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When Tanya leaves her apartment, Roy's leaning against the blue mailbox in front of her stairway.
He's dressed to blend in — a black leather jacket with red epaulets, jeans, a plain grey t-shirt. A duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, and his face is partially obscured by dark sunglasses. Just to complete the look, a toothpick dances on the end of his tongue as he waits for Tanya to leave the apartment.
It's a lovely Saturday afternoon, the sun high enough to light the street but low enough that shadows keep the sidewalks cool. There's not even a great deal of foot traffic, with most of the residents being out at work or elsewhere in the city.
*
"Just…gotta get my key in…dammit, where's the grocery list?" It's the mutter of the momentarily scatter-brained as she leans against the front door of the complex to open it. Fresh air wafts in, along with…cologne?
With a hand wrist-deep in her purse, Tanya glances up and her brows rise in immediate, unavoidable surprise. She pauses, the pane of the door against her shoulder, and her lips slowly arch into a completely unrepentant smile.
A finger draws a line down and up again towards his relaxed self. "I like it, but it's…bland somehow. Did you forget your charm again today? Or is it in the other pair of pants?"
*
"No, I've got it," Roy says, deadpanning. "I'm just wearing looser jeans so I can fit it all in there. Don't worry, the view gets better if I turn around," he remarks. He *pffts* his toothpick into a trashcan nearby and rises, hands still resting loosely in his jacket.
"Nice look you've got there," he tells Tanya, giving her a lazily appraising head-to-toe. "Very chique. You busy? I promised you some pie the other day, and I deliver. Even if someone drops my drawers in the middle of a public thoroughfare."
*
"Mmmmm…hmm."
Tanya languidly shifts her weight to allow the door to close before adjusting the cuff of one of her wrist-length white gloves with delicate, deliberate precision. Today's a Jackie Kennedy meets mini-skirt sort of day, with a nice pair of low-slung heels to grant extra height for one short enough to note it regularly. She really is going grocery shopping, promise — or was.
On the end of that contemplative sound, the dark-brunette tilts her head ever so slightly. "I suppose I'll take you up on the slice of pie. It's awfully nice of you. Should I apologize for gravity, however? It was, after all, the reason your pants fell down. Now, if your drawers had fallen down…" A little cluck of her tongue. "La, but that would have been a sight, considering the fact that the view apparently gets better from behind."
*
"Gravity, huh? Not likely. Belt got cut right in half," Roy says, without accusation in his voice. "So either you're a hell of a knife thrower, or you've got some kind of meta talent. But hey? Let's get some pie, and see if you still want to dig in my pants for my charm afterwards," he tells her.
He falls into step alongside Tanya when she hits the sidewalk, moving smoothly and quietly in his low boots. "So what's all this?" he asks, wiggling a finger at her outfit. "Last week you looked like a dive bar waitress. Then it was a go-go dancer on tour. Today, you're Jackie Kennedy. Are you one of those girls with more outfits than silverware?" he inquires, tilting one brow at her.
*
A moderately un-ladylike snort escapes her and she purses her lips, painted as they are in a complimentary berry hue. It's easy enough to adopt a brisk stride that implies a future destination to be reached in a timely manner; how she manages to make it look effortless and self-possessed, replacing 'harried' with 'deliciously unruffled'? …could be magic, who knows?
"There's an art to finding the correct outfit and wearing it correctly as well. You do a good enough job with…whatever it is you're attempting to project today. I was going to get groceries, but I can't turn down a slice of pie." Her glance over at him twinkles. "We make an interesting pair, I'm sure — all the better to blend in." Tanya's voice drops to a conspiratorial volume despite her self-confident, close-lipped smile. "But little old me? Meta talent? You'll have to explain to me what that is, Mister Arrow."
*
"I was going with 'Cute, but unmemorable,'" Red Arrow explains to Tanya, matching her self-possessed strut with a lazy, confident stride that looks utterly diffident to the circumstance around them.
