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Rainy day, and it only gets colder from here on out. Thanksgiving is well on its way, and the news is filled with more bad things than good. Aliens. Escalation in Vietnam. Civil Rights. Mutants. Macy's Thanksgiving Parade.
Oh wait.. that's good, right?
Traffic moves along at a reasonable pace, thanks in part to the fact that Public Works isn't blocking the streets with their garbage trucks. All that's already been done on this particular stretch of block in Queens. Barney is standing in an entryway, clutching a cup of warm coffee, trying to keep warm, looking like he hasn't had a night's sleep in a few days (or a shower. Pretty typical for 'homeless'!). There's a rather large holding case beside him and a gymbag that undoubtedly holds all his worldly possessions at the moment. Blue eyes stare out over the street, just watching for the time being while he gathers himself for the new day. From the looks of it, he probably slept in that particular spot.
*
Not even the rains could bring down the floof that was Lynette LaCroux's hair. Well, that may be a lie, as it was a bit flatter, but still flaring out to either side of her head. Water collections on her scalp and collects in the kinks, rolling and drizzling down her form as she moves from person to person, handing out flyers to everyone, and anyone, who would accept them. Whatever she's saying is often cut off by the sounds of passing cars, or the pattern of droplets that crash down across asphalt, concrete, stone and metal.
A few more strides down the sidewalk and she finds herself ducking under an eave for some shelter, her clothing soaked completely, clinging to her lanky form, and her arms hug the paper against her chest, trying desperately to secure it from the weather and chill. Those dark eyes give a glance around, watching people as they pass, and more than likely, rolling up said papers and tossing them away in near by bins, or on the street itself. When spotting a familiar face, the girl can't help but to offer the blue eyed archer a soft smile and wiggle of her fingers.
*
Every bit of heat in that coffee cup is used; from keeping his fingers warm, to keeping it close to his body for what little heat it can bring to actually drinking it to warm his insides. Barney catches the somewhat familiar form and figure of the young woman, and when she waves to him after her passage down the street to hand out the fliers, he nods his head in acknowledgment if not greeting. There's no smile on his face; just a roll of the shoulders in an effort to stay a little warmer in the wet chill of the morning. He's watching the reaction of the people around him now to the fliers; disgust? Disinterest? Apathy?
*
Lynette is careful about the street, looking both ways before crossing. Giving a job, her scuffed up boots splash through puddles on her way over, and closer, to Barney. Ducking closer to where he is, she now greets him with a beaming grin. "Mornin'." She begins, giving him a once over before moving a hand away from her papers and slicking back any stray tendrils that hug to her face and throat. "How y'doin'? Y'don' look as if y'been restin'." Then, the girl frowns. "Ah, honey. Why ain't y'usin' dat coin I gave ya? Y'c'n pawn it m'sure. Get y'off dey street." Her eyes cast and off glance down the road, studying its traffic. "S'gettin' cold, chere." She warns, as if the steam from his drink, and the white puffs of air that leave her lips with every word, don't make that statement obvious.
*
Barney watches as Lyn crosses the street towards him, and as she approaches, he digs a hand into his pocket to pull out the coin that is still connected to the lashing. Once she's across and near him, he holds it out to her to give it back. "People remember stuff like this," is murmured, his voice hoarse. "Take it." It is true; walk in and hand someone a gold Norse-inscribed coin, it's bound to jog memories later. "I can't."
The coffee is given another swallow, and in a couple more, it's finished. Barney looks into the cup as if betrayed, but soon after he crushes the cup ready to throw it away. "Yeah.. ain't New York great." He looks up, brows rising, "What'cha got that everyone is ignoring?"
*
Lynette looks at the coin and parts her lips. At first, she starts to protest, but once back on his face, she holds her hand out and accepts it. "Y'can." She mumbles, and slips the coin into the pocket of her pants. "Y'know, I couldn't either. De person dat gave it t'me? Was m'first friend in dis city. He shared his lunch wit me, n'talked wit me like it weren't not'ing." Apparently, the coin was something precious to the girl, yet, her expression was searching for some reason to give it back to the archer.
"Hmm?" She blinks, realizing that he had asked her a question about her activities. "Oh! S'paper talkin' 'bout when s'm of us in Harlem gonna have a peace rally." She then offers him a slip of the paper, expressing times, a date, and location. It's frail, and could rip at any moment. Limply, it faces him, the text in red, vibrant, and calling for attention.
*
Barney listens to the explanation given for the coin, and his lips press together thinly, shaking his head. "I can't." He can tell it means something to her, and the last person it should go to would be him. Is he being nice? Nah…
It would make people notice him and that is the last thing he needs in this city.
The paper is looked at, bright in its colors. "There's a place on 155th that's a printer." He should know. He was thrown out of the place AND THEN killed the civil rights organizer guy attached to the place. Barney isn't a good man. "Might help."
