delia_icon.gif logan_icon.gif

Scene Title Perfect
Synopsis There's so many ways to say thank you, it's just a matter of choosing the right form of expression.
Date February 2, 2011

The Corinthian — Delia's Room

Crown molding, white ceilings and striped wallpaper in shades of eggshell and pale gold all define this small but fashionably decorated hotel room at the Corinthian. Three hundred square feet, including the attached bathroom with claw-foot tub and shower, is not a lot of space in which to move around, but a pair of French doors painted white lead out onto a small balcony with a wrought-iron rail for guests who desire fresh air or the opportunity to enjoy a cigarette.

An armchair is situated in one corner and a small desk in another with a queen-sized bed and ornate headboard positioned against the wall between. Lighting is provided by two gold lamps build into the wall on either side of the bed as well as one that hangs from the ceiling and imitates the wan, comforting glow of candlelight.

Mister Logan? I was wondering if I could see you when you have time.

Sometime earlier the text was sent, not knowing what sort of reply to expect Delia put away the iPad and spent some time trying to figure out what to wear, how to fix her hair, should she wear makeup, the whole bit. To say that she's nervous is something of an understatement, she's more than nervous, even a little frightened. In the end comfort ended up playing second fiddle to style and jeans were traded for sweat pants, blouse for long sleeved tee, styled and coiffed hair for casual loose curls.

When the knock on the door actually happens, the redhead is laying on the bed dozing in front of the television. The jolt awake and subsequent wide eyed stare around the room are the precursor to her sleepy croak of "I'm coming, it'll be just— " there's a pause as she shift across the bed and drags herself to her wheelchair. "Just a minute!"

A solid minute, maybe two, is what it takes before Delia is wrestling with the door to open it and maneuver herself out of its way. Looking up at Mister Logan, she simply stares at him for as long as it takes to remember that breathing is something she needs to do. It's not a mistake to take that first deep breath, he smells just the way he always does, like the most perfect thing ever. At least to Delia. "Mister Logan, h-hi.. come.. come in. I— " She pauses to think of something exciting to be doing when he knocked. "I— was— Come in."

Door wrestling has his hands going up to maybe work it himself while she positions herself accordingly — Logan is by no means a genius at mechanics, but he can do this all by himself, it is okay. Except maybe not, because he hesitates. Or freezes, would be a better description for it once his gaze is dropped down to Delia in her chair, stare darting towards wheels and the general configuration of the apparatus, taken by surprise despite the fact that he, intellectually, already knew.

It resonates. But only for a second, before a smile is switched on and he sidles his way into the room, dressed casually if still expensively. Jeans, a soft, wide-necked sweater left loose over it, all greys and blues. He never did actually text back. He didn't even check his cellphone. These days, he doesn't have to.

He leans down, a hand rested against the back of the chair and the other feather-light on her arm, as he deals her a kiss to the cheek. "Thank you, I shall," he says, on his way back up. "How are you?"

Her cheeks flush the moment Logan leans down and her breath stops again when his lips touch her cheek. Surprised, Delia offers a self conscious smile and looks down at her legs before wheeling backwards toward the bed. "I'm— Getting better," she murmurs. She keeps her head down, the crown of curls on her head pretty much the only thing visible to the Briton. Raising her chin a touch, but keeping her eyes to the floor, she makes her way back to the bed and places her hands on the mattress. "I can speak, that's progress."

It takes a little effort, but soon Delia is pushing herself from the wheelchair to stand up. The mattress is used for balance as she turns a little stiffly to face him with something of a little smile. "Sorry, I didn't call or anything… even though you were close. I didn't want you to see me like— " She falls silent again and sits down on the mattress with a sigh. "Then— " Halting, she gestures to the other side of the bed, inviting him to sit with her. Her thought isn't finished. "How are you?"

Eyes inspect the room, while a sixth sense sweeps invisible feelers about until detecting the bristlingly informative computer that is iPad set aside. It turns his head, familiar thoughts and configurations pressing against his usual filters, pupils briefly blowing wider in his eyes as he casually conducts some amount of privacy invasion in the time it takes to think. "Can't complain," he states, absently.

