1964-08-05 - Impromptu Date
Summary: Kwabena and Theresa go on an impromptu date to the Eight Ball.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
kwabena theresa 

There have been a few times that Theresa has gone out since that first day, but she always manages to find her way back, for the most part. Sometimes with amusing stories on how she ends up lost, sometimes with random purchases.

Like he said, she's not paying rent. Which has left her plenty of spare cash to get other things, like restocking the cabinet, or a proper sugar bowl, a spare blanket or two. It's all been little things that have appeared, nothing fancy, nothing expensive even. Small ways of saying thank you, perhaps.

Like tonight. She's left, then come back with brown paper bags, and then cleaned off the small table to start assembling a meal that requires, thankfully, no actual cooking. But it's the type of typical American food that would be found in most homes, some sort of casserole, bread that is being warmed in the oven, and vegetables.

Tonight has been a night of working. Kwabena has been out driving fares since noon, and when he returns, he reeks of sweat, cigarettes and a touch of booze.

Closing the door, he turns to look around, sunglasses coming off now that he's safely home. "What is dat?" he asks, curiosity. "It smells good."

"I think that the man said it was tuna noodle…something." Theresa replies, chewing a little on her thumbnail before she shrugs, "It sounded good, though. I didn't think, though, if you liked tuna."

After a moment she shakes her head, "Want a drink?" She wonders, moving towards the cabinet to tug it open, but she pauses to see if he's even interested in one.

"Yes, tuna. I do like tuna!" Kwabena goes about shoving his jacket onto a hook in the wall, it's been chilly this evening, despite the time of year.

When offered a drink, he smirks. "I just put in 14 hours driving dese assholes around de city. Damn right, I will have a drink. Must clean first dough, I smell like de business end of a pig's ass." With that, he ducks into the washroom for a quick shower.

"That just sounds terrible, luv." Theresa informs him, shaking her head after him as he heads into get cleaned up. While he's doing that she starts to get the table set, the bread out, and then she gets a couple of drinks made, setting them out on the table before she claims one of the chairs and waits until he rejoins her.

It doesn't take long, two minutes at the most; Kwabena can be quite efficient. When he returns, his curly hair is still a bit damp, and he's dressed in basketball shorts and a plain white t-shirt, feet bare.

"Is terrahble, but is good money," he tells her, before walking over to plop down on the opposing chair. "Plus? I am famished. Tank you for dis," he says, before quickly downing about half the drink. Only then does he snatch up a fork so that he might dig in.

"Oh, you're welcome, luv. This was rather easy to accomplish, likely much easier than what you did for me that first day." Theresa replies, sitting up straighter when he sits down, reaching for her own fork. "So was the customers particularly bad today?" She wonders, starting to pick at her food, not really digging in too fast just yet.

"Sure, but I've been doing dat since I was twelve," Kwabena points out. That kind of cooking is second nature to him.

"Dey ah always bad," he explains. "I mean, dere ah always some few with level heads but, mostly tourists, or peopah who don't have de patience to deal with dis city and it's traffic." He pauses to take another bite, eyebrows shooting upward. "Is good."

"Yeah? Good!" Theresa replies, looking pleased by the praise for the meal. Even if she didn't cook it herself. She turns her attention to taking a few bites herself before she sets down her fork to reach for the bread, "Butter?" She asks, waiting until he's said yes or no before holding the bread out to him, with or without butter. "I went to a bar down in Mutant Town."

"No thank you," Kwabena answers. He prefers to keep things simple at times. "Which one?" he asks, knowing the neighborhood even if he tries not to socialize there too often. He is, it seems, the definition of closeted mutant.

"Oh, I spoke with my friend, de mechanic. I undahstand she is going to, I guess, try to get us in touch with dose peopah upstate."

"Eight Ball? It was some billiards place, seemed nice enough for what it was…good choices in whiskey an' beer at least." Theresa replies, buttering her own bread before she leans back in her seat, nibbling at it thoughtfully.

The bread is then set down on the edge of her plate, "That's good…" She brushes a few crumbs off her shirt, "I look forward to it, yeah? Is your friend, this mechanic, is she goin' to be there as well, or are we just meeting these people without any friendly faces with us. Other than your beautiful face, of course."

"Oh? I do not think I have been dere, but I do enjoy de billiards," he answers. "We should go."

As for his friend, Kwabena maintains a contemplative expression. Whatever he might have been about to say, however, it stalls at Theresa's compliment. He looks up from his food, and smiles; were he skin not already so darkly colored, he would be clearly blushing. "I don't know if she will be dere," he admits. "I suppose, ah, we will see. Yes?" He's looked down to his food again for now, but after a moment, he looks up again, smiling. "You have a nice face, too."

"We should go. I met one of the bouncers there…Right?" Theresa then waves off the slight uncertainty of his job title by just continuing without waiting for a response. "He said that the crowds were generally well behaved. But the tables are busy, so we might have to wait for one to free up."

She smiles, then, at his compliment. "Thank you." She reaches for her drink, slouching back as she takes a sip from it, looking thoughtful, "She'll get in touch?"

"Bouncah, yes," the Ghanaian confirms. "Will make sure bad peopah don't come in, make sure troubah does not start." He smirks ruefully. "Tough job, at a place where dere ah billiards."

He pauses long enough to fork up some more casserole. "She has de numbah here. Goes by de name of Diz, so, if she calls, you can know she is a friend."

"Diz?" Theresa nods, sipping from the drink once more before she laughs, "I suppose that I should answer the phone then, it rang once. But I didn't want to answer it."

A good half of her drink is finished before she sets it back down on the table, reaching for her fork once more, "Do you feel up to a trip out this evening?"

"Well," Kwabena tells her, "if you answah, and it ain't her?" He shrugs his head. "Probably eidah my boss, or de Ghanaian embassy. Both are harmless." He grins. "I don't give up numbah easily."

When she mentions going out, though, Kwabena perks up. "Eight Ball?" he asks, a rueful grin spreading onto his face.

