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| Dance With Me | |
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| Participants | Alison, Scott |
| Synopsis | They meet up, they dance, they.. kick mugger ass? |
| Location | Club Diablo, West Village, New York City |
| Time | January, 2016 |
| Posted By | Scott |
Loud music, flashing lights - for some it's a nightmare, but for Alison, this is a good time just waiting to be had. She's done some dancing, but now is taking a little break, occupying a cluster of chairs in a small cleared spot which should be painfully close to the massive speakers. Doesn't bother Alison, and those rich people who pass for friends have by now had enough to drink - and had their eardrums commit suicide already - that they aren't put out by the fact that their table is actually vibrating with each deep bass note. Alison is reclined in one of the cheap chairs, her feet perched up on the arm of another, which doesn't bother its occupant in the least. Her head tilted back, she stares up at the ceiling, watching the pretty lights dancing up there in a rather entrancing and complicated pattern. They don't seem to be doing that over anyone else, but who knows what kind of crazy hook ups this club might have, right?
It took Scott a painfully long time to decipher the text: clb devvil. Not just because of the spelling or the misnomer, but because Scott isn't big on the whole.. well, club scene. He doesn't do bright lights or booming music. And the whole close quarters thing, with the sweat and the elbowing, not to mention the bump'n'grind thing.. Yeah. Not for Scott. But it's not as thought Scott is stone-sober to begin with, having downed a number of shots back-to-back before even bothering to text her. He's not entirely sure why it seemed like a good idea. But she seemed enthusiastic enough. And, well, it's about time Scott took a page out of Alison's book: don't think so much. Which is how Scott is here, having spent a good fifteen minutes in the queue. He may be good-looking, but there are plenty of guys cramming the club — and the bouncer's all about maintaining a good balance. He's not rich, either. So there was no shortcut to the front of the line. Now that Scott's inside, though, he's beginning to feel very old. This is so not Scott's cup of tea. He moves stiffly through the crowd, avoiding the grabby hands of sweaty, barely-eighteen girls who want to dance. Gotta find Alison. She'll probably notice him before Scott notices her, if she ever stops staring at the ceiling.
But the ceiling is pretty! Alison may or may not have done further illicit substances that have her quite so thoroughly entranced with the lights on the industrial ceiling overhead. Scott might have been doomed to wander the club aimlessly forevermore had Alison's drink not run out, getting her attention back when she goes to sip and ends up only with plastic cup. First, she merely frowns down at it in consternation, like she can't believe it has betrayed her this way. Then she figures out the problem, and the solution follows rather quickly. Nudging the person with her foot, she indicates the empty cup and offers him a sweet smile until he agrees to go get her another. Score one for laziness. Now that she's broken away from watching the ceiling, her gaze is freer to roam, and roam it does. Which is how she spots the greasemonkey trying to navigate the crowd. In a few seconds, he should feel his phone vibrate with another text: 'crnr by tje spkr lo9l 444444'.
He's about to give up, yeah. This place is just too much. And there's no easy way to the exits, no clear position of tactical advantage should something — Bzzz. God knows how Scott managed to feel the vibration, what with the bumping bass. But soon enough, Scott's fiddling with that damn phone. Smart enough not to wear sunglasses tonight, it's only too obvious when Scott's brows draw together, knitting in a concentrated frown. Huhn? He looks up, using that immodest height to give the place a quick sweep. Not that corner, no. Not over by that speaker. Or that other one, either. What the fuck is she — oh. He walks away from this sick game of Where's Waldo the victor. And for a moment, there's a grin, before Scott is swept into the throbbing masses again. Duck, weave, bob. And bam, Scott sidles through the mess to approach the appropriate table. "Hey, I — " And stop. She's not exactly alone at the table. Which shuts Scott up quick, eyes skipping over the other rich club-goers. "Uh."
It's good he got that text, since after sending it, Alison got a little caught up with something on her phone's screen, and kinda forgot what she was doing. Just for a moment! By the time she looks back up, oh hey, he's found her. She, in turn, forgets about the phone, turning it off mid-whatever, and tucking it away out of sight - though where exactly it goes is a riddle for the imagination, since she carries no purse and this outfit isn't exactly abundant with pockets. "Hey!" she greets enthusiastically, offering him a wide grin, and reaching out a hand towards him as if that will somehow help him cross those final few feet. It's only when he glances over at the other people that she seems to recognize they're there. "Oh, that's just everybody," she dismisses and/or introduces him, with a wave of her hand. "Everybody, this is, uh, my person that I invited." Yes, smoothed right over that one. No indication that she still doesn't know his damn name, or even what to call him - a friend? But she's quite sure that will clear up this awkwardness and get things rolling again. The others at the table aren't horribly interested, though they couldn't really hear very much of that over the music anyway. Scott might earn a few dubious looks from the elite, though.