"I'm guessing you've got some low-level telekinetic talents. Maybe some strength augmentation — a little psychic influence?" he asks, matter-of-factly. "You're not exactly built like She-Hulk, and you handled that guy in the alley pretty well. Either that, or you can throw knives perfectly accurately at range and make them vanish into thin air," he says, plainly.
"So what kinda pie do you like?"
*
Her olive eyes flick to his face and away. Side-stepping to avoid someone walking the other direction means doing an artful, nearly crane-like pause. Roy travels on, the man whisks by, clearly on business in some regards, and a few quick steps bring her up beside her would-be-date again.
"My favorite is cherry. Blackberry is good too, but the crust needs to have sugar on it." She reaches up to pat down an errant wave of hair blown out of place by the light breeze. "Mmm, telekinesis…no. Strength augmentation? I wouldn't say so. Psychic influence…? Perhaps. I assume you won't go shouting it about town?" She gives the man a rather cool glance.
*
"Don't try to hit me with any psychic whammy, and your secret's safe with me," Roy assures Tanya. "I won't out you. Just curious," he says. "It's not something a lot of metahumans talk about. I don't blame you. Broadcasting what you can do is a sure way to get framed for something," he remarks, casually.
"Cherry pie, or blackberry with sugar," he muses. "Okay. Coffee, or tea?" he asks, amicably. Odd questions, but perhaps it's just his low-key wait of getting to know the leggy dancer.
*
"Coffee. Tea is terrible. Watered down lawn clippings. I have no idea why people like it. It's…just froo-froo drink." She wrinkles her nose slightly. "Black coffee and cherry pie. Food of the gods," and Tanya sighs, her entire mien going softer for at least the time span of a passing sunbeam.
She needs must watch her step briefly for a scattering of broken concrete and picks through it with the same adroit delicacy as shown earlier with her glove. Once past it, she glances to Roy. "I can't imagine it's accepted at all. Unnatural abilities… It'd be a witch hunt in a snap." Her voice has dropped to quiet near-introspection again.
*
"Like you're the only metahuman in New York anymore?" he asks, with another tilt of a ginger brow. "Superman's flying around carrying planets on his back, Captain Marvel flies to and from work — I'm pretty sure that there are aliens living in the Upper East Side, and you're worried about standing out?"
He shakes his head, focusing on the walk forward. "Maybe in the Appalachian backwoods, yeah, but here in New York — you're probably as safe here as anywhere else in the world," Roy assures Tanya. He stands on the sidewalk, looks left and right, then darts into a lull in traffic to get across the street.
*
Tanya, in her guise of 'everyday house-frau', even remembers to tilt her wrists to an angle as she follows in his wake. She's quick, yes, little mince-mincing feet, and manages to give him a little reproachful glare once safely on the other side.
"You are going to get hit one day," she chides him. The little quirks at the corners of her lips betrays the kick she got out of jay-walking. "Glad to hear that this place is safer. Safe," she amends. Digging through her purse covers up the slip — maybe. "I think I'll blend in well enough." Finding her lipstick, it's a practiced dab of color to brighten the hue and click, the make-up goes away. "Now, where are we going?" A pointed, curious look to him follows.
*
"Haven't gotten hit yet," Roy remarks, offhandedly.
He waits for her to catch up, patiently, and gestures at the corner. "Just up Fifth street. Domingo's Pastries," he tells her. "Not the best in the city, but they're good, and they aren't a mile of slogging it on pavement through the crowds."
Sure enough, they round the corner and the silver diner front is only a short walk away.
"Unless you've got somewhere else you'd rather go," he tells Tanya, lifting one brow again. "But I don't have anywhere else in mind unless you're willing to hop in a cab with me, and you don't seem the type to jump in the backseat with a stranger."
