ArchivedLogs:Equal Parts Good People, Good Music, And Free Time, Mix Well And Serve

From X-Men: rEvolution
Jump to navigationJump to search
Equal Parts Good People, Good Music, And Free Time, Mix Well And Serve
Dramatis Personae

Clint, Dusk, Natalie, Scramble

2017-02-24


I have boots. My toes are ready.

Location

<NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem


A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian.

Busboys is packed as is usual for a Friday night, but the music is perhaps a bit different -- Metallica's 'Nothing Else Matters' is playing loud enough to drown out anything spoken at a normal conversational volume, heavy bass rattling the floor. This doesn't deter those gathered from conversing, though they are almost exclusively doing it in sign language. The center of the floor has been cleared of tables and there are several pairs of dancers waltzing, to varying levels of skill and enthusiasm.

Scramble is not dancing at the moment, though she is /watching/ with interest, following J.C.'s progress across the floor. She's dressed in a sharp black vest over a scarlet shirt and tight-fitting black trousers, half half-leaning against the bar with an unidentifable fizzy mixed drink balanced in one hand. 'I should have come for the lesson, too,' she's signing with her free hand. 'Branch out a bit. Also they need to play more swing songs.' She doesn't look very put out, for all that.

'I could request. If you like.' Natalie is just making her way /off/ the floor -- to nab Scramble's drink, take a sip. 'Or teach you. Waltz.' She returns Scramble's drink with a tempting waggle of eyebrows. She herself is in slim dark jeans, a black button-down, tan leather jacket abandoned on a chair somewhere nearby.

Clint has just arrived and checked his coat and is weaving his way through the crowd toward the bar. He's wearing a black dress shirt and slacks with a royal purple satin vest, his tie a matching purple with a subtle chevron pattern. Catching sight of Scramble, he waves and veers toward her. 'Hi, how goes?' his signing is still stiff, but less awkward than before. 'Scramble, right?' He offers Natalie a smile and a polite nod.

As one song slides into another -- Rihanna's 'Take a Bow' -- Dusk makes his way off the floor where he has been waltzing (enthusiastically! with rhythm, at least, if no particular /skill/) with a stocky androgynous Latinx person in a brilliantly turquoise ruffly dress (/they/ have far more skill at this than he does, and have been patient with leading him through the steps.) /He/ has a deep crimson wrap top, low-backed and halter-necked, together with a heavy black utilikilt and his usual worn old vans sneakers. The fine fuzz covering his wings have a metallic sheen in a gradient from blue to purple, reminiscent of iridescent tropical fish, while the skin beneath is a deep, solid matte black with pale green curlicues reminiscent of new-sprouted vines. 'Hey hey -- heeeeey'. His brows lift, smile stretching wider and fangier when he notes Clint's arrival. 'Been a while. You good? You /dance/?'

Scramble strokes her chin as she contemplates Natalie's offer. Accepts her drink back and takes a swig -- some arcane proportion of lemonade, gin, and tonic that works better than one might expect. 'Both,' she declares. 'You should request a song for teaching me to waltz.' It takes her a moment, after Clint waves at her, to show obvious signs that she recognized the man. 'That's me, though I forget your name.' Matter-of-fact, unabashed. 'How goes?'

'Looking good,' Natalie tells Dusk, when he joins them once more. 'Maybe we should start. Commons dance night.' She gives Scramble a quick smile -- warm, not hiding its sparkle of excitement. 'I'll teach.' Her hand lifts, waggling fingers to Clint when he arrives, though the small greeting is joined by a warmer -- curious smile, curious tip of head, at Dusk. 'Friends? You know /everyone/?

'I'm doing good. /And/ I dance.' Clint raises his eyebrows at Dusk's wings. 'Wow! That is amazing--do his wings always look amazing?' To both Scramble and Natalie, 'I'm C-L-I-N-T.' The name he fingerspells very quickly, presumably from long practice, so that it's nearly lexicalized into its own sign. 'I met Scramble and Dusk at another event here, a while ago. The Deaf world is small, even in New York.'

'I have a great artist.' One of Dusk's wings stretches slightly outward toward Clint, casual and un-insistent in its offering of hug. The sharper slant of his smile to Natalie is quick and wicked. 'I /know/ everyone,' he assures her. 'Anyone need a drink? /I/ need a drink.'