"I'll tell your boss that you are hard at work, makin' his name look good." Theresa decides, taking a bite off the casserole before she sets her fork down, "And the embassy…I've no idea, I'll take a message then."

When he asks about the where, though, she smiles, nodding, "Eight Ball. I'll change into something nicer."

Kwabena's grin grows just a bit wider. "Alright. Me too." He downs the rest of his drink and makes for the closet, grabbing a few things.

Moments later, he's dressed in a surprisingly decent set of dark gray trousers and a slim fitting, burgundy polo. He does own a few articles of nice clothing, but… typically he just doesn't find reason to dress nicely.

While he's changing, she's taken her bag and vanished into the bathroom to change herself, and do her hair. When she does reappear she's got on a bright red dress with a bow accent along the neckline, and a pair of heels. "Ready."

When Theresa emerges, and Kwabena sees her, he is actually, momentarily stunned. "Dat," he starts, head shifting just so. "You look lovely," he tells her. After another moment, he takes a few steps toward and reaches for her hand. "You, ah, ready to go, den?"

"I am." Theresa replies, then she pauses, giving his hand a squeeze before she ducks back into the bathroom to grab the purse that sort of goes with the dress. "Now I am." She replies, giving his arm a quick tap with the purse before she takes his hand again, "Driving, or we taking someone elses taxi?"

Kwabena laughs aloud at that, and shifts outside to lock the door behind them. "No, no. Someone else will drive us tonight."

Deciding that someone else was driving, they eventually arrive at the bar and make their way inside. Once there Theresa gestures towards where the tables are, but she doesn't head in that direction. Instead she hooks her arm through his and starts to lead the way towards the bar, "We'll have a drink, then try to find us a nice table to have a game at, hmm?"

Its certainly an impressive place; Kwabena is admittedly surprised that such provisions have been made for individuals who clearly do not fit the normal, homo sapiens stature. One thing's for certain; there's no need to wear his shades in this place.

When Theresa hooks her arm through his, he draws her just a bit closer. There's a relaxed smile on his face as he nods his agreement and makes for the bar with her. "Sounds excellent," he agrees, then looks for the bartender's attention. "Two old fashioned," he requests, and sets a bill down that should cover it. "My treat," he tells her. "You can get de next round."

"Can I now?" Theresa wonders, laughing at that before she nods, sliding onto one of the stools at the bar, her legs crossing, "I'll get the next round, then." She replies agreeably, glancing around slowly before she focuses on him again.

"The first time I came here, I wasn't sure how I felt." By her tone, she doesn't mean the bar, but instead the area it is in. "But this is making the trips down here worth it, don't you think?"

"Okay, okay," answers Kwabena. "Whoevah loses de game can get next round."

He nods his head to the bartender when their drinks are produced, and throws a quarter his way for tip. Then he turns to face Theresa for conversation, focused on her. "I would say so," he admits. "It worries me, dis place being here. If… if things go south, it would be easy tahget for dose who hate our kind. Den again…" He glances around, smirking. "Our kind can put up hell of a fight." He lifts his glass, then. "Cheers."

"Cheers, luv." Theresa replies, lifting her glass up as well before she takes a sip from it, then she sets it down on the bar, a hand reaching out to curl around his wrist to give it a squeeze.

"I met a young girl, she could go invisible, and had little spikes." She pauses a moment, thinking before she lets one corner of her mouth turn upwards, "I heard also about this man that can turn into smoke, or break someone's legs in a single hit, and a girl that could kill with a sound. We could put up a fight if we wanted, yes."

Kwabena takes a drink after the toast, the sets the glass down. When she gives his wrist a squeeze, he turns his palm around in the hope of catching her hand. A nod is given to the tale, but when she speaks of their own abilities, his quiet smile turns into a hearty grin that comes paired with a laugh. "So, we have nothing to worry about, den," he tells her, eyes dancing with mischief. "If a fight happens? We will at least walk away in one piece."

"Presumably." Theresa agrees, letting him catch her hand when he reaches for it, "I may be puttin' on a few aires there, elevatin' myself more than I should." She reaches for her glass with her other hand, picking it up before she slides off her stool, "Want to see if we can get a free table, or claim a corner of those couches over there?"

"Well, it's like you said," Kwabena answers. "Pride. Sahpose one must remain humble." Tough thing for him to say; he's always considered himself invincible, and given his past experiences, this has proven to be true.

He turns then to gauge the pool tables, which are clearly all taken at the moment. Standing, he nods over toward one of the corner couches. "Good vantage point. We can jump on some table as soon as one is free."

Turning, Kwabena seeks to keep her hand in his own, leading her through the crowds toward one of those empty spots. Once there, he plops down into the comfy seat and produces a pack of smokes. Before taking one out, though, he offers the pack toward Theresa with a lifted eyebrow.

"No thanks, luv." Theresa shakes her head, settling down on the couch next to him, her legs crossing before she takes a sip from her glass, "One habit I never did pick up, and probably a good thing, too."

"Now, as for bein' humble, I wouldn't say that we really need to be humble. Maybe aware of our limits?" She leans into him, giving him a light, playful nudge, "I didn't say anyone else needed to know them, though."

Its a fair point. There's still quite a bit of argument on the dangers of cigarettes; it wasn't more than a decade past when doctors recommended them. "I know; smell like chimney," he answers, before lighting the thing with his trusted and terribly damaged zippo.

After taking a drag, Kwabena shifts the cigarette to his glass-wielding hand. When she leans into him, he lifts an arm and drapes it over Theresa's shoulder; it's noisy in the Eight Ball, but keen ears might notice a quiet sound of satisfaction from his belly. At her nudge, he glances toward her with a coy grin. "Our secret, den." He lifts both eyebrows. "How in de world would we test our limits, dough? We'd have to drive. Far, far into de country." There, his smile falters. "Theresa, I will tell you something." There is a pause, a flash of concern. "I do not fully undahstand mine. What dey do, how dey work."

"That, yes." Possibly other things, like cough inducing dangers.