Well, they get dubious looks in return. Look at the idle rich, coked out on.. coke and stuff. Sprawled in their thrones beneath their cloud of oppressive smug, sipping on their overpriced toxins. Okay, enough with the hyperbole. But damn them. Because, to be sure, things are no less awkward — from Scott's end. Scott, with the Walmart-bought Levi's and the should-be-thrown-out jacket, the untrimmed scruff and a cologne that could probably be bottled as Grease & Whiskey. He feels even more out of place. Especially with Alison looking so cleaned-up. Attractive and stuff. He stands there awkwardly, scratching behind one ear. Yeah, she's obviously slumming it if she's sleeping with this 'invited person'. The wording doesn't escape Scott, not entirely. "Uh, yeah. Hey." The outstretched hand draws Scott closer, though he's not looking any more comfortable. "So, uh. It's good to see you again." Probably not loud enough. So Scott tries again, overenunciating the words to force them over the din. "This PLACE is, uh, really COOL."
Poor Scott. And Alison seems somewhat oblivious to the awkwardness being felt on both sides. Oh sure, she can tell they're judging, but assumes it's a judgement on her, and really, she just doesn't care about these people enough to, well, care. That Scott might (rightfully) interpret it as them judging him doesn't really occur to her; like any diva worth her weight, she can be just a little self-centred. What does sink in is that this current location is not a great place for conversation, which was part of the allure earlier, but now not so much. So with some effort, Alison drops her feet back to the floor, seeking out her entirely impractical footwear before pulling herself to her feet. A jerk of her head off in a random direction is meant to convey to Scott a 'Shall we?'
Normally, Scott would be gung-ho to just be a jerk to the rest of Alison's 'friends'. He might even find it amusing. But caught off his guard and several shots deep, Scott's turned upside-down by the unfamiliar situation. He's half-obssessing over Alison's introduction, and half-unsure what to do next. This really wasn't the best of ideas, was it? Coming here, making an appearance, meeting up with Alison again. That overthinking thing is creeping back. So it's a damn good thing Alison stands to make off, with the gesture. He jerks, yanking both hands from where they'd unconsciously been shoved deep in his pockets. Leaning just a bit past Alison, Scott flashes the unimpressed friends a grin. "Good meeting you. I'm sure we won't meet again!" So there's a bit of that jerk humour. But then Scott is standing straight again, and a hand may or may not graze against Alison's lower back. A small push. Yeah, lead on, Blondie.
At least she doesn't leave him hanging. His comment to her so-called friends just gets a laugh from the blonde, before his nudge gets her to start walking. Alison offers a little wave to the group, not bothering to indicate whether she'll be returning to them tonight or not. They'll leave when they get bored, either way. What she does do, however, is pause long enough to snag her drink as her makeshift waiter returns with it. Flashing him a grin, she just plucks that cup from his hand and then offers him a pat on the shoulder of thanks. And then she's continuing to lead on, away from the table, to a corner that's a little further from the speakers and hence, at least a little easier to converse. "So, you made it," she enthuses, once the volume is low enough to allow it. She's just all bubbly excitement, though whatever she's on may be helping with that.
When she doesn't turn right for the door — or what Scott thinks is the way back to the door — there's a momentary disappointment. Damn, they're staying? Fortunately, any flicker of weariness or frustration is unseen, what with Scott tailing the blonde through the club. Oh look, a drink. Where'd she get that? Who was that dude? Doesn't matter, except that Scott's rather envious of the drink thing. Those would totally help this out-of-place feeling. But then, it's all forgotten when she turns to speak. Away from the judgments of rich people, Scott seems more himself. The body language is looser, that confidence is back. And because of the whiskey-buzz, there's even a grin. It's lopsided and tinged with lingering awkwardness, but it's there. "And you answered," Scott points out, referring to the not-so-coherent text messages. "Missed me, huhn?"
As it turns out, Alison is simply a booze magnet. All the more reason to stick around, especially since, this time, she seems willing to share; after taking a healthy sip from the cup, she offers it to him for a go of his own, if he's willing to test the orangey-pink concoction that tastes sort of but not entirely like a creamcicle. Well, worrying about cooties is a bit late now anyway. Her grin turns a little more wry as he teases her, and she rolls her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. "More like bored, really." She doesn't figure she needs to explain how that group is not really so exciting. No, better to slum it with a greasemonkey, apparently. "They're all too tired to dance anymore." It's said with almost a bit of a pout, like the girl could go all night.