*
"Y'can." She repeats as if that is how the mantra goes. Next comes an offer of help. Blinking, she brushes her arm across her face, feeling some of the rain rolling down her cheek and brow. With a defeated sigh, her lips bunch to one side, and the paper gets another look over. She then wiggles it. "Might need new ones." She mutters, her eyes then moving back up to Barney's face. "155t'? Huh, t'anks! T'ink I'll go check it out here in a bit." Grinning anew, she hugs the papers to herself, still not willing to let them go just yet. "Hey, y'wanna get somet'ing t'eat? S'my treat."
*
Barney shakes his head at the insistance, but is more than happy that it's been dropped for something something else. "Yeah, they'll get you set up, I'm sure. A little place, run by blacks." So they'll be more sympathetic, right?
The offer of food, or at least somewhere warmer with the possibility of more coffee is given an agreeing nod. "Food's good. Coffee, maybe some eggs." He's got money, sure.. but he's in a state where he'll probably be refused service. At least in this area. "I didn't get a chance to find a kitchen yet."
*
Lynette stares after he speaks. The term causing her face to twist up slightly, wrinkling here and there. "Don' matta who runs it." She then clarifies, and lowers her eyes, giving the street another look. Nodding as he accepts, she turns and starts heading down the sidewalk, back into the rain without pause or care. She stops at a crosswalk, checking for traffic, before continuing, and making sure that Barney is close at hand. Before long, she ducks into a corner diner, glancing up to make sure they're not seperated in where they can sit.
*
"Yeah, it does."
Still, Barney takes up his stuff and is ready to forge out into the rain. He pauses at the corner diner, though. He's a mess and she, well… and he whistles softly to get her attention, ready to shake his head. Instead, he looks down the street, looking for a 'Good Will' kitchen. Barney gestures in the other direction, and starts his path down there. They won't get separated in there and no one will remember them. Two more faces in a sea of 'poverty'.
*
"No, it don'." She repeats, this time with a bit more heat behind her voice. "None of it should matta." She's ready to step in, claim them a spot, only to hear that noise and look out and after Barney. "But…" She frowns, pointing toward the diner's entrance. Moving away from it, she follows along, lowering her gaze as they walk. Her expression is soft now, lacking its original warmth and happiness. "Why y'doin' dis?" She finally murmurs, stopping midway through an alley passage.
*
"Because you don't wanna fight for every step," Barney turns and looks at Lyn. "Every step shouldn't have to be a goddamned battle."
He turns 'round again and shakes his head at her gesture towards the diner. "No." Instead, the archer moves through the lesser known spots where tourists never venture. Through alleyways, and when she stops, he raises his head slightly as if to speak to her without turning around. "Doing what?" Now, Barney turns to look at her. "Food's a good idea."
*
"Dat's why it don' matta who runs it. Shouldn' be a battle jus' 'cause y'diff'rent. But, till it ain't, gotta do s'mt'ing." The path doesn't seem to bother the girl. In some ways, she moves as if this was more comfortable to her than being out in the open, and around the 'normal', passage ways the city had to offer. She stands, watching. Her eyes tracing over the man's back until he turns and faces her.
"Dis." She answers, helplessly. "Non, ain't talkin' 'bout dey food. I know food's a good idea. Always is. Jus'…I know dat look. How y'movin'. What y'doin'." Her lips thin and then fill back out to their natural, plump state. "What'd y'do?" She questions in a whisper. "Who y'runnin' from?"
*
"Pick your battles to where it'll do the most good for you."
Barney's watching her now, blue eyes wary. He's got an eye on her, an eye on what's beyond her, the fire escapes, even that cardboard box that probably has a family of four living in it. It's second nature to him now, being closed off, pushing away any chance of actual human connection. It's not the way it works in his field for a man in his position. He stands there now for only a heartbeat before he answers with a terse, "Nothin'," before he steps off again. "'Wanna get out of this rain an' get somewhere dry."
*
"Ain't all 'bout me." The girl answers, her body shrinking in on itself as she holds to those papers, just watching Barney a few feet away from her. "Y'fight'em all, f'de good a'everybody." Then he answers her, and with a frown, she reacts. "Y'lyin'." Even as he moves to walk away, however, she doesn't move to stop him, or chase him. "Dey's ways a'gettin' outta de rain. Y'know dat bein' out dere. Y'don' need de coin, n'y always got coffee. Y'ain' sleepin'. Y'paranoid." Swallowing, she corrects her posture and lifts her head. "I know dat face." She comments once more. "Guilty people have dat face. I have dat face…"
*
"You ain't guilty of shit." Barney doesn't stop walking; the statement is pushed over his shoulder. He hefts his case and his bag to keep walking through the alley towards where he knows there's a soup kitchen. After some runny eggs and toast, he'll find an apartment. What is the name of the hour? That has yet to be determined; no way is he going to rent under his real name. "Y'just need to know when to get out of the goddamned rain."
*
"Thirt'five." The girl voices. "Dey faces ain' neva leavin' me. Dem. Dey families. Thirt'five." A pause. "One-T'ousan', four hun'red n'eig'ty t'ree days. Chere, I know betta. S'always rainin'." Chewing to her lower lip, she then turns and begins to exit the same way she originally entered the back alley.
*