2008-01-26: The Dragon's Hoard


Jack_icon.gif Logan_icon.gif

Summary: Jack visits his benefactor after the dust has settled.

Date It Happened: January 26th, 2008

The Dragon's Hoard

Jack and Trina's apartment.

"I love you.." Jack whispers as he strokes Trina's hair. His touch is very gentle so he won't wake her from her nap. Then he lays a chloroform rag over her nose and mouth for several seconds, making it a moot point. "…but I have to go. I'll be back before you wake up. Promise."

Because right now he needs to find his benefactor, and Nathan Petrelli's hospital room is only a short drive away.


It's heading into the late afternoon, and Logan could be doing better, all things considered. He's alone in his private room, leaning back against the large, accommodating hospital bed that's been tilted up for now. No family has visited, which is surely unusual for such a devoted little clan, but then again, his wife is mere rooms away. And no, he doesn't want to see her.

Almost all the bruises and breaks are hidden by clothes and hair - the ones dealt by Peter, anyway. There are a few fresh ones - one knuckle is split and already stitched closed, and there seem to be claw marks on his arms, on his face. Perhaps that explains the medical, padded cuffs around his wrists, arms relaxed but kept in place and away from himself.

He doesn't immediately look up when the door opens to admit his one visitor, observing the window and the faint reflection he can see ghosting in the glass.

Jack is looking more haggard than usual when he arrives, partly due to the fight with Peter, and partly due to his terrible, agonizing withdrawl symptoms. More than one hospital employee mistakes him for a patient on the way to Logan's room. He's changed into dark slacks, a long-sleeved shirt, and a long coat. Again, for two reasons. The ensemble is just as good for concealing weapons as it is for concealing injuries.

When he steps inside, he winces at the sight of Logan's condition and cuffs. He quickly crosses the room, pours a glass of water, and holds it up so his friend can drink. "Jesus," he mutters under his breath. "That son of a bitch really did a number on you. What's with the restraints?"

Logan hesitates, tensing visibly when Jack approaches, before forcing himself to relax. As water is poured into the glass, he takes that moment to study the man he's roped into being his friend, the signs of withdrawal noted, amongst other things. More hesitating before shifting enough to allow himself a sip of water, he settles back against the bed once he's done, a faint twitch of his brow indicating the twinge of pain he feels at the movement. Jack's question has him glancing down to said restraints, fingers stretching a little. When in doubt, blame— "Peter did something. I've only come to, recently, I haven't been acting quite myself. The doctors say I attacked one of the nurses."

"Bastard," Jack growls, all too willing to blame Peter as well. He sets the glass aside and reaches down to loosen the restraints a bit. There's concern etched across his brow and in rough, semi-circular creases around his mouth. Of all the friends he's made, this is the only trustworthy one left. All the rest have turned on him. Even Trina.

"It's not your fault," he continues more reassuringly. "You've been through a lot in the last few days. You'll feel better once they release you."

"They want to keep me overnight," Logan says, glancing down towards the cuffs, testing them with the subtlest of movements. That'll do. His voice is strained, but he's starting— starting— to relax. Jack isn't here to ask him unnecessarily difficult questions and Peter has left him alone. Now all he has to deal with is a potentially bad back and cracked ribs. "I've been telling them I can't remember what's happened— let them spin it whatever way they want, it'll be better than what really happened. Maybe I got hit by a truck." A mirthless chuckle. "In the middle of Central Park. That's where they found me."

Jack nods approvingly. "Or you could say you got mugged. People love to believe that their heroes are vulnerable to the same mundane dangers that they are." As he speaks, he slowly pulls a small holdout pistol from one of his coat pockets and pantomimes sliding it under the blankets near Logan's hand with an inquiring look on his face. After all, he's given the injured man enough slack to twist his wrists.

"Speaking of which," he continues over his discreet palming. "The prick took me home to Trina. She wasn't thrilled. Flushed my stash. I don't suppose you could… ?"

Logan's gaze instantly tracks down towards the gun, a look of gratitude that's almost genuine flicking across his features. He nods once, permitting, shifting his hand enough so that he can lay his palm on the cold metal of the pistol. The feeling of helplessness drains away a fraction, although when Jack asks his leading question, the glance Logan gives him is almost disarmingly cold. "It's not exactly can easy thing to get a hold of, Jack," he says, tone chastising.

In a totally uncharacteristic move, Jack bows his head and accepts the rebuke openly. "I know," he replies, almost whining. "Trina and Peter were both there. I tried, but there wasn't anything I could do."

He pulls in a deep, shuddering breath and chews at his lower lip nervously. When he finally looks up at Logan again, the depth of his need and dependence is gracelessly exposed. "Please," he begs hoarsely. "I'm sorry."

Logan listens to the explanation without reaction save for a studious, narrowed eyed look. Judgmental, almost parental in some respects, despite the fact he has absolutely no right to be. He breathes out a sigh through his nose, a sign of displeasure, before looking thoughtful and shifting where he lies back against the tilted bed. "I'm sorry too. You'll have to wait until I'm released." No explanation, no nothing - just faint distrust as he decidedly doesn't make eye contact. "What did Peter tell you, after he brought you to Trina?" Look, diversion.