But what if it's roofied? The thought does flash through Scott's, ever the pragmatist. Maybe her pal back there tossed in a touch of the Rhohypnol, just to really put Alison in the mood. Okay, maybe — but unlikely. So Scott excepts the orangey-pink drink, though with a dubious look at its contents. Girly drinks are girly. But what the hell, at least it'll keep the buzz going. He takes a too-big swig, too, hoping it'll have some kick. All the while trying to pay attention, to catch the answer over the whitewash of background distractions. The drink goes down smoother than Scott anticipated, and the man doesn't hesitate to steal another smaller sip before passing the cup back. Which is simultaneous with a raised hand, gesturing with a shake. "Heh. Don't dare think I'm gonna dance," Scott warns, suspecting the worst from the fun-seeking Alison.
Alison, of course, is utterly unconcerned with the drink being roofied. She figures Scott's skepticism is merely due to the drink's girlishness, so it warrants a laugh as he finally downs some of it. As soon as she gets it back, she must take another swig to make up for the lost time, but then is content to turn her attention to the conversation. "Not even with me?" she asks, turning a similar expression onto him that was used to get this drink in the first place. A little too playful and ironic to be wholly real, but still, there they are, the goddamn puppy dog eyes. "You could have another sip," she adds in sing-song, trying to bribe him with her girly drink as she pendulums it back in forth in front of his eyes, spilling some in the process. Not that she notices.
Oh no, that look? Not only is she laying on thick the feminine sweetness, but she's also putting booze on the table. That's all too inviting — and she surely knows it, of course. Which just adds to Scott's inner you-so-suck turmoil. What a conflict of interests. On the one hand, Scott doesn't dance. Ever. That's just one skill Scott doesn't have, for sure. The coordination is too much, with the hips and the feet. And what do you do with the hands? Do they go up, down, in, out? Don't even get Scott worrying about the head, either. Bobbing, side-to-side, still? But then, despite these misgivings, it is so impossibly difficult to resist Alison. His brows wrinkle, not quite a frown. More of a pleading expression. And then Scott closes the distance between by a step, insuring a more intimate proximity. One where Scott can, hopefully, get away with an awkward side-to-side shuffle. "For you," Scott begrudges, reaching for the drink. Look, it's dancing. Kinda. Shuddup.
And the thing is? Alison so doesn't even care if he sucks. There's a brief flash of 'victory is mine' as he gives in, and then just a contented grin. Fair being fair, she doesn't withhold the booze now that he's agreed, so it's just readily handed over. "Yay," she comments more quietly, laughing a bit, before focussing a little more on this dancing thing she was so keen on mere moments before. As usual, where he overthinks it, she doesn't really think it at all. There's music, a beat, and she's feeling rather effervescent, so she just goes with it. No classical training, just a love of the music a whole lotta years practising. It goes well, until she attempts a twirl which kind of sets her off balance, whoops, reaching out a hand to steady herself against him. That floor must be crookeder than it looks.
With any luck, certain illicit substances are already doing wonders for making Scott's poor coordination look better. Hey, the guy's trying. And sure, most of the younger guys in the club are better, more surefooted and suave with their unbuttoned shirts and stuff. But Scott's not likely to run into any of them again, so who cares about a reputation? Thank God for those pre-gaming shots. And the creamsicle drink isn't without some kick — the bartender must've guessed it was for a chick. So Scott's not entirely Michael Cera about the experience. He's just more restrained than Alison, who really has the whole fuck-it-let-loose vibe down. And whoa, there she is with a stumble! His instinct is there, too, bracing Alison against a worse outcome. Thank God Scott's holding the drink now, right? Oh, drink. Good idea. He takes another heavy pull, trying his best to find the rhythm that Alison so easily captures.
And stumbly Alison merely laughs, of course, because everything is just so funny right now. Funny and vibrant and fun. Why wouldn't you live here all the time if you had the choice? For her part, she's just glad to have someone to dance with, it seems, since his not-the-best dancing hardly phases her. She'd probably have danced with one of the support beams had she grown desperate enough, so Scott is surely a good step up from that. Especially since support beams almost never stop you from falling on your ass, and they certainly don't look as good doing it. She gets herself steadied with his help, shaking her head a bit at her own antics. But then she's back into it, multi-tasking as she also reaches for the cup for another swig of her own.