What— ?

What is this. Being someone who prides himself— occasionally wrongfully— for being on. to. it with sussing out the various connections of New York City, it's a shock to find certain numbers and names at the redhead's fingertips.

It doesn't show on his face, beyond distraction in his eyes that refocus and sharpen on her standing form, allowing for the half-smile at her recovery. And her dressed upness, beyond what the laid up tend to wear. A knee creates a dip in the mattress as Logan levers himself to sit. "Certainly better off than you've been, I hear," he says, his tone becoming rich, focusing a little better on being— himself. Or at least, Mister Logan, King of All.

Which is perhaps the most embarrassing part of all of it for the redhead in question. Mister Logan knows exactly what she thinks of him and for a young woman who tries not to let that sort of distraction get the better of her, he could probably play her like a fiddle. "Yeah," Delia admits quietly, "I imagine you would be. I mean, you're— " perfect?

An expression of genuine confusion writes itself across her features as she cants her head to catch his eye. "Mister Logan, can I ask— I'm just." Difficulty with coming up with the exact right words to say that won't drive him to anger or away is a concern. "I don't feel comfortable, I feel like I'm taking advantage of you with…" Her blue eyes dart around the room before she finishes, indicating their surroundings. "… all of this. I don't have the money to pay for it and this is— It's so generous." She's already looked up the cost of each of her nights here (it's in her browser history).

"I'm sorry that my dad asked you to do this," reaching over, she wraps her thin fingers around one of his hands and squeezes lightly. She doesn't let go right away, instead she stares down at her hands as a spot of color makes an appearance across her cheeks again. "I don't even know how I'm going to pay you back but I'll figure something out. I promise."

He studies her all the while through cautious negotiation of words — he doesn't read the subtleties very well, but he can see the struggle, and is either patiently quiet or too intent in his stare to put anyone at ease. Hand twitching beneath her's, not anticipating the touch, Logan lets the backs of his fingers conform against the curve of her hand, marvelling a little at the deadened quality skin contact has taken since his powerswitch. "Oh, money? Don't worry about money. It's just numbers, moving around. You can rest assured your stay is taken care of, no skin off my nose.

"Besides, your dad's agreed to a favour in the future, one I'll cash in when I need it most. You're just supposed to rest up and get well and all that." His stare flicks towards the chair, then back to her, a subtle head tilt. It would be kind to maybe relate to her sympathy, but this much doesn't occur to him faster than self-preservation stills his tongue.

His hand flips over, the pad of his thumb against her palm. "And anyway, you gave me sweet dreams, I believe."

But my dad is old, he could be dead before you ever need a favor is the thought running through Delia's brain, she doesn't see him as the middle aged man he miraculously turned into. He's nearing sixty, not forty. All of those concerns go unsaid, instead she closes her eyes and grimaces in embarrassment at the reminder of the pedestal she has Logan placed on. "I— uhm… You helped me remember," she murmurs, running the fingers of her free hand just over her ear to tuck some of the more unruly curls away. Almost as punctuation to her point, she takes a deep breath and finally opens her eyes again.

"There's a million things I wanted to ask you," the smile that's offered fades away just slightly when uncertainty sets in. "After I woke up, I was staying with my brother. I had rules and— well now I'm your guest. I don't know what I can and can't do, things like that. I mean, I know you don't live here but this is your room."

The smokey chuckle that follows is only a little irritated, more defined in the way his hand stills, relaxed beneath her's than anything in his expression — he'd rather she not read it. "This, the girl who asked me to play football with her on a random Saturday morning?" Logan asks, cynically. "Get away." His tone makes that non-literal — he's not asking a wheelchair-bound young woman to move or anything. Vaguely Cockney incredulousness, facetious in its affect. "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies, and where's the fun in that?"

