1964-06-17 - Can't Trust Your Balance
Summary: The quest for a Hurricane turns into a storm of vertigo and a blitzing retreat for the would-be heroes.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
tanya roy 

Motorcycle, check. Leather jacket, check. Sunglasses at night, check.

Roy's bike is an Ariel — a bit oversized, low to the ground, with blaze orange accents and plenty of modifications that are definitely not factory. The seat's low and long, more than enough room for two, as long as the riders are willing to get cozy.

Roy idles outside of Tanya's apartment, just far enough to the side that traffic can squeak by him. He revs the engine once before idling the motor, the bike growling low and hungry as he waits for the noise of the two-stroke engine to get Tanya's attention.


Legs, wasn't it? The nickname granted in retort for 'Captain Crunch'?

Vinyl shoes, heels low-slung, do everything to lengthen those leanly-muscular gams further still. Knee-high stockings in a sheer-knit of white embrace and then leave a noticeable length of lightly-bronzed skin up for perusal. The skirt: a miniskirt, brazen insult in the face of Jackie Kennedy, plaid in forest-green and white. The shirt itself is a button-down with tight cuffs about her wrists that allow for a puffing rather than smooth delineation. The clutch in her hand, of course, matches the shoes, and her hair is loose and lustrous in the light of the early night.

Oh yes, she heard the engine revving. Over to Roy she steps, half-lidded eyes looking over the machine and, eventually, its rider.

"What a ride," she says, loud enough to be heard over the low rumbling of the bike. Her fingertips glide along the seat and linger on it before she glances to its owner. "Does the invitation stand?" She must be teasing, of course.


Roy watches Tanya's approach, noticing every subtle portion of her sashay. Of course, she notices him noticing, and he notices her noticing him, so he gives up any pretense of being aloof and just takes in the view until Tanya brushes up next to him.

"Invitation? I thought this was your idea," he says, sitting sidesaddle on the bike with his arms folded on his broad chest. "But I guess I could give you a lift." He reaches to the handlebars and hands Tanya a helmet. He turns and with the ease of a cowboy mounting a horse, swings into the saddle and knocks the kickstand out, balancing on his tiptoes while he waits for Tanya to get on the bike.

"Get hugged up close, and hang on tight," he advises her. "Don't know if you've ever been on a bike, but closer is better. Don't throw my balance off."


"I appreciate the lift." Tanya gives the man a thin smile that manages to flash some teeth regardless. "However, this isn't my first ride," she replies, even as she tilts her head back to shake hair behind her shoulders. On goes the helmet with a little adjusting here and there, and somehow she manages to avoid looking like a bobble-head. She swings a leg over the bike with equal ease. More shifting on the seat, an attempt to tuck in said skirt at her thighs (okay…not really because it wasn't going to stay tucked anyways, so why try?), and then there she is, snuggling up close to the leather jacket. Snuggle…snugglesnuggle, not quite painted onto the rider, but enough to have fulfilled any expectations of 'up close'.

"Ready when you are, Captain," she says, flicking back down the visor and then grasping her own wrists about his waist.


"Hang on."

Roy hits the throttle and the bike launches. His balance is remarkable, even with Tanya clinging to him, but the front tire comes at least eighteen inches off the ground for twenty feet.

Roy drives like he fights — fearless and with impeccable accuracy. He weaves through traffic, shifting his body weight left and right. As Tanya burrows closer and hangs on tighter, her body moving with his, Roy takes the turns more aggressively, right up until he launches across a street, hops a curb, and scrapes the bike to a halt right outside of Club Silo, neon lights illuminating the re-purposed silo and the entrance to the club.

Roy drops the kickstand, settles the bike, and swings his leg up and over the handlebars to dismount. He gives Tanya a speculative look.

"Cute skirt," he tells her, offering the woman a surprisingly gentle hand to dismount the vehicle.


Thank goodness for the helmet. It muffled any squeaks that might have escaped…okay, no, totally escaped her mouth as they traveled. That taxi — and whipping around that corner at how many miles an hour? The man is mad!!! …and she wondered sometimes at her own risk-taking on such vehicles.

Still, it's all about the outwards portrayal of the self and after removing the helmet, she runs fingers through her hair in order to add some plump back to it. 'Helmet hair' is such a drag. Said hand is taken and she steps lightly over the height of the seat, never once flashing anything improper despite that length. Skills.

"A compliment? Gosh, I don't know what I've done to deserve it." She returns the helmet to the handlebars and tucks back the mane of dark hair once again. "It's proper to return one with one, right? So…" Those olive eyes give Roy the once-over and she smirks. "You're an entertaining driver." One last little smooth of said skirt before she begins to saunter towards the club's entrance. "Coming?" It's a deliberately-light query tossed over her shoulder.


