2008-01-20: Hour Of Trust


Jack_icon.gif Logan_icon.gif

Summary: Third time's the charm. Logan tests the usefulness of another connection.

Date It Happened: January 20, 2008

Hour of Trust

Den of Iniquity

Late. Soooo late. It's the time of insomniacs, sociopaths, and drug addicts.

Speaking of which, Jack's working late at the Den. In this case, working is French for kneeling on the glass bar with an icepick in hand and a boot knife clenched between his teeth. The icepick is currently being applied to the wooden mantle above said bar. He's about three-quarters of the way through carving out a large heart with an arrow through it. Though it's still rough and he's no woodcarver, he's obviously taken a fair bit of time. If that's not clear from the etching and the wood shavings cluttered around his knees, then the numerous unbandaged nicks and cuts on his fingers should tell a similar tale.

Good things come in threes. Bad things, too.

It will be Logan's third visit tonight, and he's even less certain if this will end in blood too. As he enters the bar, looking around the space as if seeing it for the first time, it takes a little while before his gaze lands on Jack. His hair is ruffled from a quick flight, but otherwise clean shaven, if obviously sleep-deprived. He's dressed in a long black coat, undoubtably expensive and made of thick woolen fabric, with generous pockets - one of which is filled with sawed-off shotgun, which a pocketed hand grips hesitantly. There's a certain sheen to it, a stain of some kind, but the black fabric makes it hard to discern exactly what that is, but to the initiated… it's blood. Quite a lot of it. The sweater he wears beneath it is clean, as are his jeans, the boots on his feet scuffed with age, quiet as he walks closer. Thoughtful.

Finally, the lupara lands with a heavy clatter on the bar as he sets it down on the other end, Logan pulling his coat off to accommodate for the warmer, interior climate.

As Logan enters, Jack glances at him, the blood, and the lupara in quick succession. He stabs his icepick into the mantle and spits the boot knife into his hand with an unceremonious 'PTOOH!'

"Nice shotgun." The compliment is light. Blase, even. "I always buy Italian, too."

A long, heavy moment passes as he sizes up his best friend. "Doesn't look like your blood. What the hell happened, slick?"

The coat is folded in on itself, as if to conceal the staining blood already spotted by Jack, and laid across the bar with a slight toss. "Rough night," Logan says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The shotgun lies where it is, and he tilts his head to it. "It was my father's. Sawed it himself, said it made for better handling when you're out in the woods. Cuts the range, obviously, but it's just as effective at blowing wildlife to hell."

He moves to take a seat at the bar, a foot away from where the weapon rests, and shrugs. "It also makes for easier concealment in urban environments, made mostly famous by the mafia. At least in fiction. Reality, too. It was a murder weapon in the first trial to ever use the word, in fact. Mafia. So ends show and tell. Do I get a drink yet?"

Jack cocks a curious eyebrow and twists his mouth in a half-humorous, half-incredulous smirk. Wordlessly, he pulls a bottle of Midleton 25 Year and two glasses from his private stash under the bar. When whiskey has been poured for both of them, he slides a glass over and tips his head to the side curiously. After a few seconds, he shrugs his broad shoulders and lifts his glass. "Well, you appear none the worse for wear. Glad to see you finally started taking my advice when it comes to personal protection."

After a few swallows of good Irish spirits, he sets he glass down with an audible clinking noise. "So. What brings you here at such an ungodly hour, boy-o?"

Logan gives a mildly wry smile, lifting up his drink in a semi-toast before sliding back a sip, just a small one. Its set back down gently onto the bar, his arms folding. "I can't sleep," he says. "And I didn't think you could either." He gives a glance, now, to the unfinished heart carved into the wood, mostly just studying it for a moment with vague curiousity before dismissing it entirely. "It's been an enlightening week, to say the least."

"Aye," Jack agrees neutrally, both on the subjects of insomnia and enlightenment. He heaves in a deep breath, sighs it out, and continues with obvious reluctance. "I thought the DT would be over by now, but I still spend every idle minute thinking about drugs. Not the morphine and shit, but whatever I got hooked on to start with."

He scrubs a long-fingered hand over his face and through his short hair. There's a minute shrug and tip of his head followed by a small, crooked smile. "Ahh, well. At least I've got company. Bloody good to have you back, man."