More tooth to his smile, shifting now on the bed to rest his back against here it meets the wall, an elbow jarring into a pillow in recline. "Fuck the hotel, and the money. What is it that you want? You'll— " And he hesitates, before continuing, voice lowly honest; "You'll find I'm very difficult to take advantage of."

Delia's eyebrows twitch a little in confusion and she shakes her head as she searches for the right thing to say. "No, I don't want anything.. Not.. Not like that. I mean, I'm— when I was with Brad— " there's a little bit of worry when she meets his eyes at the name, "— Brian and Rosa stayed with me, because I sometimes need someone around." She falls back against the pillows with a frustrated huff, dragging that hand with her. It's difficult to admit weakness, especially in front of someone deemed completely perfect. "Can I ask a friend to stay with me? Her name is Tasha, I just don't want my sister— " She grimaces and wrinkles her nose a little as the guilt washes over her. "Lu threatened me with endless pedicures and manicures…"

Finally, his hand is let loose as Delia brings both of hers up to play with a few long curls of red hair. Giving Logan a nervous smile, she lefts one shoulder in a shrug and lets it drop. "When I can run again, I'm going to practice for our next game. Maybe I'll get a goal." Her expression falls as her eyes find the wheelchair and her eyebrows knit together again. "I hate being awake," she whispers in a small admission of her own. "I hate needing so much and not being able to give anything back."

Bradley~. Logan's mouth twitches a little, now that he knows fer sher that they are referencing the same Brad, before he glances after her as she lies back, neck long, posture loose. "Tasha? I don't see why not. Long as your dad don't mind, I suppose, you should be able to invite friends. Brad included. He's no one I should be very jealous of, now is he?" That would be a lark — and not that Logan is much more to Delia than a fairy godfather, or anything, flirting remaining strangely distanced, signaled easily as just kidding.

He sits up a little more, shoulder blades shifting beneath thin layer of soft wool as he stretches some. A hand roams around for cigarette case, the item taken from back pocket and fidgeted with instead of opened. The notion of dreams and what are they good for is more thought upon than spoken about.

"See— That's the thing, it shouldn't be up to my dad. And no, Brad's— " Blue eyes shift to meet his pale ones again and then drop immediately to the cigarette case. "He's my brother." There's a small twitch of her lips before she presses them together and looks up at Logan's face, studying his features. "That wasn't you, right? I told Nicole that it wasn't you, it was someone else. You couldn't do anything like that, you're too— " She takes another deep breath in through her nose and lets it loose in a shaky breath. "You're too nice and perfect."

The King of All, chatting with her on her bed. His scent is likely rubbing off on the pillow he's leaning against, something that will come as a surprise later on. Much too nice and perfect, an uneasy smile and a deeper blush strike her features like a hard slap. Her blue eyes are only made brighter by the rose colored cheeks against the pale of her skin.

Though it shouldn't, surprise manages to reflect back at her — just a little, almost like modesty, only it isn't really. She said it, is all. Logan lies in his recline still for a few moments, silent and thoughtful, with a glance dancing down the length of her on the bed. It occurs to him that she posed him a question, even if she offered the answer. The bed squeaks a little as he shifts, managing in one motion to close an a hand on her arm, above the elbow, as well as press his mouth to her's in a kiss that—

Is invasive in its own abrupt way, but shallow and simple, easily escapable save for where he holds onto her arm, his own braced beneath him. There is nothing he can do to encourage her, his power stolen from him, but then again, maybe he wouldn't have anyway, calculation in his eyes before he'd closed them.

She doesn't even try to get away. Delia's cheeks turn hot and she stiffens for a split second before her eyelids flutter shut and she practically melts into the kiss. Swimming around inside of her head is a choir of angels singing hallelujah as she kisses the combination of Johnny Depp, Hugh Jackman, and Brad Pitt all rolled into one. After the moment of mind singing, her hand comes up to brush at Logan's cheek and slip into his hair.

