2008-02-05: Working Class Guiltless


Jack_icon.gif Logan_icon.gif

Summary: Jack. Logan. Roommates?

Date It Happened: February 5, 2008

Working Class Guiltless

Den of Iniquity

Head hurt. Mouth tastes like asses. Belly feel bad.

Jack rolls over, falls off the couch, and crashes untidily to the floor. The minor collision is accepted with a stoic wince. Obviously, it's not the first time he's woken up with a hangover in someplace that's not his bed. Not his bed… Where the hell is he?

That's right. Drunk. He got very, very drunk at the Den last night. And now he's laying on the floor in his office. Groaning, he staggers to his feet, bolts to the shitter, and throws up.

Ten minutes later, the Irishman is drinking a cup of coffee and trying not to pick at the stitches holding his nose together. The horizontal slice he acquired while fighting Peter is healing slowly, but there's no sign of infection or other unpleasantness.

Laid out on the bar in front of him are two loaded syringes. His last two. Check that, his last one. It's time for a fix.

It's morning on the rougher side of Brooklyn. There's no one around to see, really, when Logan seems to plummet from the sky, landing at a smooth walk right outside the familiar bar, a leather briefcase in hand and hair ruffled from the flight over. Unselfconscious, he continues down the street at an authoritative walk, dressed casually if expensively and above all, warmly.

The door to the Den would swing open at this point, but likely, at this hour, and in Jack's current state, it's locked. Logan huffs out an impatient sigh and raps his knuckles against the surface, uncaring and unknowing that the sharp, audible intrusion cuts through the ritual of shooting up at that very moment, hand moving then to fix his hair a little from his Washington flight. Mostly politicians have to rely on planes.

"Wh… Sonuvabitch." Caught enjoying the first blush of his buzz, Jack is understandably irritated when he has to get up and answer the door. Irritation turns to surprise and then dismay in quick succession when he sees what lies on the other side of the glass. Though he's still wearing the same wrinkled t-shirt and jeans that he passed out in, he spares a moment to smooth his hands down the front of his clohes before he lets Logan in. "Capo," he greets respectfully. "Welcome home."

Christ. Logan doesn't balk at Jack's appearance, gaze coldly evaluating the stitches stapled into the man's face, before meeting his eyes. With a nod in greeting and without a word, he steps passed Jack and into the building heading for the bar so as to place the suitcase onto it, unbuckling it as he goes. "Do you need a better place to stay," he asks, simply.

Jack hurries along behind Logan and sweeps the final syringe off the bar. "I'm fine," he deflects. "Just didn't feel like cleaning up my place." As he speaks, he fiddles with the injector and twirls it between his fingers. A few seconds later, he tucks it away and continues. "Nathan… I'm sorry. I tried to kill him. I promise."

The apology is acknowledged only in a glance, and the fact that he doesn't pursue the topic. Sitting down on a stool by the bar, Logan dips his hand inside the briefcase, hunting through the paperwork and other belongings for something in particular. "He's hard to kill," he says, finally, with a slight shrug of shoulders beneath his heavy woolen coat. "What did he want from you, exactly?"

"He wants to save me. What else?" Jack reluctantly tears his eyes away from Logan's rummaging, produces another coffee cup, and fills it. "Keeps trying to convince me that you have multiple personalities," he says, pushing the mug across the bar. Then he frowns and scrubs a hand ruefully across his stubbly cheeks, careful to avoid bumping his nose in the process. "Bloody pain in my ass, he's been."

Logan gives a quiet snort at the news, and doesn't react otherwise, save for one final raised-eyebrow glance as if to say 'kids, huh?' "Well if he comes round again, you may need to consider my offer," he says, before withdrawing the plastic case that will have become familiar to Jack by now. The kind that holds three doses of the Irishman's favourite mistress. Logan places the down on the bar and slides it across, patting the plastic once before withdrawing. "Speaking of which, I've rented myself an apartment. With things the way they are, it seems like a good idea."

Jack trembles with excitement and reaches across the bar for the case. His long fingers linger on it fondly, stroking it like a lover for a long moment before he tucks it out of sight. "Mm? Apartment? Yeah, that is a good idea," he agrees. "Least conspicuous is longest lived." He pauses, licks his lips consideringly, and then shrugs. "Got an extra bedroom?"

Jack's behaviour isn't missed on Logan - he watches inconspicuously, deftly doing up the buckles of his suitcase once more. The smallest of nods to himself. Good. Nothing's changed. Jack's not a man inclined to bite the hand that feeds him, as long as he's kept alternately hungry and fed, as Logan is quickly finding. "Two bedroom, two bathroom," he confirms. "It's a nice place. If you can stand a little working class guilt than you're welcome to it." Almost a joke! He's capable of such things when he puts his mind to it, to mimic Nathan's dry humour.

A nod and a crooked smile signals Jack's agreement. "Leave me the address. I'll bring a few things over later. You have a good-looking maid I can sleep with, or should I bring one of those, too?" Absently, he scoops up his forgotten coffee cup and takes a sip of dark, fast-cooling goodness. His eyes drift closed in lazy, muzzy pleasure as the mixture of caffeine and morphine flushes through his battered body.

A business card is slipped out of a pocket along with a pen, the address scrawled neatly onto the back of it, the card slid over in much the same manner as the drug case. "Let's try and keep this place off the map as much as we can," Logan says, getting up from his perch on the bar stool. He glances towards where Jack tucked away the injections, and allows his face to show a flicker of concern. "Go easy on that stuff, okay? You don't wanna overdo it or anything." A hand claps on Jack's shoulder.

Jack raises an eyebrow briefly and then nods as he accepts the card. "You got it," he replies, though it's unclear which statement he's replying to. He keeps his eyes lowered and fixed on the bar as Logan stands, only lifting a hand to wave lazily. "I'll see you in a few hours, Capo."

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