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«It is much more impressive in person, always has been.» Blackagar's writing is shown to Scarlett as he gazes up at the Tower, set in landscape to them from the table where the delivery of food has yet to occur. Wine of course was provided early on, it is Paris after all and what, if not wine at least, do they do well?
Again he sketches on his slate to talk, «I hate to admit my feet hurt from walking all day, because they don't. But I could imagine a normal person would be in quite that state.» It is a humor for him, one that has him smiling in a joking manner while looking across the table to his company.
*
Leaving Greenwich Village at 9:00 AM, landing in Paris faster than any jet, still gave time for the couple to walk from the wooded grounds of an old park to the heart of nouveau Paris. The Eiffel at their left hand leaves Notre Dame across the Seine at their right, and the table is well-situated. Being able to ask politely in French goes a long way. So does being early, twilight still creeping in from the east. A glass of Burgundian wine dancing from her fingers, Scarlett lightly nudges her seat closer to the monk's to make reading the slate easier. "That is true for nigh everything," she replies, absently fixing the linen napkin over her lap. "A photograph is not the same as seeing with your own eyes, and experience trumps study sometimes."
Waning sunlight hangs on the curve of her smile, glossed by the last sip she made. "Truly, is there a better place to wear out your boots? A good chance of finding better ones here." While she speaks, a server drifts by and leaves a tureen of butter and a basket of bread, hardly breaking stride. They aren't paying for the effusive service.
*
«Experience does often trump anything else, yes.» Blackagar affirms on the slate, letting his chair slide a bit as well so he can extend an arm about the woman's shoulders along the back of her chair. The bread is delivered, given a polite nod by him even as the waitress departs, however no move is made for it. His diet tends to drift away from the heavy carb foods. With his free hand he continues to write, «Since this is your master plan. What was on your mind for post dinner?»
*
The weight of Blackagar's arm against her shoulders settles as she freezes for a moment, the brief ingrained reaction overridden. Her foot brushes his; smoldering auroral green eyes slant through her lowered lashes and frosted bangs in his direction. The tilt to curl into his embrace slightly is slow, not glacial, done while reading. Nothing to see here, except everything. "Ah!" A soft laugh is a sonnet upon her lips. "You put me on the spot, darling. Wandering about the Pantheon in the silent company of luminaries aside, we could lose ourselves among the streets or spend all night admiring the Tower. Your imaginary aching feet might stop you from climbing it." The other advantage to the timezone difference, they're both comparatively awake for hours yet. "I did promise dancing, too. What sounds appealing to you?"
*
He notices perhaps, a bit late, that the contact does not carry with it the same rush of sensation that it normally does. An eyebrow quirks slightly, none to telling but enough to warrant note. «You should know me by now. I'm usually up for whatever strikes at the time. My agenda is your agenda, and what is appealing to me is whatever path is taken.» A verbose way of saying that he is along for the ride, it is her vacation however and he is but there.
*
What might well be different? The gloves were stashed an hour and a half ago in her pocket. Calculations for an intelligent mind might mark the same usual assortment of rings, braids — for all they're always changing in shape — and the matchless opal captured on a chain under the diaphanous sleeve drifting over her wrist. She might dispute the notion of 'her' holiday; that, too, is telling. Her shoulder presses lightly into his upper arm and chest. "Scampering like thieves through the City of Light should be done late, very late, when the dreams lift off the stones for tourists like us. That gives us a few hours to fill." A slim finger points to the long stretch of grass arranged around paved spaces. "Dance with me there. Musicians are not hard to find. I need no faerie tale tonight. It could be pouring rain, I would be happy." Her fingers languidly put down the glass of wine, the resilient citrus scent to her hair stronger in proximity. "This good humour of yours is infectious. I'm going to be coaxing smiles like that out of you all night, even if that means we're madcap."
*
«I suspect that you're simply attempting to soften my mood to present me with some kind of startling revelation. Is that not how it goes? The phrase? Butter someone up?» He indicates the butter upon the table with the phrase, Blackagar's humored expression showing as he does. «Dancing on the grass, wandering the streets at night. You are going to turn me into some kind of vagabond. Tell me however, will you be able to resist my adorable charms for such a time?»
*
A laugh shines in the air, tumbling from her. "Yes, the grand revelation is that I delight in your company." It takes her very best manners not to respond as he's writing, anticipating the sentences, but patience she possesses in spades. Not mountains full like him, but close. "I am a scholar and a nomad, Blackagar. A romantic, too, in my ways. Are you asking me to deny my essential nature in denying your allure? Oh, that warning came far too late." She catches a bead of wine running down the side of the glass, and presses it to her lips. "Too late, Blackagar. I have no resistance. Love leaves no survivors to flee to neutral ground. It demands complete surrender." Voila, France.
*
About to write something, Blackagar pauses, eyes glancing at Scarlett for a moment. He hesitates then decides something, by the furrow of his brow it was a period of thinking. When he writes, it is rather simple, «I would never ask you to deny yourself. That would just be cruel. Restraint, yes, but denial? Never.» He turns it so she can see the words, looking up at the woman with a small smile that borders on the mischievious.
