Sander F. Cohen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
prestopresto) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
weathertop2013-02-20 10:40 pm
prestopresto) wrote in weathertop2013-02-20 10:40 pm
house party bang bang cash register noise
It's the early, sleepy hours of the morning. Even Rapture has to sleep sometime, in fits and starts, and the dusty halls of Sander Cohen's home are finally quiet.
There's a creaking of rotting floorboards, some shuffling, the clearing of a throat.
And then piano music flows throughout the house, as gentle and soothing as a truckful of live mortars crashing into a building.
There's a creaking of rotting floorboards, some shuffling, the clearing of a throat.
And then piano music flows throughout the house, as gentle and soothing as a truckful of live mortars crashing into a building.
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He's awake before he's aware, which is unfortunate for him because if he was capable of thinking he might not have sat bolt upright immediately. Not only was it a bad thing to do while experiencing the worst hangover humanity will ever know, it was worse when the lid of the piano one's nesting in was hanging low.
Jack's head strikes the lid of the piano, knocking it loose so it crashes down with him when he falls back with a yelp.
After that, the only sound coming from that piano is the broken moan of a man trying not to throw up day's worth of creme cakes and pep bars.
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So that's where the boy got to.
"Watch your manners!" Cohen scolds loudly, not taking his fingers off the keys. His voice has a tinny echo that shows he's spliced recently, but otherwise it's the same haughty melodic bellow that I'm sure Jack has come to know and love. ♥
"Remove yourself. You are interrupting the performance!"
CLASH!!! on the keys. Not sorry, Jack.
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Well no actually there is one thing Jack wants to do more than leave the piano and that is to not throw up in the piano. Cohen would probably like that even less.
Cohen smashing the keys just draws another horrible sound from Jack. Maybe with some refinement and tuning, it could be a functioning musical system, but uh, no.
Jack somehow rallies the strength and coordination to get his hands on the edge of the piano, with the next step to haul himself out of it. It goes... Well, it works in that Jack's out of the piano, but to get there he kind of... slowly squeezes out from under the lid and drops to the floor beside it, shoulder first, where he lays, moaning again.
Cohen will probably notice his sound isn't back to, er, perfection yet, because apparently Jack from six hours ago decided the piano wasn't comfortable enough without some lining. Which is probably and hopefully where Jack's sweater went. And his undershirt. And his left shoe. fuck?
He should probably get around to figuring out where he is and what's going on and how screwed he is -- but instead he just stays on the floor for a minute.
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The prompt obedience mollifies him for a few seconds. But there is still a large problem with this scenario, and that large problem is---
"These chords!" Cohen brings his fingers down on the keys again, producing a horrible sound. "They're--" he bares his teeth momentarily, foam appearing on his lip-- "brittle!" More chords up and down the keyboard, trying to find something that sounds right. "You had better not have nibbled on the wires, little moth, or else you may find your own innards replacing them!"
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Quick Jack, quick, think of something!
... Thinking feels like running into an unsanded brick wall right now, so the best Jack manages is flopping over from his side to his front, and whimpering "Sorry" into the floor.
Cohen, that's Cohen, okay, why is Cohen there, why is he with Cohen and not
hold on something/one is missing from this. Jack shuts his eyes and tries to force his brain past that brick wall, now. Someone... Someone... Someone drunker than him. Which might be anyone he could drink with, in Rapture.
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Jack, I know how much you love aging crazy people who appear standing over you in a shower of red mist, and today is your LUCKY DAY!
"Perhaps you and your admirer enjoyed yourselves a little too much last night?"
He stoops and rolls Jack over with burned, calloused hands. It's none too gentle. Sander Coehn doesn't appreciate being ignored. "No excuses -- you must learn that when the curtain rises, you have to dance!"
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Jack flinches, at the volume and the force but also just at listening to Sander Cohen in general.
hold up
Admirer?!
Two and two adds up only it's more like two minus one because oh god he was with Atlas wasn't he oh god
oh god
Jack tries thinking but it's just 'oh god' over and over again for the next few seconds. Because yeah, Atlas isn't there, he woke up in Cohen's piano, he has no shirt and Cohen is yelling at him about dancing and curtains and that's never good.
"Uuuuuuhh," Jack starts, because he has to say something to get Cohen to stop, "hhhhhuuuuhhhh," but he's also worried that if he focuses on something other than not throwing up, he's going to puke on Cohen's shoes and that will definitely not improve anything, "hhuuuuuuhhh," so he shuts his eyes and diverts focus from seeing to forming words.
"... What... Sort... Of dance?" he forces out. He finishes with what is hopefully a charmingly clueless, nervous smile. He can't jump if you don't tell him how high, Cohen!
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"Where is your artistic discipline?" he demands, his voice getting louder still. We're sure that will help with Jack's headache, make him feel a bit more at home. He also starts yanking Jack to his feet. Let's see how well that will go.
"How can any disciple of mine become so complacent, when the completion of his own masterpiece is so close? When you should be hot and gingery with the taste of it!" His voice sinks to a growl. "Disgusting."
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okay okay no focus, the issue at hand. Cohen's talking about a masterpiece and it's not his own. Fuck. Fuck, okay, what had he done last night, that might be an important place to start.
Jack tries to remember, and while he can recall himself and Atlas poking around old Mercury apartments, it stops being clear after a cabinet of green bottles and is outright gone... Sometime after that. He can't recall anything clearly in between, shit. Okay. Okay. New plan, roll with the punches.