Roy rolls his eyes a little at her 'compliment', but a tolerant smile tugs at one side of his mouth. He slings her helmet on the handlebars and follows Tanya inside the club, though she seems to evasively be just a step beyond his easy reach.

Roy strikes a balance between not trying to look like he's catching up with her, but letting Tanya lead the way, and contents himself with an appreciative eye for her swaying step.

He hands off his jacket to the coat check girl, along with his bike gloves. Underneath, he wears a slim-fitting long sleeved shirt in red, with subtle texturing woven into the vertical. His broad chest and shoulders saves it from looking over-slender on him, the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and the hem untucked.

"Nightclub, huh?" he inquires, looking around as if trying to track everyone in the club at once. "Nice place. Noisy," he remarks. "This a favorite watering hole?""


Nothing to hand off to coat check for Miss Tanya. She pauses, allowing whatever drop-off may need to occur. An appraising scrutiny means that Roy passes muster in his dress shirt and she manages to stick beside him as they wander deeper into the club. It's a hip and happenin' place, the music loud enough to mean leaning in to hear one another clearly and the drinks are of higher quality than perhaps originally expected.

"I've been meaning to visit since I arrived. Word of mouth piqued my curiosity. I guess we're supposed to try the Southern Hurricane?" She drops a delightful courtly twang on the title. No belle is she and she wouldn't be invited to any country club gathering, even if she wore white gloves. "Bar or a table?" She pauses off to one side, also making a point of seeing who's present…as well as exits and entrances.


"Table," Roy says, letting Tanya guide them around the club. He indicates she should sit tight at the table once he pulls a seat out for her, and moves to the bar and retrieves a pair of tall red cocktails in a bell-shaped glass.

"Bartender asked me why I'm here with two girls. Thanks for that," he tells Tanya, dryly, putting one drink in front of her. He takes a polite sip of the other, then sets the cocktail on the table, positioning himself so he can easily crane his neck and keep track of things while they're talking.


"Yeah…bar's too crowded for me too," she replies, possibly not loud enough to be heard over the beat of the music. Maybe it's an odd admission given what she's flaunted thus far, but there's a knowing and deeply-suspicious cast to the words. Finding a tall table, round and bar-height and small enough to mean sitting elbow to elbow if three chairs are pulled up to it, she shimmies onto one of said chairs.

The return of the archer to the area means her attention is pulled away from the dance floor, a lower inset section of the club where a mass of humanity gyrates in freedom of movement. The bartender remembered a straw in her drink, at least. Pursing lips brings the first hesitant sip and her tongue flips to her upper lip. "Hmm…I can see why." A laugh follows, sweet and yet bubbling with some warm charm. "You brought it upon yourself. I can't save you if you walk into things like this. It makes me wonder as to your sense of self-preservation." Her legs are folded prettily beneath the skirt and she sits akimbo in the chair having rotated its back to touch the side of the table. It makes for an easy lounge there, comfortable as she takes another sip. "Nobody's going to eat you here, y'know," she comments, picking up on his attentive attitude. "…unless you ask, I suppose."


Roy's brows lift a hair at her saucy, suggestive words — and then he clears his throat when Tanya fails to qualify them with one of airy dismissal. If there was any actual light in the club, one might think the dark shadows on his neck were a blush.

"Er. Y'know. Calculated risks," he remarks, electing to stand near Tanya instead of seating himself. He rests his elbow on the table, her legs positioned under his arm so his hip brushes against her knee.

Roy looks at Tanya, and she looks at him, and he looks as if he's trying to find the right words — particularly with her very smoky, very knowing eyes focused on his chiseled features.

"Tanya, I — "

Whatever he's about to blunder through, he's saved from by a positively earsplitting headache that rolls through the club like a concussive wave. People drop in place as they're assailed by severe vertigo, some unable to even stand. A few near the dance floor are sick in place, curling up in balls on the ground.

"What — what the hell?" Roy grunts, grabbing hard the table for balance. At least it's bolted to the ground, but he's leaning hard to the side as the world starts to go sideways.

A scream comes from the VIP Balcony above them, on the uppermost level of the dance club. There's the sounds of some fighting and punches being thrown, and then a big man in a suit falls thirty feet and slams into the glass dance floor.