*
"A stranger? Not without good reason, no," she agrees lightly. "However, you're redeeming yourself into my good graces with this…Domingo's Pastries." She hasn't been here before, likely evidenced by the curious once-over. To an experienced fighter's eyes, it has more the feel of a speculative measurement of the current attendees verses layout, exits, and bulwarks in case of gunfire. "Who knows? I might even consider you an acquaintance when all is said and done." Her teeth appear as she briefly bites the inside of her lower lip. Forgive the forward casing of the man himself now.
"You still haven't told me your name," Tanya adds as she pauses out of swing-reach of the door. Old habit still kicks in and she aborts her white-gloved reach for the handle in a moment of realization that Roy just might open the door before her. Ah, chivalry.
*
"Let's not get crazy," Roy says, at the 'acquaintances' remark. "'Casual strangers' might even be a better way to put it."
He looks at Tanya when she looks at him, and looks at her, and she looks at him, and just before she might get the door herself, he steps forward, hipchecks the door on his way through, and holds it open with his shoe, hands still in his pockets. And it's a narrow enough space she'll have to squeeeeeze past him to get inside.
"I'll just keep up the good deeds, damsel-saving, and who knows? We might work up to 'friendly near neighbors' in a decade or two," he deadpans right back at her.
*
Oh-ho. So that is how it's going to be. "Friendly…near neighbors?" He might even need to tilt his head to catch her words, low and humoring. No issue, the lack of space. If anything, Tanya slows in her travels, precisely midway through the portal framed by metal and one side by a man — not gentleman, assuredly. The drag of her eyes is frank, assessing, and lingers on his chin before attempting to find his eyes behind the sunglasses.
"If I can eat this entire slice of pie in one sitting, uninterrupted, I think 'casual strangers' will do." Slipping the rest of the way into the cafe brings her into cool air laden with the scent of pure deliciousness. A pleased hum escapes her as she steps up to the glass shelves showcasing the wares. Her gloved hands fold neatly over her stomach, the very picture of vapid innocence.
*
"That's probably a good start as any," Roy agrees, matching her slow, lingering stare with an equal slow-burn look from his bespectacled eyes. Their intense proximity holds suspended in time for just a few seconds longer than is strictly necessary, a counter to the lazy antagonism of their banter. Then the two flow into movement again and he follows her to the display, finally removing his glasses and tucking them away. His hazel eyes flicker over the goods, and when the waitress approaches, he lifts a chin. "Two slices of cherry pie a la mode, for me and the lady," he requests, digging in his pocket for a few folded bills and handing them over. While the waitress busies herself with their order, Roy moves to seat himself in a booth with a good view of both doors, slinging his small duffel bag in first so it's out of reach of pickpocketers.
*
With care for the height of her skirt (it does unfortunately shift up when she sits, the bane of all clothes as such), the dark-brunette looks really rather prim settled across the table from him in the booth. Her purse is set closest to the wall on the seat, also out of the way of light fingers.
It's all ruined when she rests an elbow on the table and then her chin in one hand. Her smile is faintly wry. "You forgot the coffee…and please, your name. It was unfair plucking my ID, you know. I would have introduced myself…eventually."
*
Roy leans back in the booth, lounging confidently as much as Tanya sits with such effortless grace. They make a strange juxtaposition, her sensual posture and his relaxed poise. At her question, his brows lift, then furrow, then relax as he thinks it over.
"What difference would my name make?" he asks, with a tone of idle banter. "Knowing my name wouldn't change who I am… or what you think about me, would it?" he asks, with a challenging tone given a playful underscore by the tilt of his brow.
*
"If we're to be 'casual strangers', I should at least know your name. Unless you'd rather be Will Scarlett. Or…Captain Crunch." Guilelessly, she returns fire, looking up from checking whether or not the white wrist-gloves have a single spot on them. "After all, you did smell heavily of the peanut butter cereal. You know the kind?"
