ArchivedLogs:Final Curtain

Final Curtain
Dramatis Personae Regan, Teague	2016-01-03 "I can't say how thankful I am that you don't get your fashion advice from Ion."
Location <NYC> Lincoln Center - Upper West Side
One of the greenest parts of the grey iron and steel of New York City, it is not merely the proximity to Central Park that makes this neighborhood of Manhattan so. Trees and small parks are scattered throughout the neighborhood, as well as memorials and pedestrian-only streets. There are many theatres in the neighborhood, second only to Times Square and the museum mile in its cultural offerings. Ending in twin stairways, the mighty David. H. Koch Theater's expansive lobby is awash in the warmth of rich golden light. Applause erupts and pours down into the rest of the building as the curtains close on the final performance of George Balanchine's The Nutcracker. Backstage, dancers in glittering white tutus and shabby mouse-garm with giant heads prance back and forth. Stagehands, makeup artists, photographers and choreographers are intermingled with the chaos that forms just behind the thin theater walls of any performance. The soloists, ranked above the corps de ballet and just below the principal dancers, are set well behind this wall of busy bees. Against a temporary wall of vanity mirrors, one such soloist sits and carefully strips away layers of heavy makeup with a wet nap. While others toast to their camaraderie, greet patrons, or their families, Teague sits alone under the glittering vanity lights and lets down his long hair. Framed by vases of flowers from admirers, the toy soldier goes about his downright methodical process of transforming back into a teen. Family is such a flexible concept, really. There may not be blood connecting them but Regan doesn't get a lot of challenge, regardless, at her claim to kinship to Nathaniel Sutler. Dressed in a simple black sheath dress and heeled sandals, a warm black-and-blue cape draped over her shoulders, hair done up in a bun held in with glittering pins fashioned after swords. A bouquet of irises tucked into the crook of one arm together with a package wrapped in shimmering ice-white paper, she makes her way back into the dressing rooms, entering Teague's field of view in his dressing room mirror. "That," her voice is quiet, the smile that touches her lips small though it warms her eyes easily, "was delightful." Teague's chair makes a quiet scrape against the backstage linoleum as he turns in it, lowering the wet nap in his hands to the counter-space before him. His expression, though extremely subtle, hints at surprise before he offers as much of a smile as he ever has. "What a pleasant surprise. I hope you aren't going stag? You look so lovely," He gracefully rises to his feet, emptying his hands and opening them to accept her with a kiss towards her cheek in the French style. Teague's sultry, heavy-lidded eyes find the bouquet, "You shouldn't have." "Thank you." Regan curls her arms around him for a quick squeeze, returning the kiss with cheek pressed lightly to Teague's. "Sometimes I enjoy a little time alone. It was hard enough to come by, for a while. This was an excellent way to spend it. Congratulations." She turns over the bouquet and the small present both -- rather squishy and formless, the paper crinkles easily to the touch -- and straightens as she pulls back. "Do you have even a tiny bit of break to catch your breath, now," there's a crooked slant slipping into her smile, "or will it be straight into rehearsals for the next?" "I often feel the same way," the young man sympathizes, "Though, I daresay you were probably doing something a little more useful." Relieving her of the flowers, he sets them aside, "Speaking of which, one of the books you leant me ages ago, I'm sure you want it back. You can keep the bookmark." Tucked into one of the text's pages is a small stack of various cardstock from similar such bouquets, and with them a collection of the signatures of at least a few notables that have drifted into Teague's orbit. "Rehearsals have already begun, I'm afraid. But it will be a welcome relief not to have two active sets of choreography in my head," he says smoothly, taking the soft parcel delicately in both palms. "What could it be?" He asks, eyeing her with suspicion as he punctures the wrapping paper with a finger and begins peeling it away. "I hope you enjoyed it." Regan glances down at the book for a moment before her hand disappears into the draped folds of her cape, coming up again book-free. "Goodness. No rest for the weary. /Next/ closing night, then, champagne. When maybe you'll really have a minute to let your hair down and indulge." Her head shakes slightly as Teague begins to unwrap the package. "Just something small to help make winter a little less -- dull." The fabric inside the paper shimmers, too, glimmering and icy-metallic; a very finely made Brunello Cucinelli scarf in white and grey cashmere, thin metallic detailing woven down its length like waterfall. "I did, but I'm admittedly more of a kinesthetic learner," Teague falls quiet as the scarf comes into view, gently running his fingertips over it. "It's beautiful, thank you. And just in time." he presses his mouth into another of his toothless smiles, leaning in to give Regan a dainty little hug, "I adore it. And yes, next time: champagne." After a pause admiring the scarf, he adds with a look of conspiratorial mischief, "I can't say how thankful I am that you don't get your fashion advice from Ion." In the distance, a booming voice bellows over the heads and voices of those present, "Dancers, fall in!" The boisterous command is accompanied by a few powerful claps of the hand and the quick flurry of some of Teague's more spineless coworkers. "A long-winded speech, undoubtedly," Teague explains with the flippant roll of his eyes. Unaccustomed to positive reinforcement, particularly from an authority figure, the teen gently sets the treasured scarf out of sight to passers-by. "Duty calls." Regan's fingertips press to her lips, stifling a very small laugh. "If I /were/ inclined to his tastes you'd hardly need my assistance staying outfitted." She leans into the hug, squeezing back gently. Her eyes flick away when the dancers are Summoned, and /she/ pulls her cape closed around her chest with one hand. "Hopefully not too terribly dull. -- If you don't have throngs of admirers keeping you perhaps you'll let me treat you to dinner once you're done suffering through it? Did you know there are actual restaurants opened again. I won't be offended," she assures, "if you just want a raincheck to go home and rest. Either way --" Her hand rests on Teague's shoulder for a light squeeze before she turns, "With things a little less hectic now I'm sure we have plenty to catch up on." Eyes widening, Teague becomes a bit befuddled at the offer. "I- Oh! Well- Of course, I would-" The young Londoner stammers, "That would be- Of course." His lips part, showing just the tiniest sliver of teeth. He looks back towards the gathering congregation hesitantly, and back to Regan. Instead of moving from his post, he unfurls his change of clothes and hastily begins to strip away his costume leggings. "I've heard the speech before," he pants. Regan's brows lift when Teague starts to change in haste, a small twitch to her smile when she glances back over her shoulder. "I really didn't mind waiting, but if if I'm rescuing you from some tedium I don't imagine that's such a loss, either. How do you feel about Thai? I can go grab a cab." "Thai sounds divine," the dancer purrs as he wiggles into a pair of straight-leg slacks. Of course, all the dancers change out in the open, so it isn't much of anything for him to do so. In fact, he can't even be the only one within sight in some manner of undress. To the suggestion, Teague nods his chin. His fingers probe the front of his toy soldier's jacket, unclasping the first of many buttons, "I'll up to you outside, then." "Excellent." Regan nods at this, straightening at her cape. Sneaking just a moment while that huge mirror is there to straighten at one of the pins in her elaborate hair bun. "See you in a minute, then." Her heels click away against the linoleum as she vanishes back out the door.