*
With no sign of activity in the kitchen and the other diners thoroughly engrossed in their own conversations, the minor nuclear detonation of revelation does not capture much attention. Oh, there may be a few eavesdroppers intently curious about the man who writes, brushes off chalk, and writes more. They aren't very well privy to what is said, though. In the meantime, Scarlett drinks her wine, unhurried as before. Her part is said, an inviolable fact, and not one that demands reciprocation. Dreamily watching the black spike of iron and steel into an impossible confection of thousands of round lights burning alight, the blur of figures in the park below captivates her. Only when he's done, the slate shifted for ease of reading, will those green eyes drop. Then up again. "Tres bon." Very good. "Sometimes restraint is essential, especially for me. Though with you…" Her expression softens, lip bitten at the rounded outer corner. Pupils expanded to take in the darkness render her features smoother, more starkly contrasted. "Food seems the least necessity at the moment."
*
It is the signal, the bite upon her lip that Blackagar has come to recognize. The tease and the dance of words and looks is one thing but when that bite comes he straightens a bit, leans over and writes on the slate. «If food is not the necessity, then what is?» Expression hints at knowing.
*
It takes her a moment, composure her armour donned as easily as a knight ever slid his arm through shield straps and sat up in the saddle. The melody of her heartbeat coruscates sharply in the clamour of raindrops on the roof and diners murmuring to one another, things she is all acutely aware of. Scarlett does not lack for directness or courage, and her chin lifts, allowing her to catch Blackagar's gaze. "You." It's but a whisper, the simple truth graven plain on her skin, the indent dimpling her lower lip. Even when she doesn't think about it, it's her go to tell. "There when dawn breaks. The steady presence when I fall asleep. Always there, that need for you."
*
His hand grazes her shoulder, Blackagar's eyes firmly planted upon hers. Although his free hand could move to the slate, instead it lifts and rises, to brush over Scarlett's cheek. Some words are better left unspoken but rather reflected. A private person for his life, to do such in public is a bit of a stretch but, it is a necessity in his mind. Leaning forward, he seeks to kiss her. Not a mere peck or a gentle brushing; but a deeper reflection of soul, a pouring out of being; and to hell with the other diners who may be gazing.
*
What are the French, if not the greatest lovers? The Venetians have a thing or two to say about that, but regardless. Scarlett's startled response trembles within the sealed prison of their meeting lips, sputtering out to a silent form of poetry. Fingertips curl around the back of Blackagar's neck, and no phantom bite of her mutagenic curse follows. Such might make the depth and unbridled passion following the benchmark of surprise that much stronger, and the tremor waves rolling up her body almost lifts her out of the chair. Such is the problem when she can still float, or fly, limited when they have to eventually come up for air. That may be a very long time, given their respective graces.
*
Some time does pass, the expression of soul eventually fading as Blackagar pulls back, his blue eyes looking into hers. Hand lowers to reach down and write, a bit scribbled as his gaze is not drifting from her. «Something is different, feels different.» A simple observation but made regardless. «Ask for the moon, I shall move it.» That part is scribbled further down, a poetic phrase really that has many potential undertones.
*
One breath cycles through a shared conduit, his blown out and hers drawn in from the same. Lucid and, in some ways not, Scarlett is loathe to tear her gaze away even to check what is written. She lifts her left hand, the bracelet woven from metal threads and that central stone plain as day. "Restraint. Without it, we have just mine," she explains, still barely above the cadence of a whisper. Her palm brushes his cheekbone, and she catches herself before leaning back in. Thinking 'ere action, the hardest thing for the bohemian to attain, requires a moment. "Blackagar Boltagon," his name comes out glazed in honeyed poetry, carefully shaped as any fragile glass vessel, "I ask for you. An endless string of nights and days together." Saying that much has her quaking like a leaf again, bruising her lower lip again. "I am happiest with you."
*
A glance is given, to the restaurant proper. Sitting outside was a desired thing, a pleasant way to sit and watch the Tower and the people. However now… his hand lifts to entwine hers within his own. A small nod comes, without the slate his expression and eyes speak the most common word. «Yes.» Yes to what is unclarified, perhaps it all. Agreeing to it all. Fingers in touch, arm around, his nose brushes against hers to bring his face close and in contact, the need for touch from the offered restraint. Then, at the end of it, his eyes drift momentarily to the restaurant once more.
*
Later, she can demonstrate the rather stubborn clasp, and how the monk can dispense of the bracelet as need be. For the moment, she sinks a little lower into the chair and upon him. It takes the bohemian a moment to recover her wits, tension evaporating into stardust and blown aside, the rush surprisingly relaxing. It might be enough to bring a laugh, but her lips seek his for a moment. "Agreed. Let's go." The greenbacks on the table will no doubt be sufficient to cover the meal uneaten, though presumably arranging some kind of lodgings might allow for delivery. It's a thought inspected and released.
*
The small chuckle that a normal man would express is kept muted and instead displayed in his eyes. A nod is given and he pushes back his chair in order to pull hers back, hand never leaving from Scarlett's. A quick grab of his slate is taken and he writes quickly on it, «Where to?»
*
What sort of sane response can Scarlett offer under the circumstances? She rises from the table, mindful not to knock the bread or the wineglass. Shattering pieces would be entirely unwanted, though she tells the server in polished French, "«I am sorry. We had a sudden change of plans. Please cancel our orders.»" However condescending the look going down his nose, she dispatches the one duty necessary in the face of good manners. Fetching her coat, hand still in Blackagar's, she leads him out from the restaurant where at least the cooler, damp air gives a momentary shock to the system. Not enough to dispel the vivid gleam in her eyes, or the spritely step carrying her in time to his pace. "Can we make it to the Pantheon with a bottle of wine?" Her smile holds its secret angles in the shadows, even as she glances to the lovely black tower. It dominates without terrorising, this close. "Mischief tonight, my darling."