When he moves his arm around her shoulders she raises a brow, amusement flicking across her face. However, that amusement fades some when he admits that he doesn't fully understand his abilities, or how they work. She shakes her head a bit, her hand reaching out to rest against his knee, "That's alright, maybe these people, the one's that we're going to meet, maybe they can help with testing those sorts of limitations, and have a better idea of how these sorts of things work."

"Maybe," Kwabena agrees. "I have done some research. Dere is not much out dere on… peopah like us. But, I did some study on de various states of mattah."

He pauses to take a sip of his old fashioned, followed by another drag from the cigarette. "Human body is mostly watah. Very little is actually solid. Bones, mostly, everything else is complicated mixture of solid and liquid, some gas." He glances her way again. "But my body seems to, I do not know how else to say; adapt to dose states of mattah. De one I can make happen? Solid. But, I have turned to gas, and liquid." He shrugs. "Do not quite undahstand how to make it happen dough."

Or to keep it from happening.

He glances down to the hand that rests on his knee; the lazy draping of his arm closes just a bit, so that his hand rests on her shoulder.

"Hmm." Theresa replies, nodding when he gives her the specifics on the science side of it, those that he knows at least. Even his theories of his own body, and what he's deduced about his abilities. However, when he mentions he doesn't understand how to make it happen she shakes her head, "Not certain, luv. Although it worked just fine when we were being shot at, maybe it's not meant to be made to happen?"

"You mean," Kwabena asks, "Pahhaps it is something I can't control?" He considers this for a moment. "Maybe." Scrunching his brow, he takes another hit from the cigarette and offers another perspective.

"I fell, once. Great distance. Top of building, about… six, maybe seven floors? When I hit de ground, my entiah body." He loosens the hand from her shoulder, spreading fingers while making a 'poof' noise. "Smoke. But, it wasn't just dat. It was like… it happened a second or two befah I hit de ground. Like I knew it was going to happen, and I wanted it to happen, so… it did."

"Maybe…" Theresa replies, still looking thoughtful for a minute, fingers lightly tapping against his knee, "Maybe you just have to want it badly enough? But that seems only good if you always want something badly enough. Hopefully, though, they can help."

"When did you know you were diffahrent?" Kwabena asks. He's eyeballing a table not far from them; they're down to two balls, the 2 and the 8, with a lumbering, pink haired gal clearly close to winning.

"Twelve, thirteen….somewhere around there." Theresa admits, picking up her drink to swallow a good portion of it before she sets it down again, "I got mad, wanted some toy or something. I don't even remember what it was about, now, but I started throwing a fit. Screaming, stomping my foot…something that would have been better suited to a child instead of, as my uncle would say, a nice young lady."

"Twelve," Kwabena answers, however he does not expound on his own awakening. "Well, it -" He cuts himself short, though, when that game ends with the sinking of an eight ball. He playfully bats a shoe against her foot, and nods his head toward the table. "Let's jump in."

Theresa glances towards the table when he draws her attention towards it, "Let's." She agrees, getting to her feet, picking up her drink to carry it with her as she heads towards the table, smiling at those just finishing up.

"Can we cut in?" Kwabena asks. The players shrug and nod their assent, seeing Kwabena's odd eyes as a pass that the two are mutants. He begins racking up the balls into the conventional eight ball arrangement, cigarette draped lazily at his side until he's finished.

"Ahkay, gorgeous," he says to Theresa., grinning. "Your break."

"Why thank you." Theresa curtseys a little, bobbing in place before she reaches for one of the pool cues, making her way around the table, grasping the cue ball and putting it into place. She then ponders, thinking about it before she lines up the shot, and takes it, and it's a good break, although nothing falls into any of the pockets. "When'd you come here?"

"Nice one," says Kwabena, in reference to Theresa's break. He snatches up his own cue, leaving the cigarette to burn perched in an ashtray, while walking about to eyeball the best possible shot.

"Twelve years ago," he answers, while bending down to line up on the 13. "Family was well respected in Ashanti Empire, but, I guess some few things went to shit, and we were made to leave. Side pocket."

He calls the shot and banks the 13 into its home. "Stripes," he declares, before moving around to line up on the next one. "Only some few years latah de nation became Ghana."

"Ashanti Empire?" Theresa shakes her head a bit, finding herself a place to stand that is out of the way of any path he might take on his next shot, or shots. "The British were there, weren't they?" She wonders, potentially remembering something about it, matter of pride for the British, their various holdings.

"For some time, yes," Kwabena answers, before taking his next shot. A second ball is sunk. "Tried to influence a peopah dey just, did not undahstand."

His next shot comes up short, so he walks back over to lean the cue against the table, and snatched up his smoke and drink once more. "So, you? How long have you been here, Red?"

"In the States?" Theresa laughs at the question, shaking her head as she moves around the table, "Not even a month total now since coming over." She leans down to line up her shot, pausing before she takes it, "The British like to mess around with things they don't understand all the time, luv." Then she takes the next shot, and misses again, wandering over to where he's standing. "Care to put some kind of wager on the game?"

"Wagah?" Kwabena asks, eyeing Theresa with a quizzical grin. He nods over to the table and asks, "You have something in mind?"

"It seems like it'd be unfair to play for money." Theresa replies, glancing towards the table, looking at the balls that are still on it, "Maybe we can wager who'll do the cooking for a week?"

At this, Kwabena laughs heartily. "Alright, good deal." He lines up his shot then, and managed to sink another ball. "I believe," he says, while walking around behind her to look for his next shot. "I may need to get used to tuna."

With a grin, he sidles up just next to her so that he can take his next shot.

"You liked it that much?" Theresa wonders, waiting until he's just ready to take that shot, then she bumps into the end of his pool cue, hoping to cause him to miss the shot.

"Oh yes," answers Kwabena, while lining up his shot. "You did not know?" I've been…

Hes about to take that shot when his cue is bumped, and it skips upon the cue ball, a dud.

"Oh…" Theresa tuts a little at that, shaking her head as she moves around to where the cue ball ends up, "So sad, luv…Perhaps you'll have some better luck this next time, then."

