Gambit has to (playforkeeps) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-06-06 22:06:00 |
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Louis had never met Seven, and thus, he had no idea in the slightest who he was staring down when he opened the door and blinked at a complete stranger. “...can I help you?” He’d come back to the apartment to pick up what was left of his things and bring them back to his own apartment. He'd decided to make his abdication from his watchdog post official - Neil was much better, and with Ash there, an extra body was hardly needed. Even Sam seemed to be settling in and getting more comfortable, wonder of wonders, and Louis was finally starting to feel as if he could edge away from his constant worry for them both, at least a little. Enough that he could get his life up and running again. When he'd returned to the apartment for his things, no one was there, which wasn't all that surprising. He had just finished packing away his toothbrush and a few pieces of clothing when the heavy knock on the door came. He stood in the partially open doorway, tall and thin, lanky in adulthood as much as he'd been gangly as a teenager. His blonde curls were tamed some by a recent cut and a bad habit of running his fingers thoughtlessly through them when he was nervous. His clothes screamed both professional and well paid - a nice quality blue button down with jeans, about as casual as he would ever get. Can I help you? Likewise, Seven did not recognize the man who opened the door, and he even leaned back to survey the entrance and wonder if he’d made his way to the right address. Looked alright. So who the fuck was this guy? Something about his unassuming, vaguely-regal presence screamed Not-Neil, Not-Neil over and over with the overt insistence of neon lights against Seven’s corneas. Not that Seven was an expert on the matter, but whatever. This guy didn’t have the overt air of an asshole about him at first glance. “Uh,” he intoned with no small amount of hesitation, green eyes illuminated in a flit of uncertainty. “I’m looking for Sam?” He said the words as if they were part of a question, defining the search for his small, blonde friend with the foul mouth and the withering glances. A glance past the man in the doorway didn’t reveal much beyond what he’d already expected - luxury and everything high-end, a room with tall ceilings and expensive flooring. A lie, more or less. One that hinted at a stranger’s custom-designed happiness, when Seven knew that such a thing was next to impossible. “Sam Alexander.” This time the name was said more firmly, while he made no attempt to hide the up-and-down evaluation of this skinny man with his mop of blonde curls and his expensive clothing. Seven shoved his wide, tanned hands into the pockets of his jeans and worried at the inside of his cheek with his molars. “I’m a... friend.” Louis looked Seven over and had the fleeting thought that he had no idea who this man was, but he was handsome in a rough kind of way, and unkempt with his dark circles and muddy boots and leather jacket, and he might perhaps be one of Sam's dealers. Or the only one. Or perhaps he really was a friend. Best not to tell him anything about Sam until he found out for sure. Louis stepped into the hall and shut the door behind him, wearing a perfect expression of apology. "I'm afraid she's not in," he said. One of the advantages of being an officer of the law, short as his career had been, was earning a skill at apologizing for the way someone was being treated and then treating them that way all the same. It established rapport, though nothing had actually changed - the suspect was still handcuffed, or the friend was still being turned away at the door, at least until he found out a bit more. "I'm Louis, her brother," he said. He had no inclination that the man in front of him might have heard his name - he had no context in which to frame him. "I think she may be working, actually. Did you need to give her a message?" Seven wasn’t fooled by what he perceived as a put-upon regret, nor did he retreat as the man he didn’t know took several steps forward into the hall and closed the door behind him. As result, they were brought rather close together while Seven remained rooted to the spot with his mud and his tired eyes and the stranger stood close with his well-tailored clothes and his expression that managed to be curious and handsome without much effort. As the distance between them reduced to less than a foot, Seven crossed his arms over his chest and gazed up at the other with a challenging air to his smile and worked through his expressive brows. “She never mentioned a brother,” he lied, smoothly and with vaguely-mocking sincerity that was entirely unwarranted. He didn’t know this man, but he’d known of him - Sam had certainly spoken something of a brother, had even suggested that Seven seek him out for advice on how to deal with the calamity of a man you cared about falling deeper in love with poison than with you. Seven’s features remained serious and even, unflinching under the close proximity and the very honest expression of a stranger. He shifted his weight onto one foot, pulling slightly to the right without actually taking a submissive step in retreat - the whole world was body language for a man like Seven Morgan. He had been taught that the slick men he perceived to be self-righteous would not back down if they could avoid it, and playing upon this particular fact had a smirk playing around the corners of Seven’s mouth. And in that brusque, challenging