"Hmm. Risks." The level of sly tease doesn't abate in the least. Of course she grants him all the attention that he wordlessly asks for by being within her personal space and even daring to rest the slightest weight against the bend of her neatly-crossed legs. Her manicured eyebrows slowly rise as she wonders precisely what's going to come out of that sassy mouth when —

The hurricane goes sideways while he does, knocked askew from Tanya's sudden clutching at the table. Thankfully, it splashes away and off the end in a rosy waterfall of wasted liquor. It's one of many drinks to hit the floor of the club. Even a bottle succumbs to suddenly spasming fingers behind the bar and its crash accents the various cries of shock. Tanya herself rolls to one side and then off the chair entirely! A frantic grab and contorted arm, tensed for the practice of grabbing onto another vertical bar entirely, allows her a more dignified sprawl on the club floor. She too clutches at her head, attempting to find Roy beyond the sudden phantom-rolling of the wooden planking. It's like being stuck in a small dinghy in a storm!

"Owwww, the f — " Saved by the shifting of the chair behind her spine and she flumps to one side, practically curled upon herself. "What's happening?!" She fights it, she does, and claws her way to a mostly-upright sit.


More screams from the VIP lounge. Roy grabs Tanya in his arms and hauls her under the table. "Is — is this an earthquake?" Roy asks, a little rhetorically. He looks around in bewilderment, hugging Tanya to him firmly to try and give her a physical anchor as the world goes topsy-turvy around them.

He tries to move and lurches to the side, immediately regretting it — but steels himself and uses the table as a reference point, trying to force himself to trust his eyes instead of his ears.

Down the stairs from the lounge are four big men and one lanky, grey-haired fellow. They're walking without any trouble, calmly as you might like, and the grey-haired fellow is dragging a slender girl in a white cocktail dress by the elbow.

"I… Tanya, the stairs! I think those guys are doing… whatever this is!" Roy remarks. He rolls up his trouser leg and digs a knife out of a calf holster, deploying it with a flick of his wrist.

He takes a steadying breath and moves out from under the table, clinging to the furniture like a man desperate for a lifeline.


Well, that torso still has that sturdy flex of sinew and muscle beneath the red shirt she clutches like a lifeline. She has her eyes screwed shut, but that doesn't seem to help when her inner ear is convincing her that they're stuck in some hellish clothes dryer. Swallowing down her lurching stomach hard, she blinks again and looks towards said stairs.

Nothing like seeing another woman in trouble to prickle her to action.

They disengage from their respective anchors in the moment and as Roy is emerging from the shadows of the table, she's rifling through her purse as fast as possible for the snub-nosed pistol hidden within it.

"Comeon-comeon-comeon-comeon!" she hisses, moving aside the lipstick tube again as it keeps her from opening the inseam of the clutch. The weapon is snagged and its carrying accessory left beneath the chair. She crawls forwards on her knees before sitting back on her heels again. She needs to keep a white-knuckle grip on one of the table's metal legs, but still, the young woman squints…and fires towards the group on the stairs.

Lord knows where that bullet goes, with how her entire body weaves in place, inner ear wreaking havoc on her aim!


The bullet ricochets off a table near Roy, causing him to leap sideways. He utterly gets left and right backwards and bounces off a table with a grunt of pain, clinging to it like it's a little island of stability in a churning sea.

"AIM! MORE!" he bellows at Tanya, spotting the little revolver in her hands. Still, it serves the needed purpose; the little entourage halts in surprise when the gunshot rings out, two of the men scattering forwards and the other two flinging themselves in front of the grey haired man and his hostage.

One of the guys charges at Roy, and gets him with two big, looping punches that Roy barely is able to block. The archer grunts in pain, soaking the blows with his ribs. It looks like they hurt.


"I'm TRYING!!!" — comes the defensive retort from beneath the table. The weapon is momentarily pointed towards the ceiling rather than the group for how the kidnapper's escape is halted. Two stooges guard the man: this indicates the ability to gain a following, be it through loyalty or the temporary bid of bills. She grimaces, her teeth white against the raspberry hues of her lips, and then she's being approached by the second of the two goons who separated from the grouping.

"Alright, little lady, hand it ovah," the man grinds out, a meaty hand extended and expectant of receiving the revolver.

Tanya shoots again abruptly. The flash of the muzzle is followed by a disbelieving scream and the goon collapses to one side, rolling away from her and clutching at his leg.

Hey, kneecap shots at close range are devastatingly effective — and it was an easy target with said range. Still, it's a short-lived success. Looking apoplectic with agonized anger, the bodyguard rolls back towards her and summarily swats the gun from her sweaty grasp. She gasps and holds her hand against her chest. The weapon glints as it slides away across the floor. Retreat seems the best of options now, but - but…but the Captain?!

