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The night is young, the weather is warm, and thats enough for Jimmy to be kicking it in the village tonight, using up some R&R time that comes all too rarely to the modern S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He exits a smallish theater along with a small crowd of others, chatting with a woman just a bit taller than him and wildly overdressed.
Well I liked it, he tells her, sticking his chin out. And we may have our difference of opinion on that, but it doesnt mean the night needs to end on a sour note. Jimmy beams. The woman looks unimpressed, says something, and hails a tag. Call me! he yells after hear, though shes miles away before even opening the door, and soon the cab is leaving Jimmy in its dust.
The man wipes his trousers and heads off to a scattering of lights belonging to some restaurants and bars nearby. Other theater goers are also heading that way. One bad move doesnt have to ruin a night after all.
*
The Village lights up every night into the counterculture spectacular: men and women shucking off society's norms, crowding into the coffeeshops and dingy backrooms to hear the newest fangled thing to upset their parents. Folk singers and rockers trying out new forms of lyrical protest fill the night with competing strains through the open doors and windows trying to overturn the effect of deep, heavy humidity.
The redhead mingling among those crowds that float beneath the high, crammed brownstones and brick buildings might in her own right attract a little attention. For one, she wears a wide, broad-brimmed sunhat worthy of the derby or Ascot. It's past dark, making it an unnecessary addition and when it comes to wildly dressed, if not overdressed, she might take the cake. Someone thought to pour her into a leather catsuit in the darkest of greens, almost borderline on an opulent, oiled black, and if it's segmented in places, that may be rather hard to tell. Though she does wear a pale white scarf filmed around her neck, and /that/ at least gives a certain charm, speaking of French alpine roads and maybe suggesting she just got back to New York from somewhere cooler.
One of the more animated hawkers gets up in her face with a program, though, shouting in the tone-deaf hue of someone who stood too close to the speakers for long. "—the best show in the Village, Janice and Joss, and the Lemon Creams! You should come in, really, you should… OW!" That serenade ends briskly as Scarlett nudges the man blocking her way out of the way.
*
One block over from the theater and the spoiled date, Jimmy finds himself in the village throng and feels himself pulsating back to life. The man doesnt scream bohemian - only some construe his usual black turtleneck as a sign of someone more artistic - but he can be seen in the neighborhood every now and then, usually jamming to some music. Like Janice and Joss. And the Lemon Creams, sure!
Just as when the hawkers words are about to sell Jimmy on the show, the poor guy gets nudged hard by the fierce redhead who steals Jimmys attention. "Woah," he yells out to her. "Where are you off to in such a hurry? Just because the name could use some tweaking doesnt mean theyll be so bad."
*
The redhead bohemian lies in her very element, though the dark leather jacket and pants probably do defy the idea of a floaty tunic and leather fringed vest becoming so popular among their set. She has the hat and the hair full of flowers for it, golden aconite and purple delphinium bells adorning her tightly braided locks. Scarlett tightens her lower lip over her teeth, a flicker of irritation centered in lambent green eyes narrowed a fraction. Her hands remain at her sides — gloved, if anyone's looking — and the alarmed hawker nudged out of the way glares after her.
"Think you're too good for a show? It's a free country, lady! I can be on this sidewalk plain and square." And he returns to stopping literally everyone who goes by with his flyers, whether they want to or not.
She would let it go without a second thought, but when a second voice adds to the first, she might be unwilling to let it pass. Five steps forward and she pauses, staring up at the sky. A countdown mentally centers turbulent thoughts, and then she looks back over her shoulder in profile, the hat mostly eclipsing her face into a somber watercolour shadow. "Impeding me by grabbing me isn't welcome."
*
Jimmy blinks as the altercation grows into something he should, on second thought, have anticipated. Not wanting to see a brawl break out, he steps in a bit closer to Scarlett and the man with the flyers. His eyes fall on the woman, and they take her in more closely before Jimmy decides to speak.
"I'm sure he didnt mean anything by it. The guy probably got too excited about his show. Doesnt mean he shouldnt apologize, though." Jimmy's glance flicks over to the other mans and grows harder, more serious. "Isn't that right?"
*
The altercation doesn't hinge upon the implicit threat of violence. A gentleman doesn't lay his hand upon a lady for the sake of another bottom planted in the seat of a tawdry little concert hall, even if he's making $1.50 an hour plus a bonus for every set of ten bums that stay past the intro band, the Lemon Creams.
Scarlett's usually expressive face is shuttered, helped in no small part by the voluptuous arc of her broad-brimmed hat. Breath stirs through her lips, given very little outlet to escape otherwise, and she glances away. "Harrassment does poorly for revenue and word of mouth." Particularly for a resident of the Village, ones who pay more than lip service to the culture around here, but live among the artists and visit their shops or rub elbows in the local eateries. They're all starving, even a Columbia student like her.
*
Daimon isn't a resident of the village. He isn't really a resident anywhere. He just claims every bit of space he walks as his own. He's wearing a white linen shirt, unbuttoned enough to show the top of his brand, along with leather pants and heeled boots.
He steps from a cab, casually throwing a few bills in to the driver, not bothering to count them. A single one would have more than covered his fare. When he sees the familiar figure of Scarlett in confrontation, he can't help but smirk, hopping on the roof of a nearby car and sitting lotus-style to watch the fireworks.
*
A short taste of rudeness from the gentleman doesn't seem to sit well with the redhead. She makes a light gesture with her hand, dismissing the hawker and his promise of fine music for a decent price, stalking into the depths of the Village. Somewhere she can drown herself among the greenery, somewhere far from here.
Somewhere where a doctor might tend to her mental pains.