Summary:Betty meets The Wolverine. Log Info:Storyteller: N/A |
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It is evening along New York's industrial waterfront. A far cry from the unionized sophistication of the port, this area features a wooden dock shared among shoulder-to-shoulder warehouses and industries. It is the kind of place one can get some blue-collar work for cash. Nothing documented, no questions asked. Usually.
Tonight though was not a lucky day for one of those workers. Logan was wearing a mesh cap pulled low on his head, brown hair winging out from under it slightly. He wore a denim jacket over a plaid shirt, jeans, and work boots. He had been unloading crates with a larger, beefier man, though Logan handled his portion of the load without difficulty.
He had attracted the notice of a couple of cops, who had been sitting in a darkened squad car. Now, they got out, adjusting their belts, and with hands on batons or guns, approached the two workers.
Sometimes, your contacts work low rung on the totem pole of New York. They're important, more so than most, and said contacts are what Betty is in search of tonight. It was almost time to punch the clock, to escape the smells and labor of the docks. To be kind, Brant was making her way to meet said contact half-way, eager to greet him with the promise of a meal and shop-talk. It's the cops, however, that first gain her attention.
Her brows dip, knitting together, as her heeled feet click her over in their direction. She was still a stretch away from the boys in blue and the pair of men working. The feeling of it was already foreboding.
The larger dock worker (for tonight at least) is hispanic. He's attracted more of the notice of the two cops. Even as Betty approaches, the cops are getting handsy. Logan has been left aside for the moment, the two cops pushing the larger man, who is looking wide-eyed. His hands lift, to ward them off.
Betty can hear the cops now, demanding paperwork, asking who's hired him. One demands, "You paid in cash? Turn out your pockets, hombre." A baton is drawn, pushed against the man's chest.
It's hear that Logan intervenes. He lifts a hand to swat the baton away. "Ease off," he growls. The cops refocus on him now. One steps back to draw a taser. The other brandishes his baton, ready to strike.
"9-1-1, what's your emergency?"
"My name is Betty Brant and I'm at the southside docking yard. I'd like to report an assault."
"Assault? Can you explain what's happening?"
"I have two officers harassing workers, threatening them with batons and a taser." Ther Betty stands, talking aloud using the speaker. The phone itself is up, light on, recording the whole ordeal. "Please send someone right away. Their plate number is…" Reading off each number and letter, Betty pauses and repeats herself.
"Thank you, ma'am, we'll send some right away."
"Thank you." The phone call ends and the dirty-blonde remains. "I suggest you boys keep moving and leave them alone. No, no one's going to believe you." She warns, "I'll have your badges by morning, I can promise you that."
Betty wasn't immediately noticed, but a moment of opportune silence allowed her voice to carry to the men. All four paused, as though in tableau. An officer with a raised baton, another with a drawn taser. Logan, standing chin out, narrow-eyed, as though daring the violence, and the large man, seeming uncomfortable and uncertain. Four sets of eyes snapped to Betty.
The officer with the baton scowls toward her. "Missy, you'd better move on. This is a police matter and your obstructing justice," he growls, lowering the baton enough to point it toward her.
"Just put the fuckin' stick away, ain't doin' no good," growls Logan.
"Shut up!" the other officer barks at him. The situation is tense, and the largest man is now backing away in the hubbub.
"No, it's an obstruction of bigotry. I know what you're doing, I heard it already. So did my lil camera here. That man works here. I know his name, who hired him, hell, I know who runs this show down here. He doesn't have to answer to you as he didn't do anything wrong but do his job. You two, perhaps, should try doing yours. Serve and protect, right officers?" Tense as it was, she wasn't moving. Infact, she was pacing closer, making to move herself between Logan, his companion, and the cops.
"More of your buddies will be here soon and I don't think you'll like who's getting cuffed and taken away. Back up and back off."
A bully is a bully is a bully, even if he wears a blue uniform. The officers glare after their bristling, but when Betty continues advancing, they hesitate. A look is exchanged. The cop with the baton points it menacingly at Logan. "We'll see you around, and you're hombre too," he snarls. Then, with a side-nod of his head, he urges his junior partner into motion and they both walk away, glaring at Betty on their way back toward their squad car.
The large hispanic man has left, retreating along the docks and vanishing between two buildings, leaving Logan alone with her. Logan's eyes flit from the cops' backs to Betty. "Don't see that much," he growls, eyes steady and appraising on her.
"Assholes are always around." Betty murmurs gently, a heavy weight of disappointment in her tone. She keeps recording until the car drives away. Turning off the video, she moves her thumbs across her screen to save it and make a copy. Putting the phone away, she frowns and turns toward Logan, her eyes looking out for his friend. "Are you two…ok?" She turns and looks around for a moment moment. "H-hey, sir? Please come back. I'll have to file a report and they could use you." She offers out, her eyes returning to Logan at length.