Shifting in the booth brings her to sit upright for a moment, if only to scan her surroundings. Hopefully the pie arrives soon — she can ask for her coffee then. "And why would I think of you differently? Unless you have some horrible name like…Benedict. That one always makes me think of breakfast. Or Wilfred. Your parents must not have liked you if that's your name." She manages a sympathy that's overlaid by equally-light humor.
*
"You can call me Robin Hood, as far as I'm concerned," Roy says, flashing another bland smile. "It's funny what names do, isn't it? Knowing my name won't change anything about me, y'know. You'll think the same things of me. I'll have the same face. I'll act the same way. But you're going nuts that you don't have the name I put with my face," he tells her. "Is it because I know -your- name and you're one of those dames who can't stand things being inequitable?"
At that moment the pie shows up, and Roy makes room for the waitress to set their meals down. A dollop of ice cream cools the hot filling on each plate. "Two cups of coffee, when you can," he asks of the waitress, before reaching for his fork and digging into the pastry.
*
Waiting until the waitress has retreated back to fetch their coffee, Tanya then grants the man sticking his fork into his slice a very flat look.
"I'm not calling you Robin Hood. It's going to be 'Captain Crunch' if you keep this up. You're not being mature about it."
Still, a little flash of teeth as she considers her own dessert. Goodness, the ice cream is melting quickly. Best eat it fast. The first bite is…simply heaven. Out of sight, her toes curl in her shoes and there's no hiding her enjoyment. It's effusive, from the closed eyes to the way the utensil is thoroughly clean by the time it reaches air again.
"Hot damn, but that's good," she murmurs, mostly to herself.
*
"Granted," Roy agrees. "But you're kind of cute when you're miffed. Like you can't decide if you wanna kiss me or pop me in the face. Or both," he says, looking over at her as he takes another bite of his pie, lazily cleaning the fork much as Tanya does between pressed lips.
"So that's entertaining, and I'm kinda inclined to see how long we can run with it."
He reaches for the coffee when it shows up and takes a sip, then promptly cools himself off with a bite of the ice cream. Forks aren't great for ala mode, but he seems determined to only use one utensil.
"So. Chicago girl, down here in New York. Nice games, stylish look, up to a little trouble… so, what's the plan? Broadway? Trying to make it as an actress?":
*
"Well, gee, Captain Crunch, let me tell you my whole sob-filled backstory over this slice of pie that might melt my icy exterior to a simpering puddle," she replies with light tartness, not too unlike the taste of the cherries buried within the cinnamon-laced pie crust and hidden beneath half-melted vanilla ice cream. Another mouthful of dessert stops up her response and she takes a moment to appreciate the taste again. Divine. The spoon is twirled point-down in the spreading puddle of pie-slurry and she glances up at him, the faint smile mostly for show.
"Running away from home. Don't we all at some point?"
*
"Riveting," Roy comments. Unlike Tanya, he's made a clear line of demarcation between pie and ice cream, and he goes from one to the another with steady deliberation. "The whole story, huh?"
He glances at her doubtfully, eating more pie. "Plenty of people do, I guess, but everyone's got their own reasons. Lemme guess— you wanted to make it big on Broadway?" he asks her, flicking his spoon in a circle on his fingertips. "You've got the legs for it, I guess. Or the Rockettes? You're about the right height."
*
"Gee, thanks," she replies, deliberately nasal in her accent. Southern Canada, ahoy! Wrinkling her nose grants her momentary Cupid-like insouciance and then it's back to collecting up a spoonful of pie plus ice cream. "Glad to know that I have a future under the bright lights as a possibility." Again with the rather unladylike leaning of her face on her hand as she works to gather up a little more from the puddle around the gently-curved bowl. Her gaze rests upon the task at hand — er, spoon.
