonely apartment…

…so why does it smell quite strongly of coffee? Complete with the sounds of water dripping through a percolator…

…because the coffeepot is brewing. And the cause of that is a short and slender blonde woman who isn't supposed to be here at all, but has dragged a chair over to the giant window nonetheless, sitting casually backwards on it and looking out at the skyscrapers whose tops are just beginning to glaze golden with light. Laura's dressed in a sea-green blouse and khaki pants, ivory-colored purse resting by the feet of the chair, and as blithe as can be about not only having broken in — not that one could tell from the state of the locked door — but patiently waiting right there for the apartment's occupant to wake.

And right here, in the hallway mouth, would be John Logan. Long-limbed and fine-boned he may be, relatively largeish feet splay against hardwood flooring, and by the time he's clearing his throat for attention— like maybe she didn't know he was even here or did not hear his cautious footsteps from bedroom to here— he has his arms braced against either side of the walls the frame him. For Laura's benefit, he is wearing pants, though they seem to be sewn of satin, oily black and tied low on his hips.

A shirt would just be excessive, anyway, and it's a blistering 11 C or something outside. "I think I'm meant to throw you out a window," Logan says, voice as cracked and gravelled as a desert plane in his sleepiness, a hand lowering from the jut of elbow against frame to knuckle against an eyesocket. His blonde curls gesture to many different directions, which would be more of a worry if he didn't let them do that day to day anyway.

"Logan! Good morning," Laura greets upon his interruption of her city-gazing, twisting around to look at him. Her voice is far too bright and cheerful for the hour; she's either a morning person or she's been awake a while. Possibly (probably?) both. The young woman's lips curve in a grin. "That would be rude and unkind," she continues. "I made coffee!" A vague wave towards the kitchen. "It should be just about done. Help yourself." Not that he needed her permission for that — he's the one with permission to even be here.

Meanwhile, Laura gets up long enough to twist her chair around the other way, the better to sit on it backwards and face the interior of the apartment. Behind her, amber light drips down the sides of still-taller buildings, creeping ever closer to the level that is the apex of Dorchester Towers. "How did you sleep?" she asks as she folds her arms across the chair back, chin propped on her hands. "Hopefully well — decked out as this place is, it'd be a pity to not."

I couldn't do it, she made me coffee. Yeah, Kain will dig that, for sure. Deeming the territory safe to enter, Logan walks on into the luxuriously expansive space, shrugging bared shoulders as he turns his attention for the wide open windows — the soft skin around his eyes crinkle subtlely in the face of morning light, but for all that his skin tone has an unhealthy pallid cast, he doesn't immediately start turning into ash.

Or sparkle. "I had a feeling he was talking about you, when he said to be on the look out. And I slept wonderfully — not a dream in sight." Closer up, Logan has flaws. Like, other ones. The white scars at his stomach are without rhyme or rhythm, old if not faded. It's one of the reasons that he moves for where a waist-length bathrobe is draped along the arm of some miscellaneous piece of furniture, matching sleep trousers with a red Chinese dragon stitched in pattern-form up the back and along the hems.

He's busy tying it, back turned to her. "To what do I owe the honour? Or however that goes."

Laura beams. No, really. The imp considers it fun to be reckoned a hazard worth looking out for. "Did he say that? Maybe the rat isn't completely dense after all." Unlike Kain, it isn't Laura's normal style to use insulting epithets — that would be about the third piece of evidence in this little case. The smile fades, replaced by a crinkling of her nose. "Just mostly." The woman doesn't reply to Logan's question quite immediately, pursing her lips in thought, toe of one shoe tapping erratically against the floor. "I think… I'm particularly fond of the phrase object lesson," Laura muses.

Then her trademark mischievous smile returns full-force. "Wanna help?"

As if going through the motions, Logan's next journey is fooor the coffee maker. Swish goes black satin and sleepy eyes blink with all the caution of a cartoon doe, and he wanders past the black marble kitchen island to go secure himself a cup of porcelain and grip it hopefully as the coffee drives those who are not morning people mad with waiting. He does, however, look at her now, one shaped eyebrow rising up — this is enough to communicate that she, if nothing else, has his attention.

"You might need to fill me in on the story, love," he says. "I thought Zarek was using hyperbole, you know? He was handing me the keys to 'is penthouse, you don't question about whether he's kidding when he says a tiny blonde woman might come snooping."

A considering beat, and then; "That wasn't a 'no'. By the way."

Snooping? Snooping. Laura snorts disdainfully. Standing again, she pivots the chair around right-way, the better to sit back down facing Logan, stretch out her legs, and cross them at the ankles. Tipping her head to one side, she considers John Logan, his cup of coffee, and the offered assurance of that wasn't a no. On the other hand, she hasn't told him anything yet that would give the game away — and the 'story' won't do that either.

"Well. You know Kain," she begins. "His usual self, that's not worth the effort. Insulting my professionalism, though— " Laura gives Logan a pointed look: you keep this in mind, too. "That doesn't get to pass. Couldn't care less if he doesn't respect me; don't need him to," the woman comments with a dismissive wave. "My job? 'Nother story." Sidelong glance at Logan. "Especially in public," she adds, almost an afterthought.