Standing back up slowly, Kwabena is smirking and playing it cool. "Yeah, hey, I'm rusty, you know?"

He waits patiently, until Theresa is working on her next shot. At this point, he comes around casually, until he's behind her. Then, he snakes a hand up toward her belly, and with a quick squeeze, makes to tickle her, just as she's about to take her shot.

"Rusty? Pity, yeah?" Theresa replies, grinning at him before she leans down towards her shot.

When he reaches in to tickle her she jerks, the pool cue swinging to the right as she quickly straightens, knocking the cue ball and another ball across the table as she yelps in surprise.

"Oh!" Kwabena steps back, feigning ignorance. "I am sorry, did I break yah concentration?"

"Mmm…." Theresa replies, watching him for a moment, eyes narrowing before she moves over to stand right in front of him, one hand settling on her hip, "So that is how you want to play this then?" Although she tries for a very fierce expression, there's an amused sparkle in her eyes.

Kwabena grins right back at her, and settles the butt of his pool cue onto the floor. "What can I say?" he tells her, and produces a big shrug. "I've forgotten how much I like tuna."

"I can tell you where I bought it from, if you like it that much." Theresa points out, the corner of her mouth twitching up a little before she steps to the side, gesturing towards the pool table, "I believe that it is your turn, sir."

That rueful grin turns a hair, before he picks his cue back up. "Okay den," he tells her. Suddenly, Kwabena is the epitome of focus. He stalks the table end to end, going on a streak that leaves all but two of his striped balls, plus the 8, on the table before he scratches.

"You really do love that casserole, don't you?" Theresa questions once he's done, a brow lifting upwards as she studies the table and the balls that are on it before she lifts a hand. "I surrender. I'll do the cooking for the next week."

Kwabena sets the cue down, and crosses over to Theresa with laughter in his eyes and a grin on his cheeks. "Nonsense, I will grow tiahed of de same thing every day," he tells her. He gives it a second to really sink in, before preparing to dodge any swatting that may come his way.

"But I can't cook." Theresa points out, a grin spreading across her face before she sets her pool cue somewhere out of the way before she reaches up, poking lightly at him, "You just won yourself the same meal three times a day for a week. Congratulations, luv."

"If it means you're lovely face will be around for anodah week," Kwabena answers, "Den, worth it." Collecting his drink, he downs it before leaving the pool table. "Get us dat spot back," he tells her, while gesturing to the couches. "I'll get drinks."

"Couches again?" Theresa glances over towards them when he tells her that he wants her to go reclaim the seats, which appear to be an easy enough task since no one has sat there since. Or if they have, they've since moved on. "I can certainly do that." She agrees, moving away from the table to head towards the couches, settling herself down on it, legs crossing.

Kwabena returns with two more of those delicious old fashioned in hand. The boob tube is playing The Late Show with Johnny Carson; the networks will go off the air around the time this bar will close.

"City dat nevah sleeps," he says, nodding his head to the TV while handing the drink to Theresa. "No wondah, with stuff like dis on so late at night."

"It's funny, though. Sometimes." Theresa points out, reaching out to take the drink when he returns, scooting herself a little more to the side to make room for him on the couch.

Settling in, Kwabena gestures at the television show. "I don't think I always undahstand de humah," he admits. "So, yes. Sometimes. Sometimes very funny, but oddah times, I get de feeling dat if you didn't grow up here, it won't, what is de word. Comprehend?"

He takes a drink then casts a glance Theresa's way, offering a toast. "To bettah luck next time we pick up de sticks."

"Oh, certainly. I think humor is a cultural thing." Theresa replies, lifting her glass up as well at the toast, "To better luck next time….and to tuna everyday for a week."

Kwabena snorts moments before sipping from his drink; fortunately he caught it before snarfing the liquor, or spilling it on anyone. "Come on, now," he complains. "Don't tell me you nevah learned how to make Irish food?" He then pauses, blinking heavily, and looks at Theresa with a baleful expression. "It's all tuna, isn't it? Tuna and potato?"

"Not tuna." Theresa shakes her head, smiling at him before she smacks his arm lightly, "An' we do not eat potatos at every meal, just…a lot." She takes a sip from her drink before she shrugs, "I never learned how to cook, no. It wasn't one of those things that my Uncle bothered with, then there was just…no time later."

Kwabena laughs heartily, and leans his shoulder over, mock whispering. "Is okay. I will find you cookbook. 'Meals of De Irish: Not Just Potato.'" He grins playfully. "Den you will know how to cook without tuna and potatoes."

When she speaks of her uncle, something strikes him. She speaks of him much like Kwabena speaks of his mother: something tells him that the uncle is either gone, or perhaps too far gone to come back.

"Or cabbage…that's another popular choice for food." Theresa warns him, taking another sip from the drink before she balances the glass on her leg, "I miss bangers and mash, and pasties the most. If you could figure a way to find those? You'd be my hero."

At this, Kwabena smirks. "Well, it is New York, and Boston is not far. But, it I went fah de Irish communities I know of around here?" He shakes his head. "Would not be smartest decision."

"That's right…you mentioned they were causin' troubles. Drugs, wasn't it?" Theresa shakes her head a bit, her nose wrinkling before she picks up her drink once more, this time taking a rather large swallow off it before she sticks her finger into the glass, swirling the remaining liquid around. "No, let's not do that."

A slow nod of assertion is given. "Yes. Just because we could win dat fight does not mean we should pick dat fight."

"Could we?" Theresa wonders, giving her hand a shake to knock the liquid off before she sets her drink to the side, "We might win the battle, but would we win the war?"

"Not talking about war," Kwabena answers. "Dat is not our place. Is like I said; should not pick fight. One day, de fight will probably pick us, anyway." With that whole idea top of mine, the African reaches again for his pack of smokes.

"Figurative war, anyways." Theresa shakes her head a bit, reaching down to tug her shoe off, scratching absently at the side of her foot before she pulls it back on. "But the fight….well, I don't know, luv. I might be prone to arguing that it's already found is, yeah?"

