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Greenwich Village comes alive after dark. A sheen of ice on the treacherous streets won't stop handsome men and hot young things in their hippest threads from cozying up to one another in battered booths and tables to take in music. The folk music joints and jazz temples positively thrill with music, and there's the Peppermint Lounge for those less choosy about their associations and interested in the hottest acts. Eateries from grubby holes in the wall to eclectic ethnic fare stay open long into the night, a blessing for someone spending time out of the main sequence of events. A wolfish smile finds Scarlett receiving a wrapped up crepe stuffed by sweet stracciatella cheese, sliced up strawberries, and a collection of more pear jam.
She carries it off, holding the crescent in hand, ignorant to the cold. It's not only the density of her skin but the hooded green minidress holding the icy kiss of the air at bay, and some distant thought dragging her into the thick of the street party in process. Even there Scarlett is unmistakeable: she stands apart.
*
Apart, a rather apt term. He had at least given notice, something required his attention on the otherside of the world. Blackagar had departed, heading to South America of all places to address something, a rare thing for him to be tight lipped; so much that he had only revealed it was an Inhuman type issue and that he would be back when he could. It would seem now is when he could.
Tracking her down wasn't as difficult as one would expect. Either the combination of hunting or perhaps just the draw that he found now towards the woman, Blackagar watched Scarlett as she took the crepe to task, arms folded over his own chest in the peripheral of view but not stepping forward yet to disturb.
*
Time spins around those souls running towards the promised light and warmth of a brick building, promising a halfway decent musician strumming a guitar or a singer crooning the American bluesgrass sorrows of the civil rights movement. Scarlett moves through them, taking a bite of her folded-up crepe, fingers pressed tight to the folded paper plate used to hold it. Steering around couples snuggled up together like pigeons, she is carried into the thick of it, greeting those who go by or stepping over the snow-covered benches. Give her a lacy umbrella to twirl around and she might belong to her own musical, caught on film. Instead the girl occasionally pirouettes, dancing as the music takes her. The flaming trails of her braids run down her back, converging in wild points, and she finally comes to perch on the icy lip of a frozen-over fountain, the sort pennies get tossed into and stay there until spring unless someone takes an ice pick to the basin to free them. A place to watch the world go by.
"An ash I know, the great silver tree, with water white foaming around its roots. Thence come the dews that fall in the dales, spring stirring beneath winter's frosted cloak," she hums to herself, kicking her feet to send puffs of white into the air.
*
It is rather enjoyable to watch, a frollick as it were taking place in a lighthearted way; a deviation from some of the darkness that has crept of late. Blackagar does such for a few moments longer, steadily watching, before he finally shrugs his hands into his jacket and starts across on an intercept course for Scarlett. He cannot cough for her attention, or call out to her so that she knows he is there. The best he can manage is to step directly into the woman's line of sight, letting his hands remain in pockets, awkward grin on his face.
*
The bohemian watches, sorting out the familiar from the unknown. The mind likes to latch onto the individual not conforming to the pattern; the girl in the red dress, say, or the pillar of fire rising from a chimney where in a few minutes the New York Fire Department will come rushing at the fringe of East Village. So too it seeks out the recognizable patterns. Look for a man with dark hair and a certain bone structure once, he'll start appearing on every corner, in every shop, darkening every doorway. Not that one there, nor over here, not the one on the sidewalk.
Instead she catches the grin that tells her everything she needs to know. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes? What would a vagabond gentleman like you be doing in a place full of vice and degenerate artists like Greenwich Village?" The clarion of her golden voice carries over the air, honey-sweet to the ears, English touched by something rarer. "Have you found it almost impossible to resist its call, or are you about to sweep off again to places less impure?"
*
Blackagar's eyebrow quirks and his shoulders lift, that smile still present as he walks a bit closer towards Scarlett, hands in his pockets. He ponders for a moment, wondering if she can read his body language, if his thoughts are translated well enough for her to know them without him writing them yet. He attempts; «I told you I would be back once the issue was dealt with, and it was.» There's a pause, Blackagar's eyes sparkling in that moment, «So I'm back. If I'm wanted back of course.»
The demeanor and tone is teasing, not uncertain and definitely not insecure. More of the nudging of testing the waters a bit, to see if there is any lingering conflict from him having left.
*
Limitations gird the exchange of non-verbal elements to verbal, though the hidden knowledge still floats about in the portion of aether ascribed to those given a somewhat unwelcome, enforced bond. Scarlett takes another bite of the crepe, desultorily licking away the delicate smear of cheese traced by hints of a fine Italian fruit jam. Flavours balance in harmony, made almost biting in the cold. Breathing out leaves a silvered contrail not a little unlike a dragon peering down from its mountain aerie upon a petitioner. Brushing aside one of the faint, frosted-silver strands unwoven from her meticulously arranged braids, she levels a look over the defense of a fanned paper plate.
"Did thine soul find its solace in the pristine depths of the wood, adopting the secret pace of nature? Or have you found in this place of confined skies and endless noise a welcome silence of deep longing?" The question is etched in whimsy, a bohemian's music learned at the knees of the beatniks and the romantic dreamers, but not without a genuine inquiry underneath. Fingers curl, subtle. «Miss?»