Call it ego, call it pride, or just call it the line in the sand. Any road, Kain crossed it.

Lines in that sand are delightfully arbitrary, as well — an added benefit. During her explanation, coffee is arranged, mixed together in the usual alchemy of milk and bitter black into something drinkable, and so by the time she's included her after that, Logan has a crescent slice of a smile to hide as he lifts his drink to sip. "You've cameras in every corner of my little circus in Brooklyn, I wouldn't dream of it," he assures, with silken sincerity because there is no other kind, with him.

He studies the wee woman, perched on her seat, for several seconds, then tilts his head.

"Whatever it was he said, it isn't like Zarek doesn't have it coming. What do you need?" Green eyes shine behind a wink — again, sincerity, if the shiny and possibly manufactured kind. It's not his fault.

The little imp beams again, momentary triumph quickly segueing into pure mischievous glee. Co-conspirators are also fun. "I do!" she acknowledges of the cameras — but in truth, Laura basically doesn't notice that subject at all. She bounces out of the chair with deplorably excessive energy, scooping up her purse along the way and bringing it over to the kitchen island. How she doesn't crash into the thing is a mystery. "Another pair of hands! Lemme show you what I've got."

The purse is plopped down on the black marble countertop, glass clinking faintly inside. "I ordered these special." Won't Kain be proud? (…Probably not.) Unzipping it, Laura begins to extract a series of what obviously were once intended as large nail polish bottles — but these versions are clear, labelless, and if their cap-mounted brushes ever touched that colorful resinous gunk (unlikely), they have since been thoroughly cleaned. Each has one or two letters written on it in black marker, cryptic identification of its contents… all of which are perfectly identical colorless liquids.

Laura considers the set of six bottles. "And maybe a little advice: I'm not decided which, or which combination to use. Or maybe to use all of them. We have… banana orange, peaches, lavender, violets, blackberry vanilla — and I think my personal favorite," she concludes, grinning broadly, "which reminds me of fruit-flavored bubble gum. Catch is…" She unscrews the top of one (the one she termed lavender) and holds the bottle out towards Logan. "You can't smell a thing until it reaches a certain temperature.

"If I figured it right?" Wicked, impish grin. "He won't even notice it in his clothes until he gets to work. And then everyone else will, too.

Logan opens his mouth around when she's picking out the nail polish vials. I'm not that kind of homo, he might say, except potentially in better words, but the few off-details — the clear nature of the fluid inside, the black marker notations and general clandestine nature — has him shutting up and listening, leaning to fold his long limbs against marble edge. The look he's casting up to her would probably be offputting if Laura wasn't unstoppable in her own right — a narrow kind of study as if discerning whether someone is dense.

However, that's just kind of how he looks when he's paying attention, and soon enough, that sharp, pale gaze glances down to the offered vial, obligingly putting out a hand to take it and catch the scent of summery flowers. A crooked kind of smile finally tugs at the corners of his mouth.

This is definitely not the kind of revenge Logan is recruited for. But fuck if it isn't different.

"Officially speaking," he says, setting down the lavender with a clink, "I have nothing to do with this. This is all too sneaky for me to want to provoke reciprocation. Unofficially…" He taps the top of the lavender vial. "That reminds me of my mother's closet."

Pale brows arch, Laura pursing her lips in a moment's thought. She looks right back at Logan, not quite successfully masking her bubbly energy. "Officially speaking?" she echoes, deliberately using his own phrasing. The young woman lifts her chin, dramatically presses a hand against her collarbones. "I was never here," she proclaims. "At least that you know. So how could you be involved?"

And unofficially? This is all about the unofficial. "I added it mostly because lavender is the smelliest thing on earth. And because Kain doesn't do anything girlishly floral," Laura adds truthfully, as she scoops up the 'bubble gum'-themed vial and moves around the island to the side beyond which Kain's wardrobe lies. Looking between it and the one in Logan's hand, Laura nods decisively. "Lavender bubble gum should serve quite nicely, I think."

Picking up his coffee and taking a deep draw from it, near searing his tongue to do so but such are the sacrifices we make, Logan's other hand tosses the lavender vial up once, catches it smartly with long, faintly scarred fingers clutching it tight. "Pity about the clothes themselves," he says, though doesn't expect for the woman to share in this faint moment of mourning, but it's an echo at best. They aren't his clothes. Which, actually, now that he thinks about it for a second—

In the war of the best dressed, there is nada wrong with a little sabotage. "Will you feel bad if he turns out to be allergic to… what this stuff is?" is curious inquiry as Logan then moves to follow, bare soles padding not quite soundless over hard wood floors, bony heels making solid thumbs on each descent.

Laura glances over at Logan, shrugs; she's not one to care about the clothes. "It's perfume, shouldn't do anything to the clothes. At least, not for the few drops we'll need." Her shoes are a little noisier than his bare feet — she isn't trying to be sneaky. Doesn't need to be, with the lookout won over as a convert. And — feel bad? The pale-haired woman snorts. "Not in the least." Pushing open the door to Kain's bedroom, Laura nods towards the interior.

"You want to start with the dresser or the closet?"

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