"Sure," Kwabena answers. "Maybe. Den again, dey haven't yet made it illegal to have strange abilities. Not dat it couldn't happen. Aftah all, dey were rounding up Japanese during de war, putting dem into camps. True thing, I read it in news clippings, public library. Nevah made de front page, dough. Was always… how to say it, buried."

"That's terrible." Theresa shakes her head quickly at that, frowning, "How is that any bett…well, I guess the lack of murderin' them in large numbers is how that might have been better. But still."

"Most American university still will not admit black students," Kwabena explains. "I think, since we ah not killing peopah in large numbahs, is easier to look away from… less bloody endeavors."

"It only makes it slightly better…and I do mean slightly." Theresa shakes her head, a hand reaching out to give his knee a light squeeze, "I wouldn't say that things are perfect at home, but I think we're a little more tolerant of those that aren't racially the same. Mostly."

A drink, a drag. Kwabena sets his drink down, and glances to his knee when she gives it a squeeze. He reaches to set a hand atop hers. "I don't think yah peopah have de same history with mine, as de peopah here."

"No?" Theresa smiles a bit at that, shaking her head, "Maybe not the Irish exactly, no…But the British aren't really know for their fair trade agreements once upon a time." She glances down at his hand where it covers hers, studying it for a moment before she glances up at him, one brow raising in an unspoken question.

"Dis is very true," Kwabena admits with a smirk of irony. After all, the British were certainly not faultless in the story of slavery.

Catching her unspoken question, Kwabena hesitates. His fingers twitch for a moment, as if driven by some engrained instinct to pull away, but he doesn't. Not yet. There is a silence before he finds some words to explain this.

"I think, if we were anywhere else, dey would be throwing stones." He glances down to their hands again, brow furrowing. The pale against such dark black paints quite a contrast; beautiful, really. "In fact, I know dis is true." Still, at least here, he can… express something without the fear that others might throw taunts and insults their way.

"Throwing stones? Seems like that might be a bit of a drastic reaction, but I suppose that you might know better." Theresa admits, although that slightly quirked brow doesn't relax, remaining arched.

Perhaps because rules are made to be broken, or she simply doesn't recognize those rules as being rules to begin with, she tugs her hand out from beneath his, but only so that she can gather that hand up, lacing her fingers through his before giving him a squeeze.

With a brief laugh, the hesitation is momentarily replaced by a knowing smirk. "Drastic? Yes." Still, it's easy to tell by his tone that he believes it; one might infer that he's witnessed it with his own alien eyes.

The smirk fades when she tugs. At first, he's expecting her to tug her hand away. After all, what white woman in her right mind would want to be seen holding the hand of a negro? There is a flash of disappointment, but it's quickly replaced by surprise. He looks down at their laced fingers, then back up to the Irish gal, that surprise quite evident by way of rounded eyes. It takes a few moments, but soon enough, he tightens his fingers in acceptance.

Kwabena's surprise finally drains away. He leans his head a bit closer so that he might speak quietly. "Would you do dis anywhere else?" he asks, not in a challenging or judgmental way; more in a manner that somehow mingles yearning with concern.

"I'm not exactly a fainting princess, you know." Theresa might actually be underselling her own boldness at that, in fact. "Yes, I would, and if anyone said anything I'd thump them on the nose like a very bad dog." She shakes her head at him, her other hand reaching over to give the back of his hand a pat, "I'm not scared of close minded people, luv. They are just scared of us."

Theresa's first remark brings that rueful grin back to Kwabena's face. The latter thought, however, sobers that expression again. She's right, of course. By this point, the cigarette is long forgotten, burning a long cherry into the nearby ashtray. With his free hand, he reaches over to touch her chin, and lest she pull away, he'll turn her face just enough that he might lean over to kiss her cheek.

"Don't worry." Theresa assures him, evidently expecting him to fuss, or worry for some reason. When he turns her face her brows inch upwards a fraction, but she doesn't pull away from him.

"I'm not worried," Kwabena answers. While he doesn't move to kiss her again, his hand does linger on her cheek. A finger traces her jawline for a moment, when his mouth curls into a smirk. "What will dey do? Shoot me?"

"Then you'll just turn into smoke, and it'll make another dent in a wall." Theresa points out, smiling at him, "So, fine…you're not worried. That's good, luv. Worry about more important things."

She's right, of course. It's foolish to let the scene of one's youth dictate choices in the present. His eyebrows fall, and the smirk softens into a smile. "Like you," he offers, the words only partly emerging as a question. He's quite sure she can handle herself, but one can't help worrying for those one cares about.

He's about to pull the hand away from her cheek; he does, in fact, but it catches a lock of red hair and remains. Silver eyes glance to her lips, then back to green, curiously.

"Like me? What about me?" Theresa wonders, one corner of her lips curling upwards at that semi-question, "I can't turn into smoke, no…but I'm not incapable of taking care of myself. It just takes a lot more active consideration on my part."

"I know," Kwabena answers. He's not sure what Theresa might do about speeding bullets, but he's seen a glimpse of what she's capable of. There's a part of him that wonders just what kind of strange abilities she carries, but the greater part is simply happy to be here. He toys with that lock of hair for another moment before letting it go, and dropping his hand to cover the one that covers his.

"I shouldn't be too proud of dis smoke nonsense," he admits. "Every time it happens, I end up, well." He glances down to his trousers. "May be de only mutant who ends up naked when de taxi he's in blows up."

Considering smoke can't hold up clothing… the struggle is real.

"Oh, well, that is problematic, luv." Theresa replies, glancing down when he does, then she looks back up at him, "Should I start carrying a robe around with me in case of emergencies?"

A snorting laugh bursts out, and Kwabena's eyes dance with humor. "Probably a good idea," he answers through laughter. "Can we somehow put a mask on it? Make it out of dat shiny stuff de boxers wear?"

"I bet that we could." Theresa replies with a laugh, tilting her head a moment as she thinks about it, "You mentioned there being some kind of costume shop? I bet they could help."