*
He catches the finger motion, Blackagar's own moving a bit as well, expressing through posture and body than words. «Yes. Did you?» There's a substantial wait as he looks around, gazes about New York's streets that make up the Village and he shakes his head, «I do not know if this would ever be a place I would call home.» But regardless he smiles and extends a hand outwards, pulling it from his pocket; gloved of course. «Tell me what has taken place?»
*
Pepper arrives from East Village.
*
Pepper has arrived.
*
Pepper leaves, heading towards Financial District [S].
*
Pepper has left.
*
He tests her range of knowledge there, and the percolating shards do not come easy to Scarlett. Rarely does anything so shallowly entrenched. Biting her inner lip distorts the graceful line tending to form into a thoughtful line until curving in spite of itself for his hand reaching out. Blackagar earns a slight brightening of those witchfire eyes, and faint trails of auroral green dance across the surface where the frosty beams of a streetlamp strike those radiant irises. "What do you think?"
It's the liveliest he may well have seen her in weeks. Months. Ever. Taking a breath, she steps up from the fountain. All that dangerous ice sends her skidding right to him, arm out to her side for wobbly balance, fairly easily caught. Unfairly, too, given the slightest adjustment might lift her off the ground, but in turn, betray her as more than the gaggle of Greenwichers all about. Another answer might be forthcoming, depend on whether the weather knocks both of them out.
*
Catching her was never an option to bypass, of course he was going to catch her, the true test was if it would send Blackagar falling; but alas it does not. His footing remains stable and whether intended or not, he moves to sweep her into his arms. It was, perhaps, a bit cliche but he would not know that. The arts and novellas of the time are greatly lost on him. In fact if pressed he would be forced to admit having never seen a movie to know just what a travesty of the spinning catch into his arms it truly was.
But regardless, the action is done and his hand, gloved as it is, has brushed against a cheek with a smile. «I think that leaving is tough, but returning is nice.»
*
No reason at all why he has the option to munch on the crepe does his heart so desire. Blackagar will not be without his resources there, given the warmly scented fold of thin, crisp-laced batter wrapped around strawberries and other goodness is about parallel with his chin. An arm potentially wound around her in protective balance leaves Scarlett laughing, the lyrical tumble of sounds at first disused, and then slowly rising into a warmer cascade as the ice breaks from that frozen river. Close enough to be swept up, and from over his shoulder, the Inhuman gets a smattering of applause.
Greenwich is full of artists and dreamers. Of course they know what they see, and it strikes their soul. They're still drunk, though, and someone shouts, "Hey, carry her off before you both end up on the pavement!"
Her gaze tips up, fiery lashes deflecting the brunt of the luminosity. "I think that means you put up with the city and being the centre of attention now and then." Not struggling in the least, Scarlett trusts him to figure out the best way to balance her. "You should come see my garden. Some of the plants are in bloom." Impossible as that may seem.
*
A garden? That actually has Blackagar leaning back some away from her to frown, nose etching a bit as he takes on his look of confusion and concern. How is it possible to have a garden in bloom with winter still licking it's chops at the city. Tilting his head, the confusion that aligns him is added not with voice but expression. «How?» His eyes look then, in the direction of where Scarlett's apartment lies and only is able to hide his consideration before managing to look at the applause and offer a small dip of his head. No bow or flourish, just an acknowledgement. Humility in a street performer? Never. Even a King looks humble next to them.
*
The surprise on Blackagar's expression is nearly enough to laugh again, the gentle sort of sound than delights in someone's honest reactions rather than chides them for it. She captures the confusion better than the lengthier inquiries before, and her crepe is tilted closer to her chest while he walks to what may be the tallest building around Greenwich Village. Supposing he intends to carry her there, at least Scarlett makes the task infinitely easier by failing to struggle and, where necessary, wrapping her arm around his neck for better support. "I reacted nearly the same. The blessing of a friend in league with eternal spring. I think you may appreciate it, though I intend to bring a few of the flowers inside just in case."
*
He does carry her, at least for a ways before settling her down. Blackagar does not understand the looks, the knowing smiles he gets from a few men, the winking, jealous grins from women. He does not know the recognition of intimacy they have and so he can only awkwardly look away while walking now towards the tall building. «But a garden, in bloom?» There's a smirk and he expresses further, «Next you will tell me there is music that doesn't hurt my head.»
*
And la bohemienne? Unmistakeably she recognizes the nature of their pointed looks, giving not one whit for their particular concerns. At most she meets the venomous envy by tendering one of those infinitely sunny smiles that let Scarlett walk through the streets of a riot and avoid being ripped apart by one Mr. Banner.
The smirk gets a strawberry-juice dabbed fingertip raised to his lips. She, too, is gloved, and that takes away the threat of Blackagar collapsing to his knees semi-conscious due to an accidental touch. "Come and I will show you. A fair bargain?"
*
A slow nod and Blackagar is in agreement, adding, «If your garden is what you claim, then not only will I be impressed, I will even cook dinner tonight. If you'll be ready to eat by then.» Realizing he sent a flurry of expression, he quickly tones it back and tries again. «You show, I cook.» The idea of food a bit more ready on his mind now that he has been assaulted by strawberry.
*
Too many words, unfortunately, too many concepts. Scarlett shakes her head, clearly trying to suss through the details without cheating. Never descend to that unless life is on the line. Placing the crepe, half-eaten, to her chest as the building grows closer, te business of fishing out a key requires some careful work extracting the key from a necklace under her dress. "You see the garden, and we eat? Fair enough, I think that trade will satisfy us both."