"Are you alright, sir? They didn't actually hit you, did they?"
"Didn't mean them," Logan offers, reaching into the interior pocked of his jean jacket to produce a half-smoked cigar. He clamps it between his teeth and then fishes a lighter out of his pocket. "Meant you. You don't know us," he observes. His dark eyes move to the alley then back to Betty.
"He's gone," he says matter-of-factly, as though this were known with certainty. "He ain't documented, so he ain't gonna file no report. Me neither." He puffs his cigar to life and looks up then, toward some seemingly unremarkable point - to a sound of sirens well beyond the reach of normal human hearing. "I shouldn't stick around long," he appends. He didn't answer if he was actually hit - he doesn't seem to have any marks on him, though.
"Oh," she stalls, watching after Logan before following the glance toward the shadows. "Doesn't matter, should it? You needed help and, well…everyone should help where they can." Another smile on her ruby lips, the expression starts to fade as she understands the situation. Nibbling her lower lip, she sighs and nods. "I'll make the report then. Most they can do is slap some wrists, honestly. Without you or your friend filing a report, I'm afraid I can't do much on my own." A shrug, "I can tell the truth, offer evidence, that's about it." Reaching up, she brushes back her hair, her body turning toward the outlet of where the cars would be coming from in due time. "If you feel safer leaving, that's ok. I'll deal with the cops."
Logan glances back toward the pile of crate on the dock. He frowns. "Gotta finish the job, but don't wanna be around for the cops," he observes. He takes a puff on his cigar, then turns to spit a fragment of cigar paper toward the water. "I don't finish, neither of us are gonna get hired back here." He runs his tongue along the cutting edge of his teeth, thoughtfully. "Can you get rid of 'em fast?"
Betty Brant eyes the crates and Logan once more. She nods at his request and moves away from his location with a few quick clacks of her feet across wood and pavement. On her phone, and quickly, she rattles off some information and what seems to be a thousand thank-yous. At length, a couple minutes at least, she returns to him and sighs. "Alright, they won't come by here. I promised to visit their precinct tomorrow, so I'll still take care of that. If that's alright, I mean. I don't want you or your friend getting more negative attention."
Considering the load Logan was working with, she eyes them and slips the phone away. "I wish I could help. I feel bad about your co-worker having to dash like that."
Logan just settles on the edge of a crate, casually smoking his cigar. He eavesdrops on the conversation from a distance one likely would not suspect him at, seeming to the world outside like he's just awaiting the verdict from Betty. When she returns, he pushes up to his feet. He puffs on his cigar once more before he flicks it into the water of the East River. With another appraising look, his hard-eyes gaze softens a mote. "You're all right, sweetheart," he tells her. He follows her are toward the crates and then notes, "I can handle 'em myself."
"Thanks," she beams, taking another brush at her hair, trying to keep it out of her face. The docks were good for the push up of air off the water, but the evening aromas were not comforting. Lingering now, her warm gaze seems to follow after the cigar killing man as he works. Careful, considerate. Staring somewhat until the melody playing off her phone causes her to jump. Chuckling, nervously, she excuses herself and turns, answering it.
"Hey! Yeah. Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Well, you could have warned me, but I understand. Mmhmm. Yes. Tell Lucy I said 'hi'. See you later, Hank. Bye." Then it's over and a sigh of mild annoyance passes her lips. "Well, guess I should get out of here myself. Are you going to be alright, sir? I can stay until you finish if you'd like."
Logan watches Betty for a moment, before he bends to pick up a crate, hefting it with the knotting of muscles and the creaking of wood. The industrial parts within weigh nearly a half-ton, though it wouldn't be obvious from the way he handles it. He carries the crate into the building, and then another, falling into a routine of work while she watches on and, then, while she takes a call. He's about half-done by the time her call ends.
He shakes his head to he offer. "Nah, I'm good," he relates. He gives her a once-over before he jerks his chin up in a measure of approval. "Ya did enough good already. Don't gotta babysit me." He flashes her a smile then, complete with canines a little too long and pointed to be entirely normal.
Chuckling, she shakes her head. "No, I…it's not babysitting, honest." Pointing toward the boxes with a painted finger, she muses a smirk and dimple his way. "From how you handle those things, I don't think anyone would have to babysit you. I guess I just wanted to make sure you weren't being hastled." Glancing down at her feet and then up again, she clears her throat and nods. "But I'll get out of your hair. Be careful, sir. It was nice meeting you." Hesitating for a moment, she stares longer and flutters her lashes, another nervous chuckle passes before she offers a wiggly-wave of her fingers. Turning, she starts to head off.