The grasping man gets a firm kick in the neck for his efforts at attempting to tangle her legs as she retreats, but this doesn't seem to do much. He gets a grip around one ankle regardless and Tanya lets out a blistering curse before kicking out again towards his face! Again, aim becomes an issue when the floor rolls ninety degrees to the right to her senses.


Roy takes three big punches, and they look like they're bruising his ribs. Then the thug makes the mistake of grabbing the back of Roy's neck in a common street fighting hold to help give the uppercuts more 'oomph'. Roy grabs the man's wrist, rolls around, and suddenly the thug is upside down in the air and smashes through a nearby chair. Roy keeps hold of his wrist and with an explosive grunt of force, breaks the man's elbow with a driving blow from his kneecap.

The grey haired fellow looks alarmed and touches something at his temple, and the waves of vertigo redouble. His bodyguards surge down the stairs towards Roy, and the archer flings a badly-aimed bar stool at one of them before he falls over, groaning and barely able to stay on his hands and knees.


The back of Tanya's skull hits the floor as the room then does one-hundred and eighty degrees of stomach-churning twisting and she groans, clutching at her face. The thug growls and doesn't let go of her ankle, his grip crushing tendons to bones as he looks back at the older man.

"You know these two, boss?" His voice breaks with pain and the glare he gives the young woman is dangerous…for all of a second. His face pales as he looks into depthless olive eyes, wide and completely flooded in black. No white sclera; black with peridot ring in a sea of ink.

"Turn it off!" she hisses, her face an impressive and ugly snarl for the amount of disgusted hatred she has for being touched like this. "Make him turn it off!" The attempt at hypnosis slams into the bodyguard's mind with all the delicacy of a herd of wildebeest. He drops her and immediately begins to scramble to his feet with bloody alacrity. There's no missing the fact that one leg is basically useless, but he makes it to his feet before half-crumpling and running at the other two in some demented three-limbed shuffling run like a great ape.


Roy rolls in dizzy circles, trying to get some sense of balance back, and watches as the big man lunges for the bodyguards. They're so shocked by his sudden attack that they barely intercept him, and he slams into the grey haired fellow with bone-rattling force. The blonde hostage screams and falls to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably, and the grey haired fellow with lean features hits the stairs with a grunt. Something falls off his head and skitters into the dense, dusty gap under the stairs, obstructed by a maze of steel pipes.

Abruptly the pressure on their ears lets up, and Roy manages to get to his back just as one of the bodyguards lunges at him to stomp on Roy's chest. He takes the hint, grunting, but grabs the man's toes. Snakelike, his legs lash up and twine around the man's thigh, ankles hooking, and then his whole body *twists* powerfully. Goon #4 goes down screaming, his leg shattered in two places, leaving just one thug still on his feet.


The shadows under the table writhe and swirl up around Tanya now. Darker than cigarette smoke, of the same translucency, it's disturbing to watch for anyone with half a mind beyond attempting to recover from the equally shocking cessation of the vertigo. She doesn't even need to rise from her sprawl on one hip, legs tucked in close to her body, to continue staring at the chaos she's caused and will continue to aid on.

The bodyguard has managed his task and the brutal fall he sustains for having sacked his once-employer serves to knock the circuitry of his brain to silence. Cracking a shattered kneecap on a stair will do such a thing. He's heavy weight atop the grey haired man, who struggles to remove him, grunting for his efforts.

That last bodyguard? He has time to inhale before it seems like he's surrounded by a thick smog. Let's see how he does with the imbalance caused by lack of air entirely.


Roy kips up off the ground like a striking snake. He lunges across the distance between him and the grey haired man, heedless of the impact of his knees and hands on the ground as he scrabbles for every inch of purchase he can get.

Just as the grey haired man starts to get his former ally off of him, Roy hits him in the face with a furious, downward-angled right cross, putting all his falling weight behind it.

Then he hits the man four or five more times in a row, until he's sure the fellow is down.

The blonde girl, sobbing, crying, launches herself on Roy and clings to him. "Thank you! thank you!" she sobs. "Please, call the Vlatavan consulate! They will send men for me— he k-killed my bodyguards upstairs!"

Roy blinks and puts an around the slip of a girl's shoulders, stiffly. "Wh- Vlatava?" he says. "What are — Princess Audrey?" he demands, aghast.

"What the hell are you doing at a club? Nevermind," he says, automatically. Struggling to disentangle himself, he moves towards Tanya and extends a hand to help her up, supporting the sobbing girl in her near hysterics with his other hand.

"You okay?" he asks, ignoring the bruises on his face and a bit of blood drying near his mouth and left ear.