"Dere are some few costume shops around, yes," answers Kwabena. "But den, you'd have to be with me every time I get into troubah." He squeezes her hand again before removing the one so that he might reach for his old fashioned, but the one laced with hers doesn't seem to want to budge. "I tend to be too, ah, what is it dey say, 'gung ho' to keep track of a robe myself."

"I'm not sure how you'll have me with you every time…I suppose that I could just sleep in the taxi with you when you are working. I'm sure no one would notice." Theresa seems to be amused at the idea, even if she's not at all serious about it. "I'll stash one in the taxi, just try to not wreck that one, hmm?"

Kwabena laughs again, clearly picking up that she isn't serious. "Would just tell every fare, 'Dis is my bodyguard. Actually she guards my supahhero robe. Please ignore.'"

With drink in hand, he lifts it in a mock salute. "Well, I can't make any promises." A beat. "Maybe dey make fireproof robes?"

"Maybe..but how would that help with the smoke issue?" Theresa wonders, her head tilting a little bit before she leans over to press a kiss against his cheek this time, "We'll figure something out, yeah?"

"I have no idea," Kwabena admits. He smiles when she kisses his cheek, and adds, "Guess I'll save dat one for dese mystery peopah upstate."

"Right…I've no idea either." Theresa shrugs a bit, giving his hand a squeeze before she reaches for her drink, "Tonight…we drink, though."

"Ah, yes," Kwabena agrees, and reaches over to clink his glass against hers. "We drink til dey throw us out," he adds, and lifts the glass to tilt it back, gulping a large portion. The act is followed with a tweak of his eye, and a slow exhale. "Damn," he breathes. "Dey do mix dem well, here!"

"Mmm." Theresa replies with a laugh, swallowing the rest of her drink before she sets the empty glass down, "I imagine they mix them well because…well, I've no idea. Because they are smart, I'll go with that."

"Or," Kwabena adds, "Maybe some mutants have stronger bellies. Why come to a bar like dis if dey do not mix dem strong?"

"That is a very good point." Theresa replies with a nod, starting to get to her feet, "In fact, I imagine that you are very correct…This round is on me, yeah?"

"Okay," Kwabena answers, and gives her hand a squeeze before giving it up. "Johnny and I will be right here." He watches as she walks off, a demure smile upon his face.

"That's good…tracking you down might not be easy." She points out, then heads towards the bar where she picks up the next round. It's something very simple, it seems, two glasses of whiskey, straight, and a rich, dark beer for them each.

Kwabena gives a quiet laugh at that, and eventually turns his attention to the TV when she's out of view. Upon her return, he sits up straighter, having finished another cigarette, and reaches for the beverages with eyebrows raised. "Oh, good choice, Red, good choice." He takes a moment to smell the whiskey, one eyebrow cocked. "Is it de Dickel 12, or did you go for Bulleit? Cannot go wrong with de Bulleit, you know."

"I didn't check the label." Theresa admits, settling back down in her previous spot, "I just said whiskey, good whiskey…and this is what they gave me. Although…next time I'll be sure to get the Bulleit for you, luv."

Kwabena shakes his head, as if to suggest it's nothing to worry about. "It smells delicious," he tells her, "And it will warm our bellies," he adds, before lifting the glass in toast.

Theresa lifts up the whiskey, toasting him with it, "To warm bellies." She then knocks the contents of the glass back in one swallow, letting out a small gasp at the burn of it down her throat.

Finding Theresa to be full of surprises, Kwabena follows suit. He's never drank with a woman who can keep up pace with him, and with the whiskey drained, he sets the glass down on the nearby table, a similar gasp escaping. "Yea," be vocalizes. "Dat.. is definitely de numbah twelve."

"How can you tell?" Theresa wonders, setting her empty glass to the side, only so that she can ease that burn with a sip off the beer, that too getting set to the side for the moment.

"Well," Kwabena answers, replacing the smaller glass with the pint. "See, I've been drinking Dickel 12 since I was sixteen," he admits. The beer is raised, eyebrow perked. "Is not first rodeo."

"You've a better sense of taste than me, then, luv. I just can tell between good and bad, and that is really all that I can manage." Theresa replies, one corner of her mouth curling upwards in amusement as she reaches for his hand once more.

Kwabena takes a drink from that dark beer, finding it a soothing trail to the harshness of the whiskey. "I don't know about dat," he answers, while reaching out to connect with her hand. "Bored as a teenager, maybe?" He's definitely understating the whole affair, but he's already alluded to his troubled youth. Fingers make to lace again. "Good and bad? Dat's all dat really mattahs. Of course, dere is a time and place for cheap swill."

"When you want to be so drunk you forget everything." Theresa might just have been there before, or at the very least has heard someone else talk about it if she hasn't been there herself.

"Yeah," Kwabena replies, voice dropping a bit. There is a pause, and then he shifts a bit, angling his body to face Theresa more directly. "You know, de real drag is?" He smiles. "It doesn't work. I mean, it will work for one night, but… you still remembah."

"Yeah…" Theresa agrees, a little flash of something passing across her eyes, remebered unhappiness perhaps. "But, some days, got to remember that things will be better."

Kwabena shares that flash, but he doesn't speak of it. Doesn't ask about it either. Some things are better left untold. "Like now," he says, squeezing her hand. "Like dese days. Look at dis."

He gestures about with the glass of beer. "Bar full of mutants." He takes a drink, then nods his head toward a fellow with four arms and drool dripping out of his ears, chatting up a cute, red-skinned gal. "You think dat happens out dere?" He shakes his head, grinning. "Dis place is a sanctuary, isn't it?"

"I think that if it happened out there, we wouldn't need a place like this." Theresa observes, shaking her head at him before she crosses her legs once more, slouching down just a little in her seat, "But yeah…here seems to be sanctuary. Safety."

"Yeah," Kwabena answers, pressing his lips into a line. "But, it has to start somewhere, doesn't it?" When she slouches down, he tugs gently at her hand, hoping to pull her closer. He may be an experienced drinker, but the buzz has certainly set in.

Experienced drinkers they might both be, but they haven't exactly been going slow at it, or drinking very watered down drinks. When he tugs her closer she leans over against him, resting her head on his shoulder, "We are the start, those here."

