ArchivedLogs:Fruits

Fruits
Dramatis Personae Emma, Lucien	2015-03-15 "...in our own time we try to remember who the person is underneath all that polish?" (Part of Future Past TP.)
Location <NYC> Gioiello - Gramercy Park
With a cuisine focused in the heart of the Mediterranean, this restaurant truly is a jewel of New York's dining scene. Its dress code is black tie and its reservations are booked months in advance, but all who come agree that the wait is well worth it. The chef here is praised by gourmands far and wide. The decor matches the high standards of the cuisine; quiet sumptuous elegance to fit the sumptuous palate. For those who can afford its hefty price tag, it is a stop of every foodie's docket. Though it's booked solid in here -- isn't it always -- it's not /loud/, conversations kept to a quiet murmur, the music low and classical. Outside, the valet is taking a black Aston Martin Vanquish off to be parked, having recently dispensed its owner out to the restaurant. Lucien matches his car, all in black, his tux a very classic single-breasted peaked-lapel style. He's only just arrived -- the host only just greeting him with a small smile, a small nod. Already looking down at the list for his reservation before Lucien even gives his name. Emma straightens her skirts as she exits the car, casting a quick glance at the valet before adjusting the hood of her white cape over her head, the linen and silk blend keeping the cold evening off her shoulders. The upper circle of her outwear resting lightly in the crook of her arms at first, then slides down her forearms as they settle back at her sides. Two toned gray and white silks swish lightly against her legs, held back by the warmer layer that hangs all the way down to her knees. She slows as she comes to a stop at Lucien's side, her gaze is only for him, allowing him to deal with the trivialities of the reservations. "Mmmm. Smells good even from out here." "It never disappoints, here." Lucien's name is not on the reservation list, alas. He doesn't seem much fussed about this small detail, despite the long list and perpetually overbooked status of the place. As the host's finger trails down the list, his hand moves to brush -- in passing -- lightly against the back of the other man's. Though it's only a brief brush of contact, it registers in the other individual's mind in a flush of warmer disposition, a mellowing, an openness. "Tessier," Lucien says, "I'm afraid it isn't on the list, I spoke to Signor Corio only a short while ago. He assured me that Ms. Frost would not have to to leave New York tonight without a chance to try his faraona." Emma raises an eyebrow as she hears that Lucien is not on the reservation list, turning a wide eyed, imploring gaze upon the gatekeeper of the restaurant before a small blush reaches her cheeks as well, glancing up at Lucien as he continues speaking. "Oh, if they are dreadfully busy, I'm sure that we could come another time. I'm sure my dear signore will not mind too much if we waited until summer." Some how, her depressed tone lends less credibility to her words about the owner's acceptance. Her mind reaches out if only to whisper in his ear, as unobtrusively as possible. << You have this no? I'm leaving it all to you. >> For a moment the host is looking just a little bit flustered, ingrained tendency to Just Say No warring with that borrowed feeling of goodwill, with some sympathy stirred by Emma's blush. He glances back towards the back reflexively at the name of the owner -- starting to lift his hand, starting to drop it again. "Ah -- it is quite busy tonight, we only have --" << I do this every week for our members but over the phone. So much easier when you can be here in person. >> Another glancing-brief brush, another quick-flutter. Mellow, warm. "Just the one table towards the back? Quite perfect, I assure you. Merci." Perhaps still just a little bit out of sorts, the man gives them a small smile, inclines his head. "Right this way. May I take your coats?" It's a cozy table for two, tucked in back not far from the kitchen. Lucien holds Emma's chair before taking his own seat, fingers curling lightly around the stem of his water goblet. "-- The faraona /is/ excellent, really." There's a whisper of amusement in his voice. Just a whisper. Emma waits until they are a little further from the entrance to shrug out of the warmer cloak, revealing a higher than her usual neck line and the hints of her collar bones as well as bare arms. Her dress wraps loose and low around her waist while the back of her dress hangs straight to the ground behind her. She smiles at the Maitre D' as he takes her garment and slips her hands around Lucien's arm as they move toward the cosy table. She slips light onto her seat, as gently as a feather, keeping her weight off the surface until Lucien scoots her chair in. "Oh? If you say so, it has quite a reputation to live up to." She reaches out for her glass and raises it to Lucien. "To you, my dear, and your wonderful gifts." Lucien lifts his own glass in return; the smile barely touches his lips at all, but it warms his vivid eyes brilliantly. "On occasion, convenient. I was in a mood to get out, tonight. Something in the air. Perhaps the approaching spring." Though in quiet ripples across the otherwise smooth surface of his mind, << approaching >> becomes << impending >>, the next word lost in his usual mental tranquility. He takes a small sip of his water, setting it back down. "I will have to confess to a strong case of cabin fever. It has been over a month since my last event - and believe it or not, I never seem to be able to put much heart into the sweethearts dance at the club." Emma takes a sip before setting down her glass and lifts her menu. "But the summer is coming after spring and there's so much to look forward to then." Her mind drifts to archery by the lake, but more so the buzz of conversation and the notion of being dangerous. << You haven't had anymore dreams, have you? >> "There is a rather delightful cabin I am planning to spend some time at. A lovely lake. Good hiking. Plentiful space to get some time in with my bow." Lucien opens his menu as well, scanning over it slowly. In his mind, there are robots -- both the sleeker tamer white medical variety and the cold red-eyed gaze of the future Sentinels. Polite voices. << "Be advised that curfew begins in -- twenty-three -- minutes." >> A faint line of tension threads into his jaw. << Just