2008-02-10: Too Little, Too Late


Logan_icon.gif Nathan_icon.gif

Summary: It's partner found, it's partner lost, and it's hell to pay when the fiddler stops: it's closing time.

Date It Happened: February 10th, 2008

Too Little, Too Late

Logan's Apartment

For the first time, Logan fixes himself a drink. Chilled glass from the little mini-bar in the main room, a few fingers of bourbon, and bottoms up with shaking hands. He may be a sociopath through and through, but this is the first time he's felt insane - if only because Nathan is driving him to be so.

His wife is dead. He's beyond words. It's attacks, now, vicious and unrelenting, a war over a shared body, and he's made no progress. It's like beating fists bloody against bars, but it still reverberates, it's still a clamour, and it's still disturbing. Alone in the apartment room as the morning sun outside climbs higher, Logan tries to ignore the reflective surfaces that show his enraged better half. "What's the point, Nathan?" he intones gravely. "There's nothing you can do. She's dead. What could you change— "

The delicate glass in his hand suddenly cracks, and breaks, slicing into his palm and spilling droplets of alcohol in a sudden explosion of glass shards. Logan cries out, backing away from nothing in particular, and moving fast for the kitchen to snatch up a dish cloth and wrap around his hand, wincing as smaller slivers of glass move within the shallow wounds.

Words were better. Words were easy to ignore. But this… Logan's made a mistake.

He feels eyes on him, turning to see— well, to see Nathan. Silent anger embodied into one mirage, he wears the nondescript black clothing from his dreaming, hands empty. Logan suppresses the urge to ask him what he wants, but all the same, he can't break his gaze. Slowly, Nathan takes a step back, and starts to move for Logan's bedroom door. Despite the fact it should be locked, he pushes the door open easily, and disappears inside the darkness of the room. With a click, the door shuts again.

This is a nightmare. Uncertainty spikes fear into Logan and he unwraps the dishtowel. Not as bad as he thought, a smattering of cuts litter his palm, and he picks a couple of glass slivers from it. Wiping his hand on the sleeve of his shirt, he makes a decision, and moves towards the door. It still needs unlocking, of course it does, Nathan isn't real, and he fumbles with the keys before moving inside.

The light comes on, and he's alone in the room. And the evidence that he was not the last person to be in here is obvious. Logan makes quick work of searching what's missing. Files, that's to be expected, but worse than that— the stash of drug. His leash on Jack. The case is just gone. Running his hands through his hair, Logan tries to bring his temper back down so he can think clearly. For the first time since Vegas, he can't feel Nathan prowling around, so there is, at least, that.

It's then he sees a note. With a hand that is just mildly shaking, Logan picks it up to read the pencil scrawl, thumb brushing blood against the white paper.

You're not going to win.

No signature. But who else could it be? He knows not anger or fury, but only cold understanding.

A flash of movement, and Logan's head jerks up to view one of the two shattered mirrors within the room. The visage of Nathan within it is disorted if only due to the fact that glass is broken, but he's there, Logan's own personal nightmare all of a sudden. There's a tense silence as two entities regard each other, acknowledge this turn of tables, and suddenly— the glass breaks.

He falls back with a cry of fear, the hallucination too real for its own good, and he draws a breath. When the air in his lungs is let go, it's not for him. It's for Nathan. With a soft sound, almost a grunt of realisation and victory, Nathan stays lying on the carpeting for a good long moment, before slowly, he rolls onto his side, and gets up, Peter's note still clenched in his bloodied hand. His heart starts to thud, hard, with panic and adrenaline.

Did he win?

He turns his gaze towards the cracked mirrors, where Logan pressed his hands against this prison, experimental, radiation ravaged face betraying nothing, unable to express whatever it is he feels. He's still there, which means no, Nathan hasn't won the war, but he's given this, finally. Given this.

Too little, too late. Heidi's dead.

Nathan's legs give from under him, both consciously and not, back hitting the end of the bed, and the note falls forgotten as he brings his hands up to his face. There are many, many things he needs to do right now. Many things to make right in whatever limited time he's claimed for himself.

For now, he chooses to mourn.

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