Jack's disappointment is tangible. He hangs his head again and clutches at his torso, desperately attempting to comfort himself and still a bout of shivering. Logan's question cuts off his protest and turns it to a muted, strangled groan. "He didn't say anything useful," he reports. "Just a bunch of bullshit about not having done anything wrong. He really thinks you've lost it, and Trina is siding with him. I drugged her and left her at home. She'll be out until tomorrow morning, probably."

The news of Trina being drugged doesn't startle Logan - brave new world, and all that. You do what you have to, like shooting your brother through the head or drugging your girlfriend. He nods a little in some approval, even. "That sounds like Peter," he says, with a brotherly sigh. "He never does thing he's in the wrong unless he desires attention. Some people never grow up." The words are mostly useless, filling the silence as he sweeps his gaze over Jack, noting the obvious anxiety over not getting his fix immediately. "Next time, he's afforded no second chances."

"Agreed," Jack mutters angrily. He's already passed up one chance to off the troublesome Petrelli. He doesn't plan to make the same mistake twice. "Nathan…" he continues, his voice dropping back down to a plaintive whine. "I've done everything you asked." Sunken, haunted grey eyes are turned on his benefactor. "Please, just a few drops. It hurts.

He knew it was coming. Addicts are all the same. Logan raises his hand off the hidden pistol, out from under the thin hospital sheets and reaching just enough to let his fingertips brush against Jack's arm. "Jack," he says, easing up on the disappointment, appealing to him. "How am I supposed to get you anything while I'm cuffed to a hospital bed?

Jack has an answer prepared. "You could tell me where it is, and I could get it," he suggests excitedly. Plucking, grasping fingers reach for the sleeve of Logan's hospital gown. "And then I'll kill him for you. Promise, I will. Whatever you want." Long past trying to mask his desperation, he imagines Logan's private stash as the motherload of all fixes. He stares down at the restrained man with unabashed avarice.

Logan glances away uncomfortably as Jack clutches his sleeve, as if there were anyone in the private room to see, which of course, there are none. "It's not quite that simple," he says. "You know you're hooked and there's nothing wrong in that, but I can't quite hand you everything on a silver platter, now can I." His tone is sharp, making no efforts to pussyfoot around the reasoning of keeping back the dragon's hoard from his ally's grasping hands.

"Fine," Jack answers with an impatient wave. "What about someone else? You've got to have some lackey who could pick it up and bring it here. Something." Quickly, he seizes on the idea and continues hurriedly. "That'd be perfect. Then I could stay here and make sure you're safe until they let you go home."

Disapproval is obvious, Logan near bristling as Jack presses upon his point— but honestly, it's all for show. The ambivalent glance away to study the stitches on his hand and the twitch of a frown, all an act to mask the absolute pleasure at the realisation he truly does have this man in the palm of his hand. It's enough to make the day a little brighter. "Fine," he finally says, word clipped, looking back at Jack. "Get me a phone and I'll put in a call. Don't disappoint me again." Hard to say what he's referring to, if anything at all. It doesn't even matter, when he's in this position.

Jack breaks into a wide, relieved smile as he pulls a cellular phone from his pocket. Not his personal line, but a new disposable Tracfone. "Thank you," he murmurs, his gratitude obvious and genuine. "I'll do better next time. I will. Promise." His relief is such that he babbles and runs on. "Do you need me to dial? I can hold the phone for you while you talk, if you want. Whatever you need."

Logan flicks a glance towards the door, then nods once. "Just undo one while I talk," he says, indicating his right arm with a slight jerk at the cuff, fingernail marks bright red and somewhat ragged against olive skin. "Then wait out in the hallway, please." The way he hands out instructions, the hospital bed could well be a throne.

"Okay." As requested, Jack unbuckles one of the cuffs and gently pulls Logan's arm free. The Tracfone is pressed into his palm reverently, like a rare gem or a powerful talisman. Then, abruptly, he stands and leaves the room as ordered. From the stiffness of his posture, it's not difficult to tell that he isn't pleased. However, he is obeying.

It's unfortunate, but, in Logan's book, necessary. He can blame himself for not especially separating out a new batch of vials for Jack from his stash ahead of time, but then, well— the series of events that lead him to be here weren't entirely expected. And the circumstance that lead to him deliberately being kept in hospital on the off-chance Nathan should attempt to escape during a drug haze. Another necessary evil, but at least the nurse with a broken nose isn't going to press charges. Logan flips open the phone and deftly dials a number - straight through to his office, and after a moment of thinking, he requests a conversation with a "lackey" he thinks he might trust. George Dawson. This will be a most unusual errand indeed.

Meanwhile, Jack paces to and fro in the hallway just outside the door. To and fro. To and fro. At one point he's approached by one of the nurses, but he cuts off her polite inquiries and sends her on the way with a snarling, curled upper lip. With his fists jammed in his coat pockets, his body full of track marks, and every betrayal he could devise for the rest of his friends either done or planned, all he can do is wait. For Nathan. For Logan.

For relief.

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