manner, it did not immediately occur to him that perhaps the whole world was not out to see him suffer. “She used to live with me, while she was figuring shit out. I thought I’d come say hey. If she’s not here, I can hold onto my own message.” Louis gave Seven an entirely different kind of once over, then. He hadn't invited him in, yes - he hadn't invited a stranger with only a professed connection to Sam into an apartment he didn't own. It seemed that just that was enough to create challenge where he hadn't actually intended there to be any, and rather than meeting it, he merely returned it with tired eyes. He'd had enough of conflict in the past year, enough of fighting with everyone to keep them on the straight and narrow and try to punish those who tried to hurt his family. He'd fought with Neil and Sam, fought with Sam’s attacker and Neil’s lampry ex-girlfriend, fought with Evan, all those months ago, fought with Iris, fought with Joseph literally constantly, fought with Loki. There was fight left in him, of course, but not for this. Not now. All in all, Louis had more the air of the crestfallen than the regal. Perhaps he wasn't the same hunched in, self-conscious wreck he'd been for months. Being through the door had helped. Seeing real improvement in his family had helped. But that didn't mean he had the energy to grow defensive over a conversational indifference. "Did she not?" he asked, not really all that surprised to hear it. If they had spoken recently, it was likely her siblings had been the furthest thing from her mind. "I didn't know," he said. "I appreciate you taking her in. I offered, but I think she didn't want to feel like a burden on any member of her family. She wouldn't have been, but that is how she thinks of it." The distinctly scottish roll to his accent became more apparent the longer he spoke, mixed with London erudition in a way difficult to catch unless one was from one place or the other. At the declaration that Seven could keep his own message, there was a flicker of wry amusement. "Yes. I suppose she does have a phone." It was the sort of once-over to which he was entirely accustomed, because of course he had managed to invent some sort of challenge out of the man’s nondescript expression and his very reasonable reaction to Seven’s sudden appearance. As worn-out as he felt, as fucking exhausted as he was after so many days without a good night’s sleep - Christ, just about anything could have set him off. A wrong coffee order would probably result in a more violent reaction than this lukewarm conversation with a man who did not look nearly eager enough for a fight for Seven’s usual taste. That stubborn set of his jaw and the sullen gaze with which he met a stranger’s greeting, it could all be blamed on the hair-trigger temper that lingered bright and hot beneath Seven’s skin. There was a moment where he danced close to the line of dangerous, muscle-bound fury... and after another breath, that moment burst and saw Seven sagging beneath the weight of his own exhaustion. He almost seemed to deflate within the confines of his leather motorcycle jacket as he backed up one half-step, and then another. “I’m sorry, man -” he exhaled, reaching up to scrub the heel of one hand against his eyes. “Fuck. I shouldn’t be acting like an asshole right now. I’m Seven,” he added, lifting his head once more and offering out a rough, calloused hand for a tired shake. “I guess... Sam mentioned you, yeah. I came to see her because a mutual friend is going through some shit, and... I don’t know, I just figured she might appreciate hearing it from me.” A muscle worked in Seven’s jaw, and his gaze was a weary thing. He chose not to mention the fact that he felt like his chest might collapse in on itself if he didn’t talk to Sam, if she didn’t tell him how to stop being a selfish fuck and just be there for Liam. “My phone’s dead, so I figured I’d drop by. Do you know if she’s still staying here?” The deflation was, truthfully, a relief to Louis. If Seven truly was Sam's friend, the last thing he wanted was to anger him, or alienate him. That wasn't going to do anyone any good, and he was so very tired of fighting. Louis took his hand, his own long-fingered and large, appropriate for his wiry height, and shook it. "May I ask the name of the mutual friend?" he asked. He wasn't sure he would know the name, but it might be worth knowing later on. Sam seemed to attract people who needed help themselves, when she was the one who deserved people keeping an eye on her. It was good, then, that she had a friend like Seven looking out for her when she refused to come to her family. "I don't," Louis said, apologetic. "I think so. I can tell you that when I spoke to her recently she seemed much better than she has been. Brighter." He smiled faintly, knowing. "As much as she gets, of course.” He paused. “If she isn’t picking up her phone, you could write her a note and leave it here? She’ll be much more sure to see it, that way. I can tell her you came by. You have my word I won’t read it, I understand if it’s a private matter.” The handshake was like a gentle balm, cool and soothing against the half-tense rage that flickered in his stomach. It was a normal thing, something that normal people did when they were being Norman Normal. Seven could almost pretend that he was one of them, while he had a simple conversation with a man that he was not going to try and fight. Normal. Rational. Green eyes lifted to meet the other’s gaze as he asked for a name. There was a tight sensation of disapproval, clenching beneath