"No Broadway for me. They…" Something takes her by the throat momentarily and she shakes her head. "No, no Broadway. I'm stage-shy." There's something playful about the statement even if it's got syrupy self-recriminating undertones. "I had to get out of town for a while and…got settled here, I guess. My neighbors are nice, surprisingly. You New Yorkers are supposed to be awful." She indulges in another mouth and then speaks around the mouthful: "I mean, you're pretty awful, don't get me wrong. I still don't have your name." She swallows, licking an errant smudge of cherry filling from the corner of her mouth. "My grandmother would whack your knuckles with a ruler for being so rude." Is that another ghost of a smile? ….naaaaaah.
*
"Shy? Not something I'd have pegged you for," Roy rebuts, taking another bite of pastry. He scrapes the berry and sauce into a little puddle and scours the plate clean, leaving only crumbs and some melted ice cream to settle in the bowl depression.
"There you go, with that /name/ thing again," Roy says, his voice neutral but something in his stoic features suggesting a bit of fun being had at Tanya's expense. "I thought you liked 'Captain Crunch'," he reminds her. "You haven't told me what you do for a living, but you don't hear me banging on about it."
*
An eye-roll AND a snort. Bonus points to the man.
"Fine, Captain Crunch, fine. That's what you'll be. I don't work…at the moment," she admits, frowning down at her pie. About a third left still. Geez, it was a big piece — or maybe her eyes were bigger than her stomach. "I have money enough still to keep me comfortable. Gotta be able to buy all of my pretty clothes so I can prance around and bat my eyelashes at folk." My, what an expert flutter of said dark lashes towards Roy. She takes a moment to sip at her coffee; on the white porcelain, lipstick left behind is a rouged bruise on the surface. "When I need a job, I'll go be a secretary or work behind a counter. Easy enough."
*
"Trust fund baby, huh?" Roy surmises, pushing his plate away. He lounges back against the booth behind him, sipping his coffee with a ring finger threaded through the handle and his fingertips gripping the rim. "Or are you one of those 'dangerous damsels' they talk about in the nickel thrillers?" he asks, with a lifted brow. "Vamping on hardworking joes, then robbing them blind when you get bored? Hate to spoil any aspirations you've got, but I spent all my piggy bank funs on domino masks and arrows last week."
*
"And yet you still have enough for pie." The clatter of the spoon in her bowl accents the bite out of the words. A shuff of a shove for rejecting the bowl and then Tanya leans back in her booth. A third of the pie remains there, wallowing in an ocean of mostly-melted ice cream. "I worked for every — damn — penny — of my money. Every…single…cent. You don't get to sit there and accuse me of doing such a thing when you don't know a damn thing about me."
At least she's keeping her voice down?
*
Roy slurps his coffee, looking overwhelmingly unconcerned by Tanya's vitriolic outburst. "Hey, cool your horses," he tells Tanya, the hand on the table rising an inch in a pacifying gesture. "This is New York. It ain't easy to live here even if you've got a decent job. Everyone seems to need a little help. It's not like I pay for this gig by working as a schoolteacher," he remarks, flipping his hand through the air dismissively. "Didn't realize it's such a hot-button issue for ya."
*
She seems to wrangle with her temper for another half-minute or so, studiously averting her gaze to the wall. Her jaw moves, flexes, and the words she wants to say are kept down…barely. This might seem like a new effort.
"I don't need any help." Boy, that sounded petulant still. "I'm not damsel in distress and I don't need help."
The pie is still ignored, but…she tries for civility again. "So you're not a schoolteacher. What do you do when you're not pin-cushioning the generally-questionable public?"
*
"I'm a Rockette," Roy says, as if it were patently obvious. "Weren't the legs a giveaway?" he inquires, with an utter deadpan tone that is so dry that it crosses the realm from sarcasm to a saharan sense of humor.
He throws back the last of his coffee and puts a few bills on the table as a tip, but makes no effort to get to his feet. "And I rescue damsels in distress. I mean, dames in danger," he amends, flicking fingertips through the air. "Not that you were ever in distress or needed help, being the strong, independent woman you are."