The redhead breathes a soft sigh through her nose and might sink further into the pillows if it weren't for the hold on her arm somewhat supporting her. For a moment, she actually deepens the kiss before pulling back just enough to keep his nose touching hers at the side. Delia opens her eyes to a sliver before whispering against his lips, "Nothing this good ever happens in my dreams."

Female fingers in his hair has him offering some measure of approval, a sound at the back of his throat, as he allows the kiss to last as long as she permits. The hand at her arm gentles a fraction, thumb stroking in easy sweeps as Logan feels more than really hears her words, and she can feel without seeing the smile they evoke. That it's a slightly crooked smile is knowledge alone. "Oh, I'm sure you've come close," is muttered back, by the time his chin is lifting to nose cattish at her temple.

Thinking. "I did attack Mister Russo," he says, the words warm in her hair with blithe ignorance as to singing angels (or not), while his hand lets go of her arm and rests on her waist. He studies the wall over the halo of red curls. "Here, actually, in the lobby. It was very romantic. I've been told."

Her frame is thinner than the last time his hand touched down on it during a game of football, due to her condition. Delia's breath catches momentarily in her throat and the hand down on her waist can feel her heartbeat speed up just a little in surprise. "No— " she whispers in protest, still disbelieving even though it's straight from the source. "Why? Did he do something? He— Why?" And yet she doesn't pull away.

Starved for attention of the physical kind, she tilts her head only enough to see Logan's face. Her eyebrows twitch together, giving her a worried countenance. Delia should recoil for so many reasons, the pang of guilt that courses through her is more than she's felt in quite a long time. But that scent keeps her there, like a drug. Her hand travels down over his ear and to his shoulder, then to feel the soft wool over his chest and pauses there. "I don't understand.."

"It was about a girl. But it don't matter anymore, for as long as he isn't pressing charges." Logan leans back enough to look at her properly, dragging a red lock of hair behind the shell of her ear before that hand flattens warm over her's against his chest. A thumb bearing a silver ring suck low below a knuckle skims over the back of her hand as he studies her face with eyes that should by right be glowing brilliant, but aren't. "Sometimes that's just me, though. Do you want me to go?" he asks, tone low and words softly delivered, an honest question.

Delia's eyes drop from Logan's face to stare at his hand over hers as she considers the question. It takes a while before there's a hesitant shake of her head, no. "If Brad was going to, he would have done it already. I think— " Her eyelids slip downward to half cover her eyes as she takes another deep breath. When she lets it loose, it's in a long sigh. Her pursed lips turn down at the corners just a little as she ponders exact what she thinks. "I know I don't want you to go… You wouldn't do it again, would you?"

Her eyebrows tweak up at the inner edges as she chances a glance into his pale eyes. "I don't want Brad to be mad at me but I don't know if I'll ever see him again. At least for a long time." The redhead clenches her jaw tightly and nestles her head back into the pillow as she stares up at him. "You already know what I think about you. You saw it all."

"Yes," Logan admits, a twitch of a smile dimpling genuine at the corner of his mouth. He can't answer would he do it again. Probably not. At least not to Brad. But if he wanted to dismiss it entirely— or make it otherwise easy for anyone— he probably wouldn't have mentioned it. Twitching his head to tilt, he brings up a hand to run a fingertip down the slope of her jaw, before moving again with the intent to capture another kiss.

This time, eager. This time, slightly more forceful with the waters tested, more demand for her to respond rather than polite requested as his hand comes down to brace himself against the other side of the bed over her. No more talk about Brad. Especially not in bed.

A small whimper of protest escapes at the force of the kiss, though in mixed signal, Delia's trembling hand reaches back up to grip at his shoulder while the other find its way into Logan's hair. Her thin fingers ruffle through the short curls at the back of his head as her eyelids sink all the way down in bliss.

Her response is enthusiastic in delivery, her mind reeling to the point of dizziness. The rapid shallow breaths are quick to turn ragged with each trembling intake. The hand on his shoulder tugs, not at the sweater but at the man himself in a weak attempt to draw him closer. She deepens the kiss, ravenous to bathe in that scent that makes him so appealing to her.