Seven’s sternum - no, he couldn’t give Liam’s name to this stranger. He clung to the image of Liam that belonged in his mind, in his heart. There was no part of his slender, blue-eyed form to give away to strangers. Seven pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, a furrowed line appearing on his brow. Alright, enough with the three-act display of crazy - he could save the panic and the blazing anxiety for the privacy of his own empty house, rather than giving Sam’s brother his own little show. “Liam,” he muttered after a long moment, shoving both hands back in the pockets of his jeans. “His name’s Liam. I... he just checked into rehab, and it’s been sort of a shit-show.” A wan smile then, something that tilted towards apologetic as he ducked his head and made an idle note of the muck that he was tracking all over the expensive carpet in the hall. Something tugged at the edge of his awareness, brief and momentarily bright in the back of his mind. A conversation with Sam, where Seven had pretended to be angry and disinterested and Sam had made no effort to act like she believed him for a fucking second. And then she’d mentioned a brother, and even had the nerve to suggest that Seven might go to him for some kind of a therapeutic advice session about loving someone who was an addict. Naturally, he’d scoffed at the offer and paid it no mind since. Seven didn’t do feelings. Or at least he spent a good chunk of his time and energy convincing himself of the notion. “Uh, yeah. I can leave a note,” he nodded, taking a shuffled side-step until he leaned against the doorway. He worried at the fleshy inside of his cheek with his teeth, and then he made a decision that probably wouldn’t even have crossed his mind if he’d slept for longer than a few hours in the last two days. “Sam said something to me, you know. About you, I think. She said that you had to... deal with this kind of thing before... But, I mean - I don’t know, maybe I’ve got the wrong brother.” Louis realized, then, what 'going through some shit' might, in fact, mean, and his expression drew down. "Oh, I see." He paused a moment, and shook his head. "No, no, you don't have the wrong brother. I don't think so, at least." The only other person in his family who was with an addict was Neil, actually, and Sam would hardly have called him her brother. And in that particular relationship, the addict moniker could be applied both ways. Louis opened the door, then, and moved inside. "There's a pad of paper in the kitchen," he said, "I'll just grab it." It seemed the thing to do, make himself busy because he felt awkward. He didn't know what Sam might have said. She could have said anything. She knew more of the ugly details of his relationship with Evan than anyone else did. Hopefully she'd kept things as vague as they'd sounded. "How long is he going to be in rehab?" Louis asked, as casually as one could ask such a thing. He searched deliberately through a drawer of miscellaneous junk in the kitchen for a pen, his back to Seven. And in that moment, it took a very large part of Seven’s considerable sense of self-discipline to suppress the urge to wince. Good fucking job, Morgan - here you’ve got someone who could actually fucking help you with your problems, and you’ve got to alienate him with the arousal of painful memories in the first five minutes of conversation. Not to mention the fact that he’d very nearly bitten this man’s head off for being cordial and accommodating. Nothing like that Morgan charm. As the tall, slender man moved off into the depths of the apartment, Seven couldn’t help but slump against the structure of the doorway. Could he be a little more repulsive if he tried? Maybe wave some sharp-edged weapons in the poor man’s face, while he was at it? He swallowed down a few lame remarks as Sam’s brother offered to retrieve the notepad from the kitchen, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring down at the floor as if it had done him some personal wrong. In fact, the gaze turned into something blank and endless, carpet and hardwood swimming together into something that wanted to consume his tenuous grasp on reality. A blank stare, if ever there had been one. “Um... I don’t know, actually,” he rumbled softly, green eyes boring blank holes into the floor. How could he not know? “They said it might depend on his progress. A month, if we’re lucky? I... I don’t know...” A ragged sigh then, and a desperate pinching at the bridge of his nose. There was a pounding at the back of his skull. “I’m going to go with a month. Positivity, and all that,” he added, as if the concept was entirely foreign. Which, to be honest, it mostly was. “We’ll see,” he offered at last, squinting into the middle distance. “Anyway. I just want to let Sam know. She deserves to know. Thanks for the paper.” It was a blur, truly, as he took the offered pad and pen and scribbled a message to the girl in a messy hand. Included was his home phone number, in case he wasn’t entirely ‘with it’ enough to get his cell charged within the next couple of days. When it was finished, Seven handed the notepad back over, unable to meet the man’s gaze for longer than a second. Perhaps it was shame, or fear, or a mixture of the two that kept his eyes on his mud-spattered boots. “...Sorry, man. I probably shouldn’t have come.” And with that, Seven turned on his heel and stalked off down the hallway without so much as a backwards glance, hands clenched into painful fists at his sides. This was a mistake. Talking, breathing the truth aloud, it was a mistake. He was a mistake. |