"I know," Kwabena answers. He takes another pull from the beer. "I've always been more of a liquor guy," he tells her. "But, dis beer? Not bad." When she draws closer, he pulls his legs up to prop them on the edge of the couch, and draws her hand until it rests against his leg. "We are de staht," he repeats. "And when dis place isn't big enough to hold everyone? We will have to take it to de streets. Dey can complain, but, dey will have to live with us."

"I sometimes wonder how many of us there are…some aren't so obvious, afterall." Theresa leans against him, looking thoughtful about that, "If they can pass, would they fight with us?"

"I think so," Kwabena answers. His thumb brushes against her fingers as they talk, his eyes observing the various patrons in their differing stages of friendship, intoxication, and in some cases, debauchery. "See, dey might not at first, but eventually, dey would realize; can't stand dere and not get involved. Everyone has a point where dey won't keep hiding."

"Maybe…" Theresa doesn't sound nearly as convinced about that part as he does, but she's also willing to allow for a lot of possibilities being out there that nobody could really say for certain.

"Maybe?" Kwabena asks, turning to look at her. "Well. You and I decided we would fight, and we look like dem." He blinks, remembering his eyes. "Well. Mostly."

"Yeah…but we're us, and they are them. They may have more compelling reasons to not fight." Theresa shakes her head a bit, looking up at him, "I wont say some wont, but…what if they're married, and have small children and don't want to risk them?"

Kwabena looks down to meet her eyes, considering the idea. "Well," he says, then takes a few moments to think. "Okay. But men have always fought to protect dere families. Women, even, in some cultures." His brow furrows. "Do not say you would not fight for your children, because I know dat is not true."

"Well, of course I would. We Irish are known for our wonderful tempers and blood thirsty willingness to protect family." Theresa replies with a laugh, shaking her head in a bit of amusement, "So, you may still be right."

"I know I am right," Kwabena replies, "because I know peopah. Everybody fights. We just have to hope it nevah gets bad enough dat everyone feels de need to."

"Maybe that's the difference I miss." Theresa reaches a hand up, fingers pressing against her forehead, "I think it's time to head home."

"Oh," Kwabena notes, frowning. "Yes. Okay." He shifts and makes to rise, keeping her hand in his should she need him to help steady her. Not that he's entirely steady himself, but he does have a couple of years on her. "Let us go find some cabbie to drive us."

"Maybe we can get them to stop for donuts or ice cream on the way." Theresa accepts the help, pulling herself up to her feet with a sigh, "Come on, luv…night is young, but I feel the need to get these shoes off."

"Donuts? Ice cream?" Kwabena laughs out loud, shaking his head. "When drunk? No, no, what we need is gyro, or taquitos. Even pizza."

He wraps her arm under his and begins walking with her toward the door, but when she talks about getting her shoes off, he laughs. "Oh yeah?" He leans in close, a silly look on his face until their noses are almost touching. "I can carry you if you like," he murmurs playfully.

"What is a gyro?" Theresa wonders, her eyes crossing just a bit as she tries to focus on his face when he leans in almost close enough to touch his nose to hers, "You're welcome to carry me, I will nap until you take me to the food."

Kwabena winks, and then scrunches up his face a bit. His lower half solidifies, the sound an oddly crackling sound. Lifting her is done with ease now, thanks to an enhanced lower half.

"Gyro," he tells her. "Something Greek. You will love it. Is bettah dan tuna."

"But I thought we liked the tuna so much." Theresa slides one arm around his neck, shifting until she's able to arrange her dress around her the way that she wants to. "Take me to this gyro."

Many of the bar patrons are murmuring and laughing as Kwabena carries her to the door. When he gets there, he kicks the thing open, earning a round of applause and some laughter. He doesn't seem to notice, however. Instead, he's just watching Theresa with a big old smile on his face. "Dere will be plenty of tuna," he answers. "Tonight, dere will be gyros. And dancing barefoot to de Beatles." Ah yes, he has some records back at the pad, after all.

"The Beatles? Sounds like a great night." Theresa glances behind them at the applause, laughing a bit before, grinning at him, "You know how just to woo a girl, luv. Beatles and some sort of Greek thing."

The door swings shut behind, leaving them outside in the cooling midnight air. The bouncer grunts and shakes his head, stepping back to block the way in, but he does give the couple an approving nod.

"Well," he answers, and hefts her up a bit. "I couldn't have bettah company." Throwing caution to the wind, he bends his head and seeks to plant a kiss right where one properly belongs.

Being carried in his arms means that dodging such a kiss is a little harder, thankfully she doesn't want to actually avoid the kiss. When he finally leans in to kiss her she leans back towards him, pressing her mouth back against his for a few moments.

Its a polite kiss, but it is one Kwabena finds he's wanted to share for some time now. When they finally part, he's smiling more in his eyes than he is from his mouth, but that's partly because of the lingering memory of it all. "Well," he then says, and permits her to shift back to comfort against his shoulder. "To de, ah, gyros."

"To the gyros." Theresa agrees, slumping back against his chest after the kiss is broken, letting him carry her towards where ever the gyros are, or to a cab.

It isn't too terribly long before they've gathered gyros, cooked by a street vendor. Back to a cab, and back to the small apartment they share for the moment; Kwabena carries her upstairs until they are finally inside.

There, he sets her down wherever she might wish, and begins unwrapping the gyros. "Try it," he tells her, "is good!"

The couch, apparently, is where she wishes, and as soon as she's there she kicks her shoes off, knocking them as far from her poor feet as she can. "Is good…yes." She replies, a little dubious but willing to trust him with her precious tastebuds. She reaches for hers, unwrapping it to take a quick bite off it.

Meanwhile, Kwabena is busy getting the record player fired up. He drops a few 45's onto the cue, starting off with some unfamiliar ska track imported from the U.K., before he joins her in the couch with gyro in hand.

By the time he's gotten the music playing she has eaten half her gyro, and managed to not drip anything on herself. When he sits down she smiles, a hand reaching up to cover her mouth, "Is good."