'Commons dance night! I'm in. Let's do it.' Scramble grins, bright and a little manic. 'Nice seeing you again, Clint. You're not wrong, but if this was DC, we'd be running into each other every other week probably.' She slams the rest of her drink back. 'I do!'

'N-A-T,' Natalie spells out. She nudges Dusk's wing, nods. 'Beer me. And yes always amazing.' Her knuckles press briefly to her lips at Dusk's assurance -- or his emphasis? Her eyes skip, amused and inquisitive, between /all/ the gathered company. 'OK. I will --' A hesitation before she finds the word, 'plan.'

Clint's eyes flick to the heavy thumb talon at the apex of Dusk's wing. Still his expression betrays no wariness and he accepts the hug--a touch awkwardly, shuffling closer so /his/ arm can reach Dusk. 'N-A-T,' he repeats, 'nice to meet you.' Reaching into his wallet and passing Dusk a ten-dollar bill, he adds, 'Beer also, please. New Castle.'

'I'm /down/ for Commons Dance Night. We have some fine-ass dancers. It'd be a party.' The squeeze of Dusk's wing is brief. 'Drink, drink, drink. Got it. If this was DC we'd probably all have blackmail on each other by now. But so would everyone else here, so it would be moot.' He plucks the bill from Clint's hand, nudges Natalie's right back, and pulls his wings tight against his back as he weaves through people to get back to the bar.

'More parties, that,' Scramble pauses on that sign for effect, 'that is what we need to get through all this, right? Build community and work off some stress.' She rests an elbow on Natalie's shoulder, sort of slouching against her though not putting that much weight into it. 'You,' this is directed at Clint, 'seem like you know how to party.'

'Can you tell by look?' Natalie looks impressed -- at Scramble, at first, though she turns her impressed look on Clint afterwards. Scrutinizing. 'Is the vest? Purple, a good look.' Her arm slings casually around Scramble's waist at the slouchy-leaning. 'I'll teach you waltz. You teach me, party-detecting.'

'I am /capable/ of partying.' Clint's expression is bemused, half-smiling. 'I just don't exercise that ability very often. Does it show?' At Natalie's prompting, he looks over his outfit. 'I think the vest definitely gives it away.'

'Yeah, it's the vest,' Scramble admits, laughing. Her frenetic energy is almost palpable, like a heavily restrained contact high. 'It's just a guess, but I have a sense for these things. I'll try to teach you, but it might get kind of abstract.'

'Not often? What puts you in the right mood then?' Natalie squeezes at Scramble's side, a slight bounce to her posture. 'I'm a good learner. Oh!' Her eyes widen -- her hand drops. 'I did not request. How can we waltz?' Her head shakes in mock chagrin, though her grin leaves very little real remorse in her expression. 'We need,' she explains earnestly to Clint, 'a dance.' Very abruptly she's darting off to go consult with the DJ.

'Good people, good music, and free time.' Clint gives an exaggerated shrug. 'That last one is especially hard, these days. But!' He waves at hand at the dance floor. 'I have that now, and there's plenty of the other two. I'm ready to cut loose.'

Dusk returns to the group, two beers held by their necks in one hand, two squat glasses held carefully in his other palm. He offers one of the beers out to Clint, frowns, twists around so he's /not/ offering him Natalie's beer. Gives Scramble her drink (paler next to his deeper red one) before setting Natalie's beer down on a table. 'Cut loose?' Hopeful, here. He's lifting his own drink for a quick sip. 'You want to dance? I'm not,' he offers cheerful and unapologetic, 'good. But I took the lesson when we got here. I know at /least/ two steps. I might even remember three.'

'/Thank you,/' Scramble signs the word with a snappiness worthy of a military salute as she accepts her drink and lifts it for a long draught. 'Alright! That's the spirit. /I'm/ always ready to cut loose.' She grins wider, eyes skidding aside to track Natalie's progress. 'Hopefully with minimal damage to Nat's toes.'

Natalie trips her way back to the others, swipes up her beer to take a gulp. 'I have boots. My toes are ready.' She sets her beer back down and offers her hand out to Scramble. 'Have fun, boys. Save me a dance.' Which one of them she means is unclear.

Clint takes his beer and raises it to Dusk. 'Thank you.' He takes a swig, studying Dusk all the while, his expression inscrutable. Then, finally, 'I'm not awful at the Waltz, but I usually lead. If you can follow, then by all means...' Sweeping a hand toward the dance floor. '...let us dance."