A marginal step-up, really. But sure, Scott's got arms and legs that can move — most support beams can't say the same. And well, it's good for him to just go with the flow. Healthy. Can't be brooding away what's left of the twenties in solitude and self-loathing, right? Scott just needs to get over that whole depressive failure thing. Enough grieving time for ex-girlfriends, enough berating for being unable to find long-lost brothers. And more dancing. Anti-mutant gangs and their criminal prejudice can wait. Right now, Alison is drunk and laughing and way too hot to pass up. She's infectious. And Scott doesn't even seem to mind passing the cup back to Alison. Rightfully hers, after all. He's even stopped looking around so much, shooting furtive glances at neighboring clubbers. What's the point? And then, in an absolutely inopportune moment, it strikes Scott. "I don't even know your name!" It's said laughingly over the din. But it's out there. Finally.
Yes, Alison is actually a therapy genius, doing all of this on purpose to get him out of his shell and to just deal and move on already. Clearly. Or she's just a whirlwind he's caught up in. Either way, same net result, really. And now that contact has been made, she isn't too quick to regain what little distance her stumble gained. Nah, she stays in nice and close, which is good, since it allows her to hear his amusing observation. For a moment, she just grins, wry and somewhat teasing, as if she's pondering refusing to tell him just for fun. She might remember she'd already played that game once if she could remember much about that evening at all. This time though, somewhere between the lights and the dancing and the good time, both genuine and drug-induced, she plays a little nicer. With a laugh, she leans in closer so that she doesn't have to shout so much, speaking it into his ear: "Alison." No last name just yet, but hey, that's progress, right?
Progress, indeed! The whole thing is a trip. With the number of chance encounters under their belt, a person starts to put a name to the other. Somewhere in the back of their mind. Like hey, you look like a Tom. And whether — years ago, back in the even-druggier days of teenageness — she supplied a name back then or not, Scott can't remember. So this is a new one, and yet it doesn't feel so new. Like it fits. Which makes sense, of course. It being her name for twenty-some years. And there's the grin, a strange and thoughtful expression for Scott. He doesn't mind the closeness, doesn't mind the silliness. He casually loops an arm 'round the blonde's waist, playing with the name. "Alison. I'm Scott."
The closeness seems to have a calming effect on Alison. Not that she's exactly calm, but at least a little less manic for a few moments. "It's nice to meetcha, Scott," she replies to the introduction in a loopy tone, offering a grinning smile. She takes a good swig of that drink, and then offers back what remains, which is really only another sip or two before they're into the dregs, the way these two go at it. In this somewhat quieter moment (inasmuch as a club full of pounding bass and sweaty bodies can ever be 'quiet'), with that looped arm around her, she finds it increasingly difficult not to use him as a means of support, even though she hasn't yet really stopped dancing. Just sort of slowly turning it into lean-dancing. Perhaps she's actually growing tired? Perish the thought.
Lean dancing requires so much less skill and rhythm. So does Scott protest the gradual change? Of course not. It's easier to match Alison's pace, with the more close-quarters 'dance' — if it can still be called that, with the lazier direction things have taken. Taking advantage of Alison's offer, Scott does indeed reach the dregs. She doesn't need anymore. And technically, neither does Scott. Most of the awkwardness and clumsiness is gone now, that uncertainty overcome by a growing okay-ness. Okay with the swaying, okay with the noise, okay with being in West Village just to see some crazy chick whose name, it turns out, is Alison. He takes the opportunity to secure the closeness, adding a second arm around her waist. Now it's like a high school slow dance! "Yeah, nice to meet you."
Alison gives a little smile, still somewhat wry, but somehow also quite sincere. She gives him a quick study before finally giving in to gravity and letting her head fall to rest on his shoulder. Hey, if they're going to do high school slow dancing, they need to do it right. She's still moving to the music, but rather than keeping pace with the frenetic bass, she's hitting every fourth beat instead, as if she can't not go with it. "Thanks for dancing with me," she remarks as she lifts her head again with some effort, the statement simple but in recognition that this at least started out under duress. Suffice to say, she's pretty okay with everything going down right now too.
Scott's fingers stay just this side of idle, slowly and absently tracing the line of Alison's lower back, the gentle bumps of her spine through her clothing. Slow dancing is good. He definitely isn't as good at counting off the beats, but it's easy enough to move when she moves. When she speaks, something tugs at the corner of Scott's mouth. Man, she's sweet when she's however deep in recreational substances, isn't she? He falls victim to impulse again, turning just enough to press a kiss to the crown of her blonde head. Small gesture. "You're welcome," Scott acknowledges. No use driving the point further home, right? "Think it's bedtime?"
