Logs:Dancing

Dancing
Dramatis Personae Fury, Lucien	2021-05-25 "If that's you chancing I ain't ready for you doing nothin' on purpose."
Location <NYC> Mockingbird - Tribeca
With blacked-out windows and a tasteful but plain facade, the Mockingbird doesn't look like much at all from the outside. You'd probably miss it if you weren't specifically searching for it, and once inside you'd be informed the establishment is members-only--on a technicality, since membership costs next to nothing. Inside, the cozy club is styled after an early 20th century lounge, complete with vintage furniture, an antique long bar, and live music nightly. All of the employees and many of the regulars habitually dress in a melange of '30s and '40s fashion. The dance floor is not large, just an irregular space between tables and booths, but there's almost always someone cutting a rug. It's a quiet Tuesday evening and you could hardly call this place bustling, tonight. A few regulars at the bar, chatting quietly with themselves or the bartender. A stud in bold yellow Cab Calloway suit twirling her partner in blue and black-fringed flapper dress on the dance floor. A few occupied tables, but far more empty just as of yet. The singer is a new face here, visiting from Virginia and hoping to impress enough to be invited back on a busier weekend night. Lucien has been ensconced for a short while at a side booth, alone, one empty glass in front of him and another (whiskey sour) half-drunk near to hand. He's dressed this evening in a gray chalk stripe suit, generously cut to complement a broad, muscular build, with sharp, tapered trousers--the cuffs almost but not quite cover the white of his two-tone black derbies--and a matching pointed vest, the seafoam green of the linen shirt beneath it set off by a paisley tie in many shades of green suggestive of lush plant life. Phone in hand, he's alternating between whittling down his inbox and watching the (very talented) dancers, an occasional abstraction to his expression that might be deep thought or might, perhaps, just be exhaustion. Nick Fury's entrance is not particularly dramatic but, as usual, the man himself is. The cut of his outfit is classic enough to jive with the venue, and though he manages to make the black-on-black of his suit, shirt, and tie look enigmatic rather than funeral, it still draws the eye -- almost as much as the black eye patch does. He makes his way to the bar, exchanges a few pleasantries with the bartender, and peels away casually with an old fashioned cupped in one hand. He drifts to a stop beside Lucien's booth, the sweep of his eye quick and appraising. "Mind if I join you?" Caught right in the middle of another unfocused stare, it takes Lucien a few beats before he drags his eyes upward to fix on Fury. He sits up just a touch straighter, setting his phone down alongside his glass. "Oh, goodness --" He glances to the empty seat across from him, and then back to Fury, forefinger and thumb pressing brief at the hollows of his eyes. "I was not waiting for anyone." His hand tips out, indicating the seat with a nod of assent. "I'd say it is a surprise to see you here, but you know --" His gaze is sweeping appraisingly over Fury's black-on-black suit, "-- now that I am seeing it, jazz suits you well." Fury's smile is just a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. He sits, setting his glass down so deliberately it barely makes a sound. "Been a member here for a minute," he allows. "Drinks are great, music's excellent, and if I ever feel like cutting a rug I can't think of a better place." He lifts his glass for a small sip, gaze darting to the dancers. "You trying to get into character? Or at least into the time he's from?" The corner of Lucien's mouth twitches. "I have been a member here for -- a minute." He reaches for his glass but does not lift it, one finger tracing in slow circles against its side. "Oh, I don't know that all this --" His other hand lifts, wrist turning out and fingers unfurling in a languid indication of the room around them, "-- was precisely Mr. Rogers' speed, but I do find it relaxing. Do you?" His brows lift now, a curious grace note lifting his tone. "Often feel like dancing?" Fury huffs a quiet laugh. "I suppose not, but it might be more his speed now. I gather you've been a good influence on him." His brows lift up, the left one slightly lower than the right -- probably due to scarring, but it gives him a skeptical look all the same. "Not as often as when I was younger and hotter and a lot less creaky, but -- my feet do still tap from time to time. Might could show the young'uns a move or two but -- well, I ain't no professional." He tips his glass toward Lucien. "Unlike yourself. I seen you in Pippin, but I heard that don't hold a candle to Lost." Lucien chuffs out a soft breath, and though he doesn't quite smile there's a pleased crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a deeper warmth in their brilliant green. "Have I? I imagine most people would consider it rather the other way 'round." His eyes drift back to the dance floor -- still sparsely populated, though a few more couples have begun to trickle in. "I suppose that depends what you like in your theatre. Lost was a bit of a spectacle. But, you know, that's one of the things I like about coming here. I just about always find someone who can show me a thing or two. I might have chanced into employment, but experience, passion --" He pulls his gaze away from the dancers and back to Fury, plucking up his glass and rolling a small sip around in his mouth before swallowing. "Well. There is always plenty yet to learn." "I do admire him, but he had a big chip on his shoulder. Maybe still do, but he's steadier." Fury shrugs one shoulder, pulls on his drink. "Having a home will do that to a man, and I'on know I coulda have given him that." There's just a hint of wistfulness, here. Just a hint. "Don't usually go in for the song and dance kinda theatre -- Lord knows there's enough of that in my employment -- but I make exceptions when it's relevant to my interests. Or to folks I care about." This time when his brow lifts it is only his unmarred right one. "Chanced? If that's you chancing I ain't ready for you doing nothin' on purpose." He drains the rest of his drink. "Well." His accent shifts subtly, a deeper southern drawl that sounds no less natural to him than the gruff, slick coastal one. "Mister Tessier, may I have this dance?"