The thud of the remaining thug is so very validating that the snarl on Tanya's face takes a curling sneering aspect. The movement of Roy is distraction in her peripheral and she needs to focus and —

…Vlatavan? The foreign word is different enough to break her attention and likely, this is all the saves the man from expiring entirely. The cloud dissipates into thin air even as she inhales fully, realizing that she was practically holding her breath. She rubs at her eyes with one hand, knowing that the ability goes hand in hand with the Darkforce itself announcing its presence there, and then someone's talking at her.

The red-head gets the knifing glance deflected as she sees the sobbing young woman — barely out of teenage-hood — weeping pitifully into his shirt. Tanya gives Roy a knowing look and uses his hand to slip out from beneath the table. She needs must catch herself on it for a second for lingering weak ankles, but then she's gathering up Princess Audrey into her arms.

"Here now, tush-tush," she murmurs, stroking the flaxen-blonde hair with a gentleness completely at odds with her usual demeanor. Her gaze finds Roy beyond the crown of pale strands. "I'm okay. Get the bartender's ass in gear and call the consulate. Find a bar towel, get it wet, warm water." She leads the Princess to a nearby bench and sits down with her, still murmuring in that quiet undertone.


Roy moves quickly, nodding at Tanya and not offering a whit of snark. Bartender's righted, towels retrieved. Roy barks orders at people, galvanizing them by force of will and volume all at once. Some are sobbing and confused, but largely the occupants of the club are unharmed, aside from severe nausea due to the effects of the vertigo hitting them all at once. Some might need a good lie-down, but it seems unlikely there are any long term injuries except for the bodyguards of the Princess.

And the dead thugs on the ground.

Roy leaves Tanya to tend Audrey, and binds the kidnappers with rope he recovers from the edge of a torn curtain. He's pretty good at it, too, binding wrists and ankles in a solid hogtie that'd win a few points at the county rodeo.

The strange circlet is recovered and pocketed, and then the sound of sirens can be heard nearby. "Tanya. Tanya, we have to go," he urges her, giving her tricep a squeeze. "Too many bodies here for that to be a short conversation." He's already recovered his jacket from the coat check, and sunglasses cover his face. He looks around, tense and alert as if gauging the seconds until the first police response arrives.


Tanya takes the towels with their light soaking of warm water and urges the Princess's face up until it's visible. Poor sweet thing, her make-up is everywhere and she's blotchy for the panicked tears.

"You were brave, your highness. You did what you could." Mascara streaks and smudges come away under her ministrations even as the young woman continues sniffling, hands balled up in her dress.

"B-B-B-But they-they-they — "

"Shh, tush-tush," she repeats, a little more firmly. The towel is placed aside after one last swipe. She glances up at Roy again as he reminds her that, indeed, the cops will be showing at any moment. He gets an inscrutable look before she nods and turns her attention back to Audrey. "Be brave, honey. Be the bravest you've ever been until the police get here. They'll help you, okay?" She stands up and rips herself away from the presence of the shivering young woman. Quiet, contained, she kneels to snag her purse from under the table and in the process of walking towards the exit, snags that snub-nosed pistol. Only luck kept it from disappearing into some place beyond reach in the chaos — can't leave fingerprints around to be tracked. "Let's go then," she echoes, walking at a brisk pace. She's likely passed by Roy for his longer stride and her first instinct is to head for that motorcycle. If he drives like he did before, they'll be long gone before the fuzz make a showing.


Roy leads the way, moving fast, and the bike's revved and running by the time Tanya catches up to him. He jukes off the sidewalk the moment she grabs his waist, bouncing heavily on the shocks, and the bike *growls* as it lunges down the street. No showboating this time — he stays low over the handlebar and the machine between her legs catapults them down the road.

He goes four blocks, turning corners aggressively, and without turning on his running lights. Dodging traffic, missing cars with breathtaking proximity, and then drifting a sharp corner into an empty garage attached to a unlocked junkyard, pausing only to release the chain holding the door up so it rattles shut behind them.

"We can shake the cops off here," Roy says, killing the engine and listening carefully for the sound of any sirens in pursuit.


Wild ride redux!

She had no time to jam the helmet on her head, indeed, and the grip about his waist must still be cutting into his core muscles with noticeable force. Her forehead rests against the flat of his shoulderblade, beneath the leather and its clean-cut scent. For how tightly she's clinging, he must feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest for the adrenaline running through her veins.

Silence in the garage, made close for the shadows that fall heavily around them. Only the streaks of dusty orange from streetlights cut through and mar the blackness.

Silence outside…and then a passing wave of sirens and red and blue and the pursuit continues past them in their foxhole.

"Whew…" Tanya peels herself off of his back, one hand shakily brushing hair back from her face so she can see properly. "Son of a bitch. I was not expecting that," she murmurs. "I just wanted a damn Hurricane." A petulant 'hmph' follows.