Logan goes where she urges, going gentle enough, mind, not so thoughtless as to forget the shaky way she'd stood just moments prior, the shape of the chair lurking in vague periphery. He favours right leg over left, but still manages to climb over her, arm braced against bed and pillow to allow fingers to hook gently into red curls. It's his other hand that is more constructive and terribly expectant, inching down her ribcage, depleted waistline, settling on hip bone.

And fingers, warm but with only a fraction too much nail grown at the ends, spider beneath the hem of her blouse, suddenly against her belly.

The contact of his fingers against her skin has Delia's eyes flying open and a sharp breath sucked quickly through her nose. The quick turn of her head would find Logan's lips drawing across her cheek and perhaps into her hair as she lets out that breath in a frightened whisper, "No… I— " The hand so recently in his hair is suddenly searching for the one inside of her shirt as she's shaking her head. She's not strong enough to pull his hand away or even push him off of her. The weak attempt could even be considered laughable. "I'm not— I can't.. I'm too ugly."

Her eyes are squinted slightly to keep the tears from welling, to no avail. The blush on her cheeks is a furious red that is just a shade darker at the tips of her ears. "I'm too ugly right now. I don't want you to see me like this, I'm too ugly." There's a tremor in her voice as she speaks, her eyes averted from his face completely to hide her pain and the embarrassment of her own frame.


A fff gets red hair out of his mouth, blinking as Logan lifts his head and pauses — for all that he doesn't remove his hand, he just doesn't drive it upwards. Impatience hisses air out of mouth and nose both, but he bites his tongue against vocalising it, trying to redirect his thoughts. He's not always good at flattery. It's the kind of language where he gets caught out for reading off some internal script, and a measure of insight has him pausing for all that it could well work now. With Delia. His own limitations, his changed power, has him thinking again.

He studies her where she shrinks into the bed beneath him. Hnn. "I got— " He shifts a little, seeking comfort without actually getting off her. "I got scars. 's why I never was much of a football player, a car accident. Right leg's fucked. Isn't pretty." The tip of his nose nudges into her hair, breath warm against the side of her throat, and he kisses against her pulse. "I want to see you like this."

Delia's heart is pounding strong and rapidly, definitely enough to beat firm against Logan's lips. The slackening of her hand against the one inside of her clothing is indication enough of her hesitation and weakening resolve. She closes her eyes tight against every protest inside of her mind. "Nicole is going to kill me if she finds out…" she whispers softly, it could be either another reason to stop or a simple statement of giving in.

There's a slight push to his hand before hers slides up his arm and meets the other as she circles his shoulders in a tight hug. "I'm not pretty— " she says finally, turning her head and opening her eyes to find his. "What if you never come back?" There's a fear that grips her.

"What Nicole don't know don't hurt her." Though given freedom, Logan's hand remains where it rests, brushing up goosepimples with strokes of his thumb as he lifts his head again to watch her with a dull sort of warmth made manifest from physicality over anything else, but it's a difference, at least, to the usual frostiness. Shoulders shifting against the embrace. He tilts his head in an effort to make eye contact, letting the corner of his mouth quirk up in encouraging smile, though halved. What if he never comes back is another thing gone untouched.

His request is simple, an earnest sort of challenge: "Kiss me."

It takes three breaths, each one stronger than the last before: "Okay."

And she lifts her chin to allow her lips to meet his in a soft but passionate kiss. Delia's hands slip from their grip to glide down the soft knit fabric and rest at the small of Logan's back. One remains there while the other shifts and roams back up his front. Her long fingers splay up from his waist to his chest, curving around his shoulder. She trails the backs of her fingertips over his long neck, feeling the strength of his pulse before winding then through his hair at the nape of his neck.

This kiss is no less ravenous, much more insistent than the last. The fact he didn't answer whether he would come back isn't lost on the young woman. What she does know is that if refused, he likely wouldn't.