Kwabena positively gorges on the gyro, to the point where he's forced to wipe sauce from the edge of his mouth. "Mmm," he agrees, and manages to swallow before speaking properly. "Lamb meat, some kind of… white sauce. Has a funny, Greek sound to it. So good!"

"It's really…different." Theresa replies, finishing off most of hers before she wraps it back up, setting it down on a table, wiping her hands off with the napkins. She then moves sighing contentedly, her legs stretching out.

Kwabena is nearly finished with the gyro when Theresa finishes up. He sets his down, wrapped, hands cleaned mostly with some napkins, but when she stretches out, there's only so much room. He lifts his arms to give room for her legs, then flops them down lightly over them. The ska music is upbeat and yet oddly relaxing; perfect for smoking a joint to. Too bad he has them stored all the way over in the kitchen. It's a long, short walk, and he's half drunk and cozy. "I think New York has all of de ethnic foods," he points out.

"It's a hub of immigration, luv…makes sense that they'd have a little of everything." Theresa points out, getting comfortable now that she's stretched out, her eyes closing a little, "It's nice, New York. Lot of different people, good company and food so far."

"Well, it has its ugly side," Kwabena remarks. "But, you're right. Really, good peopah here. I think, sometimes, I get de short end of it. Peopah always upset when dey are in a hurry to get somewhere, think cab drivah has some sort of control ovah de traffic." He shakes his head, laughing. "Now dat would be some kind of ability, wouldn't it? Could be de best drivah, or de most profitable."

"Just will the cars out of the way?" Theresa wonders, laughing a bit at the image before she moves to bump him with her foot, "You're a fine driver though. You forget, I've been in the taxi with you…and if people don't want to be patient, that is their problem."

"Exactly," Kwabena laughs, but soon the laughter dies down. He casts a look toward Theresa, smiling at her compliment. "Well, peopah are not patient, and it makes me more money, so, I put up with dere complaints and try very hard not to laugh."

"I don't think I could do that." Theresa shakes her head, pulling her feet off his lap before starting to stand up, "By temper is too terrible for that." She reaches down for his hands, "You promised me a dance."

Looking up, Kwabena's eyebrows crawl up a bit, but this is followed soon enough by a coy grin. "Yes," he says, and lifts his hands to capture hers. "I did."

Kwabena pops to his feet and guides Theresa away from the couch and table, where there's a bit more room for moving about. He swings her from side to side for a moment, before reaching forward to wrap a hand around her waist and pull her a bit closer. "Do you follow well?" he asks. There aren't many bright spots from his childhood, but, between fits of sobriety, mom at least taught him out to dance.

"Lead on." Theresa replies with a laugh, settling her hand against his chest, "I will even not step on your toes any." She glances down at her bare feet, then purposefully steps on one of his feet, "Not that I think you'd feel me if I did."

"Hey - ow!" Kwabena is embellishing a bit, to be sure, but in his normal flesh and blood, he's just as squishy as the rest of them! The noise is quickly followed by a laugh, and then with a twirl, he's actually leading well, perhaps surprisingly so. There isn't a particular style to it, more a mashing up of different dance techniques, nothing too fancy or well practiced, but nothing sloppy. The kid's got moves!

"You'll be fine." Theresa laughs, shaking her head at him as she starts to follow that lead, and although she's not any sort of dancer to write home about, she at least doesn't actually stomp on his toes. "Where'd you learn to dance like this, luv?"

"My muddah," Kwabena tells her. "Is… sort of a bastardization of things, yes? Some from ancient Ashanti tribal ritual, oddahs more, American contemporary."

It isn't long before the song ends. Kwabena relaxes for a moment, twirling his fingers through Theresa's while still holding her close. He then glances toward the record player with a quiet grin as it tugs down a new '45 into place. It isn't long before the riff and battering drums of the Beatles' smash hit, 'Twist And Shout' fire up.

"Oh, now this is a bit faster." Theresa comments with a laugh, pulling herself away from him when the music shifts tempo, but lets him keep ahold of her hand. This dancing she seems to be a little more familiar with, starting to twist her hips from side to side, "Come on, luv…"

Alright, so, this is a thing he has only seen on television. Kwabena laughs a bit, though it's a bit more hesitant, but he gives it a shot anyway. "Alright, okay," he answers. It takes a few measures for him to really get into it, but once he does, he finds his rhythm and like that, the damn Ghanaian is doing the twist.

"Good!" She observes, laughing as she continues to move, although at this stage of the evening, after the lamb, and the drinks, she doesn't continue to dance too long before she collapses onto the couch.

Its a funny thing, how such abuse of the body can tire a man so quickly. Kwabena follows her over, refusing to just let go of her hand so easily, and collapses onto the couch just beside her. He briefly loses balance, and finds his legs tangled up in hers while trying to settle his arse in place. All the while, there is laughter, but it dies down. "Oh my God," he breathes, while the song fades out. "We ah going to wake de neighbahs if we keep dis shit up, Red."

"Let them get woken up..they can join the party, or just be quiet and leave us alone." Theresa replies, leaning against his side, a hand raising to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Dey'll be quiet and leave us alone," Kwabena answers. He lets go of her hand, only so that he might wrap his arms around her while trying to untangle his legs. The next song to come on is a more mellow affair, but Kwabena isn't paying much attention to it.

"Will they?" Theresa wonders, shifting as legs are untangled, her head moving to rest against his shoulder, a hand reaching up to brush the backs of her fingers against his cheek.

"Sure," Kwabena answers. He doesn't expound on exactly how, or why, he believes they will do just that, but his lack of explanation might have something to do with her touching his cheek. He turns toward her, lifts a hand to touch hers, and then pulls himself closer to kiss her again. This time, it comes with far more excitement.

Theresa leans into the kiss, her hand turning to rest the palm of her hand against his cheek for a moment before she eventually breaks the kiss. After a moment spent studying his face she starts to her feet again, reaching up behind her to catch the zipper of her dress before she turns to head towards the bedroom.

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