In the shadows, Roys head can barely be seen turning to look back at Tanya, and something like a low, ragged chuckle escapes him. It's a little pained, and his hand reaches back to pat at her bare thigh opposite where her knee pushes into his hip. "Sorry to ruin your night," he tells her, a wry chuckle lurking in his voice.

He pauses, and twists so he's almost facing Tanya, emitting a little huff of discomfort at the bruises on his ribs — but the flickering light from outside illuminates the shadow of a slow, lopsided grin. "Are you saying you didn't have fun?" he inquires, still riding the adrenal high of the fight himself now that they've reached a moment of safety and security.


Tanya scoffs in mocking disgust and completely releases her grip about his waist to cross her arms.

"Fun? That was fun? I wanted to dance, not kick overly-muscled idiots who are clearly compensating for their lack of brains and something else by guarding some spindle-stick old man with a fetish for young royals." A beat. "And I'm a better shot than that," she grouses, her glare daring him to disagree, even if that slanted light is playing havoc with his facial structure in stupidly-interesting ways.


Roy twists to sit sidesaddle on the bike, forcing Tanya's leg to move up and over his lanky thigh, and he braces a palm against the side of the bike for balance and stares at her with a lifted brow and that sly, knowing grin just lurking at the edge of his expression.

It's hard to say who starts laughing first but Roy lets loose with a sincere, hearty belly laugh, shoulders shaking at Tanya's blustering insistence that it was a completely ruined affair.

"You are so full of it your eyes are brown!" Roy crows, shaking his head. "You had fun, don't even pretend," he chides her. "Even if you are a lousy shot. You almost would have been better off just throwing the gun at him."


She glowers at Roy for saying such a thing, how dare he?!

"I didn't any clever Robin Hood-like acrobatics from you, Captain. You don't get to talk until I see those. You have no leg to stand on." Still, that little smile betrays her. He has a good laugh. It, in turn, teases a blip of a giggle from her in turn. Clearing her throat, she shifts on the seat to bring her leg down alongside the bike rather than across the man's thighs. Propriety and all, y'know.

"Besides, if you think my eyes are brown, your eyesight is in question." A shake of her head and a deepening of that smirk follows.


Roy rises off the bike with a chuckle, rubbing at a bruised rib absently, and moves to look out the window just to be sure no one's followed them, criminal or otherwise. They seem to be in the clear.

"They're green," he tells Tanya, not quite turning to look at her. His head tilts a fractional degree back towards her, profile illuminated by the low orange and yellow lights of the city outside. Their eyes are slowly adjusting, making blurry profiles start to carry just a bit more detail and separating arms and legs from shapeless shadow. "Greenest eyes I've ever seen."

He hesitates as if he's about to say something more, then looks out the window again, jamming a hand in his coat pocket as if irritated by his lapse into familiarity.


"Give the man a cookie," Tanya says softly into the silence that follows. She tilts her head, watching his body language, and then shifts to sit side-saddle on the bike, legs delicately crossed. It takes some careful balancing, but she adopts a careful lean back, one hand on each side of the seat beneath her.

"You did good, Captain. The Princess…you were there for her when the dust settled. I hate it to say it, but…it might make you good people. Tarnish that reputation as a vigilante." There's still that gentle tease underneath it all.


"She's just a kid," Roy mutters, shaking his head. "Entitled.. vain Eurotrash, from the papers putting it, but just a kid. That creep's been all over the news for a while trying to get to power. Ran for Prime Minister, then there was scuttlebutt he was trying to marry into the family." He makes a noise in the back of his throat.

Roy turns and walks to Tanya. Past Tanya. He stoops near her crossed knees and reaches to the underside of the seat, jostling open a hidden compartment. Out comes some medical supplies, beef jerky, and a canteen of water. He offers her the food and digs out the little medical kit, turning and leaning his broad shoulders against the side of the bike while he starts rooting in the kit for antiseptic and glue. The knuckles of both hands are pretty torn up from the fistfight, which Tanya can finally make out as their eyes finish adjusting.


Tanya tucks her chin, watching him gather what he will from the compartment. A subtle shift allows him a bit more room to pull supplies and then she's back to her relaxed slouch back on her hands. At least for a second. With a sigh, she sits up and takes the jerky. Blugh, dried meat. Too tough for her. Too salty.

"What am I, your assist… Oh, stop, lemme see." The food is set aside and she then kneels down beside him. "You'll make them bleed more." She tries for gruff, but it just doesn't translate well in that petite frame and pert scowl. Finding the antiseptic ointment, she begins with this. Uncapped, she then holds out a palm up-faced. "Alright, lemme see," she repeats, looking into his eyes.