The lingering look, the flutter of her lashes, her chuckle, and the wave - it has one of his brows lofting slightly and his lips quirking in a wry amused grin after she turns away. "Logan," he announces to her - certainly loud enough to be heard. "You don't gotta call me 'Sir'. Feels weird. It's Logan." He plants his hands on his hips and watches her reaction.
Stopping in her tracks at his name, the woman glances over her shoulder and then turns to face him once more. "Betty." She greets in kind, that slow, smooth smile curling her lips once more. "It's nice to meet you, Logan." She repeats, switching out the weird term in favor of his name. Taking a breath, she checks her phone, glancing over its clock before slipping it away once more. "I'm free for a few hours. Was already going to grab something to eat and drink." Breath. "Would you like to join me?"
"Betty," he echoes with a nod. His own grin is wry, a smaller and more reserved, world-weary reflection of her own. "I could eat," he notes with a singular nod, before glancing toward the crates. "Gotta finish the job first, though. You wanna play your Fruit Ninja or whatever for a few?"
"Sure. I wish I knew what that was." Betty murmurs jokingly. She might know, but there's no pull of her phone. Instead, she stands there, her back resting on anything near by as she watches off toward the city looming over them in the distance.
"Sorry," she offers as they stride together out of the dockyard and back onto the sidewalk. "I don't have a car. I could call a cab, but the place I was going to go to is just a dive down the block." Looking his way, she turns her head and focuses forward. "If you're too tired, I can at least call you a cab before you head home."
Dive it was, an old bar that was loated under a different building, requiring the use of stone steps to enter. Once inside she peels away her jacket, moving toward a booth like table and offering a wave and hello to a man behind the bar. Finding her seat, she slips in, brushing down her skirt and eyeing over in Logan's direction. "My treat. Get whatever you'd like."
Once the work is done, a padlock slapped on the loading door into which Logan has placed the industrial machinery he had been swamping, he and Betty amble along the cracked, uneven sidewalk. He waves off her apology, or her offer, or both. "It's good, a walk's fine," he answers. The two soon enough find their way into the dive bar, where Logan fits right in - being a rough, blue collar sort.
He slips in on the opposite side of the booth from Betty. He lofts a brow toward her. "Offerin' to pay for a cab? For my meal? I'm startin' to worry you're gonna ask if I've accepted Jesus as my Lord and Saviour or somethin'."
"Hey, if you and he are friends, that's fine. I'd rather not bring him up during dinner." She smirks and winks. "Don't tell my mom, though." A cross against her chest, she rests back and eyes the bar side-long. "Too much?" She then asks, looking back Logan's way. "I, well. I use to be good at this and I'm not anymore."
"Oh yeah," Logan deadpans with a faint eyeroll. "Real good buddies, him 'n me." Her confession earns her another qurked brow. "Oh? What's this that you used to be good at?" he asks, lips curling again to give a glimpse of those too sharp teeth. He rests his heavy forearms on the table, lacing his fingers together. He watches her reaction, not that he needs to. He learns far more from his other senses in such situations.
Betty Brant sighs. The beating of her heart skips as her blood rushes up. Cheeks flushing pink, she brushes her hair away from her face in a nervous drag of her fingers through her golden-bronze tresses. She smells sweet enough, of lilac and vanilla. The floral hints of her clothing per her choice of detergent. Clean sweat, a stuggle of breath, the woman's mind was racing. "Asking handsome men out." She confesses at length. "I mean, I got you here but…it's only a meal isn't it?"
Logan only grins wider, wolfishly, at the irregularity in her heartbeat and the rise of her flush. "I'm pretty sure this place serves shitty beer too, if you want," he notes off-handedly. His grin lingers, evidence that he's meant to convey a joke. Still, he lifts his chin slightly and he notes, "You handled some cops for me and now it's a meal. What you lookin' for it to become?" His eyes are steady, unabashed in his directness.
Laughing and shaking her head, she settles her hands down, elbows on the table and cradling her face between her palms. "No, don't say that. The beer here isn't half bad. If it was horrible, I wouldn't be here, much less bring someone else here." A simple shrug, she rests one hand down, the other still cupping her cheek and rolling up her face slightly. "Me? I don't know. I saw, I asked, you came along. Like I said, I use to be better at this. Flirting, a look or a touch." Sitting back she nibbles at her lower lip "Now it's just food and drink." Waving it off, she huffs. "Anyway, about earlier, does that happen often?" Folding back into work mode, the woman across from him seems to ease and relax.
Logan gives a snorting kind of chortle at her comment about the beer. He indulges her comments about flirting, not making her twist further on the line, content instead to allow her to direct the converstion. He settles in as she does, with only a lingering, predatory smile to link the first with the second portion. "Often enough," he answers. "Folks workin' down here don't got no papers. So they ain't got protection. Dangerous work, bad conditions, shitty pay, predators all around - criminals out of uniform an' in it." He shrugs one shoulder. "Always been that way. So.. yeah, often," he answers.