one. >> And a quiet undertone, << (One is enough.) >> "Some how, I get the feeling that you're going to invite me to spend sometime with you there," Emma smiles coquettishly, her shoulders rising and curving forward, brightening her smile. She maintains the flirtatious demeanor despite the dimming sparkle in her eyes. She glances down at her menu with the ghost of a smile, letting the expression fade as she focuses on the food offerings. << Enough? Then you're not interested in what happens and how we get there? >> "I had a mind to. Archery is an elegant sport. And more practical than it used to be, these days." Lucien trades out his dinner menu for a wine menu, humming thoughtfully as he looks it over. "Are you feeling a red or a white, tonight?" << On the contrary. I am not interested in waiting around to find out through dreams. They have ramped up, you know. It is not simply thoughts that travel, now. In this last, as far as I could tell, /people/ were actually sent from here to the future. >> Emma chuckles lightly when Lucien asks, shaking her head slightly before peeking over the menu at him. "I'm always amused you still ask. I have such a reputation around the club for only enjoying white. Since we are away from there, I think I could indulge in a red. I should go well with the faraona." She closes her menu and leans back in her chair, studying Lucien with a soft expression. << Really? People went forward? Interesting. I'd love to know who. >> "The club is such a strange little world. We cultivate our images there so carefully, don't we? But on our own time --" Lucien's eyebrows lift, thoughtfully. Questioning? "Perhaps the Antinori Solaia." He passes the wine menu off to Emma after this suggestion. << Five years hence, I will evidently be paid a visit by Jackson Holland's spouse and -- >> His lips compress, slightly. << Hive's friend. Though I gather they were not the first. >> An image of Isra fills his mind. << Did you know, our Borg friend was /responsible/ for all this playing with time? >> << My darling hydra >> the image that comes with this is less of a mythological beast, but more of the impression of bees and their honeycombs, << came to me a little while ago and said that he needed my help with something and explained the hypothetical situation, but neglected to get back to me with the success or failure of his endeavor. I have to be honest, I anticipated failure. >> Emma takes the wine menu from Lucien, reaching out further so her fingers brush lightly against his. "...in our own time we try to remember who the person is underneath all that polish?" She turns the menu so she can read it, her gaze fluttering from line to line without settling long on anything. << Who would think such an endeavor would work? I ... well, I confess to have thought us all Cassandra - able to see what will happen... but fruitlessly. >> << That skinny little bee may be one of the most powerful individuals alive, right now. >> Lucien says this thoughtfully, more than with any sense of awe or intimidation. Contemplative. << But what fruit it may bear we've yet to see. The house he's building -- >> His mental image here, too, looks more /honeycomb/ than /house/, << may still just collapse into disaster. >> << There are pieces of the future they want stopped. These Sentinels of Oscorp's. A bomb, yet to go off. >> The brush of Emma's fingers to Lucien's is met with a faint whisper of warmth, a soft wash of pleasure trickling out from him to her. "In our own time -- we relax. And wear no faces but our own." << It's an intriguing notion, sculpting the future, >> Emma muses, mulling over all the information like a fine wine, letting it swirl and aerate against her senses. << And avoiding explosions may be advantageous, all things considered. >> The understatement is evident in her tone, something steel and tough rising up underneath, in direct contrast to her languid posture. << Seems I may need to drop in on the Holland-Zedners. I don't suppose we have any events on the horizon that may tempt them away from their cosy, little >> reads more like mutant infested, noticeable, << realms? >> Outwardly, Emma breathes a sigh as the wait staff finally make their appearance to take their dinner orders. Emma focuses primarily on the wine to start. "I believe we would like a bottle of the Antinori Solaia," she glances over at Lucien for his agreement before shifting her attention to the menu, "and I have heard absolutely amazing things about the faraona. Oh, and the scallops to start." "Ah -- yes. The 2000, please. And for me the crudo di dentice to start -- and the ippoglosso, tonight." Lucien tips his head politely to the server. "Merci." << I think Jackson considers our kind of events to be a sort of torture best avoided as much as is possible. And the other one -- likely similar, though he has less excuse to /go/. Only turns up as Jackson's plus-one, if there is some compelling political reason to show. >> He lifts his glass, taking a brief sip of water. << I do know the owner of several rather prestigious gallery spaces around the city. We might not have any events -- yet -- but I suspect Jackson could be tempted out of his ghetto if the prospect of a showing of his own were on the table. Would running into them in the art world suit your purposes well enough? >> << Is it poor form that I don't mind torturing him a little? >> Emma slips the thought in there quietly during Lucien's explanation, leaving him with more of an impression than actual words. She smoothes out the silk over her lap after she returns the menu and turns her eyes back to her dinner companion, reaching out for her water goblet once more. << Yes, an art show would suffice. I'll be honest, I'm mostly looking to lure them out for my own convenience. I would not be entirely against a house call. >> Pleasant silence follows on the outside, a stillness in Emma's form that softens her gaze and her posture further, lost in the intent study of his face. Realizing what she is doing, she takes a quick sip, smiles and speaks. "Forgive me. I do not mean to stare, but I also don't want to waste a moment of your company." << oh god, so cheesy. >> << Some people pay good money for that. >> Lucien's amused thoughts are coloured in steel and leather, the flick of tassels against skin. << I will see what I can arrange. >> His hand stretches across the table, fingertips resting lightly against the back of Emma's. "Then we won't waste any."