"I can do it," Roy mutters — but it's pretty obvious that he's going to make a mess out of it, and Tanya neatly intercepts the sanitizing agent. He glares at her, then rolls his eyes and holds his hands out. "It's just a glue. Bandages are too much hassle," he tells her.

The antiseptic is sharply ethanol in scent, and the glue has a strong turpentine scent that fades quickly, leaving yellowish superglue covering his wounds. He endures the treatment without so much as a sharp intake of breath. The glue starts drying with a surprising rapidity. He holds his hands out to the side so the glue can dry, and turns to look at the darkling woman kneeling well in his proximity, his hazel eyes barely illuminated by a sliver of light.

"Thanks," he says, finally, with his characteristic taciturnity.


"Charms and manners. You must have room in those pants after all." The sound of the various lids and caps returning to their homes follows and then she's kneeling there, hands in her lap. She finds those hazel eyes, more shadow and gold for the odd lightning through grimy windows.

"It doesn't matter that the papers called her 'Eurotrash'. Her life was likely saved. You did a good thing, Captain," Tanya presses, probably to test if it annoys him or not. Or maybe because she's noticed such a thing.


"We did," Roy tells Tanya, correcting her gently. He looks back at her, meeting her eyes steadily. The tension lingers and grows, and just before it can get Proper Awkward, he ducks his head, and a smile crosses his face, then an easy chuckle shakes his shoulders.

"I can't quite get a handle on you," he tells Tanya. "You dress like a go-go girl, you're sassier than any woman I ever met, and you spend a lot of time obsessing about what's in my pants. But then you start bandaging my hands and talking like a nun. You're a strange dame."


"I like to keep men on their toes, what can I say?" The tilt of her head to one side is charming, no doubt, while the smile is suddenly…hesitant. It flickers away again as Tanya considers her hands before heaving a sigh.

"Yeah….okay, we," she accedes with a little roll of her eyes. "What am I supposed to be, your Little John now? I refuse, by the way. I'd rather be Maid Marian. Except with knives and pistols. I'm not doing any damsel-y things…but you knew that," and then she laughs, an honest chuckle that twinkles across her face. There it is, her trigger for the outpouring of relief, and it echoes around the garage until she needs to cover her mouth with one hand.


Roy grins. It's a big, sincere grin that ducks modestly to the floor, but it's real as he shares in her genuine laughter, shoulders shaking as he chuckles near-silently with her abrupt belly laugh, the tension leaving her.

"See, you're sending mixed signals again," he chivvies her, good naturedly. "You wanna be my Maid Marian, but you don't do damselly stuff? Isn't that half the point?" he asks, lifting a brow at Tanya. "Robin goes out, gets busted up fighting the evil sheriff, comes back to Marian for his reward? Or are you saying you ain't a prim and proper, high-class lady?"

He pauses, one brow quirking skywards as he contemplates the logical conclusion of both questions. "…huh. Lemme think on that one fer a minute."


"Don't hurt yourself now," Tanya retorts, even managing to stick the tip of her tongue out. With a little grunt and wince, she's up on her feet and walking towards the nearest window. Or, at least, trying to. That ankle was gripped hard earlier and the tendon overtop one of the bones rolled to an acutely-uncomfortable angle. The pain lingers and she slips her foot out of the vinyl shoe to consider the skin with a deep frown. The balance on one leg is perfection, not a wobble, and it brings the edge of the skirt high along the lean line of her thigh. Shadows grant her decency that might not be otherwise available to her.

"That bastard." Pressing on a certain spot with tentative fingertips makes her inhale a sharp hiss.


Roy tilts his head to one side when Tanya sashays off, limp or not, and purses his lips approvingly at her flawless balance when she checks her ankle for a bruise.

Yep, juuuust admiring her balance.

"Twisted your ankle?" he inquires, watching her probing at the injury. He folds his legs and smoothly as a scissor lift elevates himself to a standing position, brushing his hands against his hips, and moves up next to Tanya.

"C'mere. Lemme take a look," he suggests, nudging her towards the low desk in front of the smoked-over window.


"It's probably twisted, what is there to look at?" Still, despite the grumble, she takes an offered hand and limps over to the low desk. It's an easy little hop onto it, despite the dust, and Tanya rotates to align her leg along the length of it, heel resting just before the end of the top.

"I'll need to ice and elevate it. Maybe wrap it. That son of a bitch…I should have told him to go throw himself off of the stairs." Her hair hides most of her expression, but the slant of light across it along with a habitual tucking back over her shoulder reveals the taught frustration, the worry at being less than hale.