Frowning, she sits back, crossing her legs under the table. A young woman walks by them, offering to take their drink order before handing out a single sheet menu. Asking for whiskey, Betty waits for Logan to make his claim of drink before giving thanks and returning her attention to her companion. "That's not right, though. I know it happens, but there has to be something that can be done there. To help you and the others." She's already thinking about the 'hows' and 'whys', that much can be told by the look in her eyes. "Maybe a push to help protect their rights, or a way of allowing their paperwork to move faster within the system." She ponders aloud, only pausing once their drinks arrive.
Placing her order for food, she gives more thanks and that brilliant smile to the waitress. Once alone again, she reaches for her glass and gives it a lazy squirl, sipping back a helping of amber liquid and leaving behin the print of her lower lip along its brim.
Logan follows Betty's lead, ordering well-grade whiskey. He sits back as well then, listening with patience. He spreads his calloused hands, roughened with this sort of work. "Decidin' what's right is beyond my pay grade," he notes with a self-depricating grin and a shake of his head. "I lift boxes. Helpin' these folks… that's for smarter people than me." He looks up to the server then, placing an order for an all-day breakfast. He lifts his glass in silent toast to Betty and shoots his drink before setting the empty down. "So what do you do, sweetheart?" he asks.
"I don't think that's true." She disagrees softly. "You were going to help that man. If it was above your pay grade, you wouldn't have lifted a finger. Nose down to the grind stone." She smiles and lifts her glass. Where she sips, he slams, and she can't help but giggle at the sight of it. "I'm not asking you to help me do this, but now that it's been brought my attention…well, lucky for me I met a lawyer lately." Heaven help you, Matt Murdock.
"Me? Uh…secretary. Unofficial journalist." Another sip, she smiles. "Glamerous, right?"
He opens his mouth to protest then closes it again. "Fixin' problems is different from knockin' a cop out," he insists after a moment. "I'm good for one, not the other. I'm sure your lawyer friend'll be able to handle it." He spins the empty glass slowly on the table, watching Betty across it. "Nothin' wrong with that," he advises her dryly. "Glamour's overrated anyway."
Betty Brant laughs and sips again. "I suppose. I'll admit I'd like to do that myself sometimes. We all have our gifts." Noticing his glass, she gives it a soft tap at it with her nail. "Would you like another?" Then comes glamour, "True. It pays the bills and I'm good at what I do. That's all you can be, isn't it? No matter what you do?"
Logan nods with another lob-sided shrug. "Spoken like a gal who's dealt with cops," he notes with a dry, singular chortle. His eyes track down to her nail and he lofts a brow. "You know, it don't quite work that way, gettin' a guy drunk to take advantage," he offers with another grin. "And… yeah. So long as you're happy and you got a roof and three squares? You got all you need," he counsels.
"Oh, think I'm trying to take advantage of you? I see, I see…I might be a touch disappointed if I drank you under the table, Logan." She teases, winking his way, settling now and not even feeling an urge to bring up work. Food arrives, her own meal being close to his own, save she only wanted pancakes. Dressing up the massive stack with ample amounts of butter and skant amounts of syrup, she digs in. Cutting around the edges, she eats them first, seeming intently on leaving the buttery centers until last.
"Well, I don't think it's all you need, but it's a godo stepping stone for survival." Bite. Chew. Swallow. "Sometimes, it takes awhile to get there, though."
Logan snorts slightly at the notion. "I think your feelings are safe," he answers with a wry grin across the table. "'Less you're hidin' some major tolerance in that 99-pound frame." His meal is stacked with meat, eggs, hashbrowns and toast, and he stabs seemingly indescriminately, eating pieces a little too large to be considered polite. Around a cheekful of food, he asks, "So what you need, beyond survival?" Big questions over late-night breakfast.
"I can knock'em down, I swear." She offers, hand up and palm flat as if she were under oath. Even then, she looks down at herself. "Aww, you think I'm under 100. Bless your heart." Tsking, she keeps eating, not seeming to mind the man's unapologetic enjoyment of his food. "Hmm? Oh, happiness. The kind that lasts. I'll admit to being a bit gun-shy about that part." Licking her lips clear of syrup, she takes a smooth sip from her glass. "Enough of me, you're making me blush. What about you? Did you just say 'ok' to coming out with me for the food?"
Logan smirks at the mock-oath, his grin a litle broader when she circles round to commenting on his estimate - or professed estimate - of her weight. "Happiness that lasts?" he echoes with a slow shake of his head and that persistant grin, "Never heard of that." He tilts his head to one side at her inquiry, giving her an assessing once over. He leans forward some, once more resting his forearms on the table. "You said you got a few hours to kill, huh?" he asks with a lofted brow. "I'm sure we could find something to do…"