*
He gains yet another snort.
"A Rockette who rescues dames in danger. And I'm Joseph Stalin." Tanya clicks her tongue again, leaving that rubied mouth open in a grin. "Though you do have very long legs. You're missing…through the chest, however. And I can't imagine the fish nets going over well. You'd have to shave your legs," she informs him with the gravity of the knowledgeable in said matter.
*
"Da, dovaritzch," Roy says, Tanya's slow grin matched with a suggestion at a low, lopsided smirk of amusement. "I can't help that we're not all as endowed as certain people," he tells Tanya. "I prayed real hard when I was a little girl, and I was told 'great gams or big cushions'. I made my choice, no regrets," Roy explains.
"I guess some of us swept the lottery," he adds, tilting his head to the side and giving Tanya an appreciative once-over.
*
"Sometimes life deals us a better hand in certain ways." It's clear she agrees, preen-preen. "Though truly, try the fish-nets one time. You'll probably find them freeing. Very airy." She seems in no hurry to finish the coffee, at least, and smiles again.
"So…no name, no job…guess you're just 'Captain Crunch', arrow-shooting vigilante. My mama would say that you're nothing but trouble." The words curl out with the steam atop her coffee.
*
"Trouble's about the right word," Roy agrees, with a low-key insincerity in his lazy brogue. "No job, no prospects, operating on the shady side of the law… I've ever got a motorycycle and a leather jacket. James Dean and me, we're like this," he says, twining his fingers together momentarily. "Probably too much man for you, and I'd just break your heart anyway," he says, chin bobbing along as if stringing out the chain of logic in Tanya's mind.
"I suppose that means you aren't interested in showing me those fishnets after all," he remarks, giving Tanya a sly look that utterly fails to be coy.
*
Her voice is all black velvet now. "Oh no, honey. We have the opposite problem here. All of New York…should be ready for me. Fishnets, however?" She shakes her head slowly, the black locks of hair shifting lazily about. "Leather is in for terribly questionable people like us. I did mention a full-body suit, remember?"
The finished cup of coffee is placed aside. She does consider the pie and spoons one last bite into her mouth. Too bad — the ice cream is warm enough that it's not worth finishing.
"Next time you pick me up, you'll have to bring the motorcycle. Who knows? I might even wear the suit." She gestures at him with the spoon as if to make a point, smirking.
*
"Full body?" Roy arcs an eyebrow. "That's almost a crime, with those legs. I would have figured you for a dancing girl, not a rogue biker. Like I said, legs like that, it's almost a crime to cover them up."
He slurps down more of his coffee. "But, then there'll -be- a next time, huh? That's good to hear. I figured the bike would do it. You strike me as the kind of lady who'd appreciate a hard ride on a solid piece of equipment."
*
"Every now and then…though I prefer quality most," and her olive-green eyes twinkle. "Prove your quality, Captain. Respect the dame, show up with the motorcycle, and…who knows. Maybe a skirt instead of the full-body suit. We could go dancing, since you're so sure that I'm the dancing sort."
A beat. A flick upwards of her manicured brows. "…unless you're candy-ass for it."
*
"My ass is hard and sweet, it's true," Roy says, getting to his feet. "But you'll find that out for yourself." He gives her a speculative once over, reaching for his bag and slinging it across his shoulder. "Dancing, huh? I guess I could suffer a nightclub for a spell. We'll have to save the leather suits for another night," he says suggestively, before putting on his sunglasses.
"See you around, Legs," he comments, and with a two-fingered sketch of a salute, he turns to head out of the diner.
*
Tanya turns in the booth to watch him leave and…dastardly betrayal! Her eyes flick from the back of his head and down ever so briefly.
"Three nights from now, Captain — and bring the motorcycle," she adds, biting at her bottom lip ever so briefly. A twiddle of white-fingered gloves is perfect mockery of the propriety in which she masquerades.
*