Roy examines her leg carefully, fingers dancing over the skin and reacting delicately to the least hiss or expression of discomfort. He can't see much in the light, but he does roll down her stocking as carefully as possible to avoid tweaking the injury, then runs his fingers from knee to shin with the sort of removed professionalism of a trained healer.

Fingertips follow the line of calf, flexor, extensor, and tendons, and he finally shakes his head. "I don't think you really twisted the joint," he tells her, finally. "Probably pulled a muscle, more likely. You've got good strong ankles," he tells her. Really strong. Eyes front, soldier! He forces himself to look at Tanya's face. "I can tape it up before we get out of here. That'll at least get you home well enough. A few days of rest and it'll be good as new," he says, moving to stand up next to Tanya.

He looks at her a beat, the fine lines of her haughty, elegant features caught in that slash of yellow light that gives them depth and posture, and whatever he's about to say, he forgets it.

Suddenly realizing his hand's still on Tanya's leg, he snatches it back, then mumbles something about the dust and makes a show of wiping his fingertips on his slacks.


|ROLL| Roy +rolls 1d100 for: 15


|ROLL| Tanya +rolls 1d100 for: 60


Tanya tilts her head, trying to find his eyes again.

"Okay, so…don't mind the dust. Get to taping, Captain. I want to be able to walk on this good strong ankle by tomorrow. Chop-chop." She's pointedly trying to ignore the fact that her stocking is folded down around her toes and that the lines drawn by passing fingertips are still dancing like lightning along her skin. In fact, she can't handle it and rubs along the tendons to attempt to scrub away the phantom touch. The scowl is mild but present, aimed at her foot.

"Keep it in line, Sweets," she murmurs, far too loudly to qualify as 'to herself'.


"Huh?" Roy says, looking over his shoulder. "You say something?"


"I saaaaaaaid, that's where the tendons and flexors meet." Tanya gives him a sideways look that challenges him otherwise.


"…right." Roy moves to his bike and digs out his gear, pullign out a larger medical kit and some other gear. A spare bow and some weapons, likely stowed in case of exactly this kind of emergency. He moves up to Tanya's side, wiggling the gauze, and turns to face her foot, putting his back to her as he focuses on the gams. Ankle.

Forcing himself to be as professional as possible (which helps with Tanya largely concealed behind him), he starts carefully wrapping her ankle with as much support as possible, bracing it and winding up the muscles to compress them gently into immobility.


"Owwwww…" It's a half-hearted sound because the pain isn't that bad, complaining just makes her feel better. And distracts her from the tickling abrasion of his palms moving about her skin.

She suddenly sighs. "Sweets. It's…my nickname. From back home. Always had it. Figure…figure you're stuck with 'Captain', now I can be stuck with 'Sweets'. But don't abuse it," Tanya adds, poking at his shoulder lightly to accent her point.


"I like Tanya better," Roy remarks, after a beat. Her finger bumps against his scapula and bends. No, that's just a knot of muscle, nevermind. He's taking his time binding her wound. Injury. Ankle. Suuuuper professional.

"…I'll try not to abuse it," he tells Tanya, as if suspecting his knee jerk reaction might be taken as insulting. "It's cute. Just…" He shakes his head. "Nevermind," he mutters, realizing he's sticking his foot in his mouth.

It might become obvious to Tanya that Roy does not have a lot experience in flirting seriously.

Flirting casually, sure, but it's pretty obvious that the warmth of the garage and the lingering adrenaline of the fight are leaving him a bit uncertain of his footing.

He finally finishes, pinning the bandage and turning back to Tanya. "There, all done," he remarks, looking to her.


She's challenging him again for that eye contact, holding his gaze for as long as possible after the wrapping is completed. It feels comfortable, done by a competent hand, and she wiggles her toes without looking to them.

"Thanks…Captain," she murmurs, gaze falling to his mouth and back. Stupid garage with its stupid dark atmosphere and flattering lighting and stupid medic hands and stupid approval of his actions in the club and stupid…stupid stupid. Why is she staring? …why is she blushing?! Clearing her throat, she then shifts carefully from the desk. It's a mincing walk over to the motorcycle and if her actions weren't clear enough, the helmet going back on over her head should be obvious enough. "I need to ice and elevate it. Back to my apartment, Jeeves."

Oh no, another nickname. Regardless, snark follows — to be returned by more snark — and let's face it, it's a never-ending cycle, even as the bike roars to life. Up goes the garage door and out they go, into the night and back to Tanya's apartment.

No more police. No more crazy would-be kidnappers. Just another day in New York.


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