He gets his feet under him, and tries to... To look awake and coherent and not like he's hungover beyond function.
"Ahhhh - Masterpiece, it's - s'just - simmering," Jack says like he knows what he's talking about, please god Cohen please buy the shit he's shilling.
"Giving it time to... Y'know... build flavour."
Jack has never cooked anything ever.
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Cohen stares hard at Jack for several long and probably deeply uncomfortable moments, before smiling. "Good, good; now that's what I like to hear."
He sounds for all the world like he's lilting away to a favourite student in an ordinary art class. The anger is soothed. But only until he remembers the piano, probably.
His voice takes on a warning tone. "But don't let it boil over, now! This dish may not have been mine in the end, but I have put my heart into that simmering pot and I should hate to see it go to waste!"
This cooking metaphor is going way too far somebody derail it
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Jack could honestly just go limp as a ragdoll with relief when Cohen actually buys it. Thank god, he seems to be off the hook... Until Cohen keeps going on, and now Jack's wondering just what masterpiece he was apparently making...? And... Cohen was involved at some point...?
okay, okay. Dish, dish was the final product, the pot is obviously what he's working on, and... shit Jack has no idea what's going on. He hated ludicrous metaphors and needlessly cryptic words, why did he think this was a good idea fhglhg.
His smile doesn't falter at all, so fuck you Atlas, Jack could totally act when he had to.
"I wouldn't ever, don't worry," he says, still playing confident. Which should really get him an award since he's still shirtless and minus a shoe [and thinking on it, a sock, too - but he still has his pants! Score one for home], and possibly just talked Cohen down from disciplining him.
[Dish... Dish... Dish... What the hell was Cohen talking about, come on he can figure this out, he hacked a million goddamn locks and safes and machines, this shouldn't be hard...]
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"Then get to your fleet little feet, my moth," he chides. "The party's over now; the dawn is drawing very nigh..."
A paused, and then possibly the most horrifying thing to ever come out of Cohen's mouth #tw: sander cohen, #sander, #cohen
"Unless a little more... inspiration is what you need?"
Did we mention that Jack has nice arms? Okay good just checking.
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WOW OKAY NO RED ALERT RED ALERT NUH UH NOT GOOD NOPE
Jack's grin is a little wider but that's mostly from selfdefensive tightening of the facial muscles and not actual consideration of this p... proposition[ing].
"Ha, no! Got all the inspiration I need, I mean. I wouldn't want to overdo it, right?"
Jack risks kind of leaning back casually, like, he's just totally shifting because he's stiff from a night of piano nesting, not like this was an attempt to get out of Cohen's firm grip, not at all. Ha, hahaha, hahahahahaha!
AHha.
"So I... Better get to work, huh?"
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"Then up, up, out of bed!"
That's easy for Cohen to say; he's high and Jack is stupendously hungover. But his queasy young apprentice is just going to have to suck it up and do what he's told if he doesn't wANT A FISTFUL OF INCINERATE UP HIS CHARMING LITTLE ARSE
:)
"Up, and find your charming young... travel companion." He practically purrs: "Boy~ooooo."
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And find his travel companion. Okay.
The way Cohen says 'boyo' sends a creepy feeling across pretty much every part of Jack's body, so wow, even Cohen's words are getting handsy with him. Yeahahaha, time to go.
The grin is a little tighter, from pain in his head and everywhere, and just... The whole... thing. In general. Yeah. Okay.
"Right, yes sir," he says, in what is absolutely a friendly tone even if his voice is gravelly and he feels like he's going to puke whenever he says a long vowel.
"I'll just... pick him up wherever... We?" he guesses, "left him. Yeah."
Jack takes this moment to look around this room of Cohen's he woke up in, like he's just giving it a nice fond lookover and not like he's trying to figure out where the hell he is.
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He bows deeply, with a flourish that goes through 360 degrees and most of the forms recommended for Airbending.
"Lead the way, young master!" So that he can look at your arse oh the way. "Chop chop! Before he decides to... abscond with your lost articles."
Not that Cohen has any problem with Jack being shirtless. Truth be told, he doesn't usually have to wait this long between recruiting a new personal apprentice and getting the man's clothes off. What an unfortunate sign of the times.
"A man with three shoes might just outrun us!"
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... And then he realizes the only guns he's armed with are his, uh, arms. Which, mind you, are impressive and intimidating as hell, but they weren't bulletproof.
Well, Jack had been waiting for Cohen to turn around so he could get his clothes out of the piano [fortunately, a piano with one shoe couldn't outrun a damn thing]. Maybe he could... Just own up, because if he left his guns there, he'd need to get them quick, so... Jack's just going to... Leeeean over and take a peek under that lid.
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He rests one scarred hand heavily on the lid of the piano.
"Are you an idiot, perhaps? Or even hard of hearing?"
THINK OF AN EXCUSE FAST JACKY BOY
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Then, that nervous little smile of self preservation comes back.
"Just making sure I didn't leave any notes in there."
8D
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"I suppose you also leave the images inside the camera! Go ahead..."
He takes his hand off the piano lid, smiling with an air that suggests he's indulging Jack's childish silliness.
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... Make that weapon. There seems to just be his wrench in there, under his sweater, which he takes too. And his shoe. He quickly slides his shoe and sweater on before Cohen can comment, hopefully, and then he finally listens to Cohen and starts for the door. There! He's doing it, he's going out to, uh, do something about a masterpiece and/or find Atlas! Happy now, Cohen?