"Well it's like they say about alcoholism," Logan says, cutting an unsympathetic look up and down Jack - although it's not as though their friendship is built on the foundations of compassion anyway, "you're never not an alcoholic. You're just having a good when you can fake it. Or several good days, in a row, but happy accidents all the same. It doesn't leave. It's good to be back, thank you." Another sip, a finishing one, handling the burn of alcohol like a pro and setting the glass aside, a brisk shake of his head to indicate: no more. "Peter is missing, again, saving the world I guess. Heidi is in hospital. I'm less than 24 hours away from becoming Senator properly. It's so late it's early. Kind of a good hour to figure out where your friendships and allies lie, don't you think?"

The concern written across Jack's face grows clearer and clearer as Nathan goes on. He doesn't waste time on silly questions, though. Obviously, nobody's dead. He would've said so already. Hospitals are for fixing people and Peter can take care of himself, so he skirts both topics and heads directly for a meatier matter.

"You know I've always got your back," he states directly. "Fratelli in armi. If there's anything I can do for you, let me know."

"I hope so," Logan says, with a flicker of a smile. "Thanks. I think things are going to become interesting. There's a councilwoman named Rianna Rockford-Johannsen, she was instrumental in getting me my election. A telepath." This is said in quiet tones, despite the emptiness of the bar - it's an implication, that things should stay quiet. "Reasonably powerful - money, resources, voodoo. I think she's having second thoughts about a few things."

"Hah!" Jack chortles merrily. "I find that explosives or incriminating photos are an excellent way to provoke unswerving loyalty. Sure, you could take away something they love… But isn't blowing it up so much more dramatic?" With a wink and a grin, he scoops his glass up and empties it in one fell swoop. "If only, right? You're too soft for bombs."

"Incriminating photos are more my typical style," Logan says, with a mild smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I guess what it comes down to is how important is a telepath to me? She got me this far, to a degree, she has her contacts. She could get me on the senate committee for HomeSec, potentially. Or would it be easier if, say, her car were to hit the sky in a fireball at a convenient moment and I make my own luck? At least she'll know then I don't respond well to threats."

Jack folds his arms over his chest and narrows his mouth to a thin, unpleasant line. "I'd vote for the latter. You know that. No offense, but you politicians never really get subtle hints." He leans back against a stool lazily. Despite his posture, his lean body is tense and aware. The prospect of some creative persuasion would normally appeal to him; with his addiction gnawing at his mind, the distraction will be doubly welcome. "Want me to set it up? I've got some limpet mines that ought to do the trick."

"We'll see," Logan says, with a nod. Not outright dismissing such a notion by any means, fingers fidgeting with the emptied glass, turning it against the bar. "She could still be useful. I'm meeting with her reasonably soon, I just wanted to know if you were on board should she need some curbing of a more final kind. Some people are just too dangerous to keep around, you know?" His eyes glint a little in the light, showing a spark of life for once.

"Too true," Jack replies easily, showing none of the squeamishness normally attached to murder most foul. "The final solution is usually the simplest. Anyway, you're the smart one. You point, I punch." He shrugs again and digs a pill bottle from the pocket of his jeans. The white tablets he shakes out are branded with the word 'VICODIN.' Four go down, swallowed dry, before he returns the bottle to it's resting place.

Logan watches, with almost catlike attention, the swift movement of Jack tossing back the pills, gaze flickering over his face at the barest hint of a smile, but it vanishes by the time Jack has completed his task. "That sounds like a working arrangement," Logan says, pushing himself up to stand and reaching for the shotgun, which comes to rest against his shoulder casually, long fingers spidering around the trigger guard, wedding ring glinting in the light. "There are times when I can't afford to get my hands dirty." There's a smear of blood only just visible in the light, winding up across his jaw, just out of range from where someone might wash their face.

Jack bobs an agreeable nod. "That's true," he seconds. "You're supposed to be our better, brighter hope for the future. Wouldn't do for you to sully your name."

As if he hadn't just downed a fistful of prescription painkillers, he pours himself another three fingers' of whiskey and takes a liberal gulp. "You sure you don't want to tell me what you've been into that necessitates a shotgun? Maybe I can help."

"Oh, no. No need," Logan says, with an ambiguous smile to follow, and the weapon is slipped back into the depths of his coat, which in turn is slid back on with its generous spread of blood stain. A glance towards the drink in Jack's hand, back to his face, then he lifts his chin in a gesture of departure. "Have a good evening, Jack. I'll be in touch." And with that, he pivots on the heel of his boot, and makes for out.

"See you," Jack replies easily as he settles more comfortably on his stool. As far as he's concerned, the night/day has just begun.

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