[ Since the Down turned itself inside out, Logan's been trying to spend as little time as possible in the Up, mostly because getting through the security checks is becoming the kind of thing that sets him on edge in a way that usually results in a body count if he's not careful. He's not eager to repeat his mistakes at getting caught again, so he's walking the boundary between staying sane and staying out of trouble. More or less.
Sometimes, though, he doesn't have a choice. There's city paperwork to file and the bureaucrats will only take it in person -- probably, he decides, because they like to see him seethe when they question the fine details of his quota.
He's not in a good mood when he gets released back out into the warm sunlight, squinting his eyes against the glare off the shiny high rises as he heads off to the next item on his to do list, wanting to get it all done with as quickly as possible so he can get back to the gloom of the underground city where walking around doesn't make him feel so much like a rat in a maze. For once he's not paying all that much attention to the bustle around him, but he can't ignore the gleam of chrome and the sudsy smells of the car wash, as well as the noise of the thumping music, laughter and shouts from the volunteers roped into the performance.
Scowling, he almost passes it by -- until a much more familiar scent brings his head back up and gaze snapping around to the very familiar sight of the most headache inducing of his former students, back turned, but unmistakable given the way he's perched in mid-air and the bubblegum pink curls. ]
Of all the goddamn -- [ He doesn't so much walk as march into the midst of the car wash, ignoring the flecks of soap that land on his bare arms and darken his t-shirt. Pointedly, he drops his telepathic barriers to give Quentin a taste of his mood. ]
Quire! [ He catches at one of the telekinetically floating sponges, tugging it out of his "grip" and throws it down with a growl. ] How long have you been here?
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Sometimes, though, he doesn't have a choice. There's city paperwork to file and the bureaucrats will only take it in person -- probably, he decides, because they like to see him seethe when they question the fine details of his quota.
He's not in a good mood when he gets released back out into the warm sunlight, squinting his eyes against the glare off the shiny high rises as he heads off to the next item on his to do list, wanting to get it all done with as quickly as possible so he can get back to the gloom of the underground city where walking around doesn't make him feel so much like a rat in a maze. For once he's not paying all that much attention to the bustle around him, but he can't ignore the gleam of chrome and the sudsy smells of the car wash, as well as the noise of the thumping music, laughter and shouts from the volunteers roped into the performance.
Scowling, he almost passes it by -- until a much more familiar scent brings his head back up and gaze snapping around to the very familiar sight of the most headache inducing of his former students, back turned, but unmistakable given the way he's perched in mid-air and the bubblegum pink curls. ]
Of all the goddamn -- [ He doesn't so much walk as march into the midst of the car wash, ignoring the flecks of soap that land on his bare arms and darken his t-shirt. Pointedly, he drops his telepathic barriers to give Quentin a taste of his mood. ]
Quire! [ He catches at one of the telekinetically floating sponges, tugging it out of his "grip" and throws it down with a growl. ] How long have you been here?