With the highs come the lows, but as the lows go, this is certainly not so bad. Relaxing, really, though perhaps it takes a particular type of person to be lullaby-ed by pulsating techno music. But that could very well have made up a considerable part of Alison's childhood, so this is nothing new for her. The small gesture gets a grin from her as she lifts her gaze to look at him again. And then to consider the question put to her. "Mmm," she muses, scrunching up her face as she gives it due deliberation, "Okay." Though she doesn't immediately rush to pull away, that decision made.
Not pulling away in a rush allows Scott to steal another kiss, ever the opportunist. This one is the more traditional variety, keeping Alison close enough to make it good. Damn her, being so irresistible and stuff. "Okay." And with its conclusion, Scott does the whole taking initiative thing, prompting the weaving journey back through the club's masses. He abandons the arms-around-waist thing, of course, but manages to snag one of Alison's hands. Can't lose her, right? Through the club, out the door. Hope she didn't forget a purse, because Scott certainly doesn't think of it. And outside, with the thumping bass quieted and both ears ringing in the aftermath, Scott shoots Alison a look. "Uptown or downtown? Your call."
Fortunately, Alison seems quite all right with his opportunistic nature, to gauge by her side of the kiss, leaning in to it a little more, and then offering him a slightly dopey (emphasis on the dope?) grin as he pulls away. Her hand is easily snagged and she follows in his wake, finding something about trailing him through a pressing mass vaguely familiar, but unable to place where or why. Then again, she hangs out in masses, so she chalks it up to being simple deja vu. No purse is mentioned as she slips out behind him, though it could simply be long-forgotten, like her so-called friends. There's another pause as he poses the question, and then a slightly delicate, "Uptown?" In a 'please don't be insulted' sort of hopeful tone.
Insulted? Mm, no. Her posh digs are incentive, really. Way better to dirty those super-expensive sheets, right? Besides, the shower sex is certainly better. He allows a wry grin back at her, obviously unbothered. "C'mon then. Let's walk to Twenty-Fourth before we get a cab," Scott decides. A pretty lucid decision, considering the probable BAC levels between the two of them. And in the name of cold January weather, Scott scoops in close, looping an arm 'round Alison's waist. And away they go, without too much of a stumble on his part. Right around the corner of Diablo, away from the pulsing music and sweaty bodies. And into a convenient alley. The dark and shady kind. This couldn't possibly go wrong, right? "So your name's Alison. Favorite color?"
Alison's grin is accompanied by a bit of relief. Not that she was too worried about it, but still, nice to know he's not put out by her decision. She nods to his suggestion, readily agreeable to pretty much anything at this point. He could just as well have suggested a walk to the moon before they hitched a ride back on a rocket ship. She's grateful for the closeness in more ways than one, but especially since clubbing gear is not exactly designed for practicality or warmth. And the shoes aren't so great either, so even with all her practice on ridiculous heels, they are now teaming up with all that alcohol and whatnot, making the closeness useful in another way of not falling on her face repeatedly. She laughs a bit at the question, not noticing the questionable nature of this alley. "It varies, day to day. Pink's always a safe bet though." Once a princess, always a princess. "You?"
"Pink?" Scott echoes, in a skeptical-meets-humored way. "Could you be any more of a girl?" Not that he's really complaining, either. Got to be okay with the girlishness, by now — it being so intrinsic, so Alison. He busies himself with his glasses. Now outside the club, there's no reason not to switch back to the dark shades. Not a fashion thing, either. The contacts make Scott's eyes ache. Holding one of the sunglasses' arms in his teeth, Scott makes the transition — without really giving anything away. He's good, practiced. Involves closing the eyes as the contacts come out, then propping the glasses in place. All one-handed, too. "Okay, so. Pink. What about favorite author, ring size, best place to eat in New York? If we're gonna elope, got to know these — " Cue the further darkening of the alley, as two fellows enter the alley from the far end. Could be nothing, though. ".. things."
"And what's wrong with being a girl?" Alison queries with a grin, trying to elbow him, but thanks to lacking hand-eye coordination, it ends up being more of a nudge as her elbow moves past his side. The basic idea is there. She doesn't immediately notice the sunglasses swap, since her observational prowess is reduced even further by the intoxication. But when she looks up at him to comment, the change does get a slight eyebrows lift from her. It can't possibly be that bright in this dark alley, can it? But she just shrugs and starts pondering on his questions. "Umm." The fact that she really has to think about her favourite author is a bit sad, but then, magazines don't really have authors, now do they. "Sophie Kinsella, maybe. Size five. And … I dunno. Not a lot of choice these days, is there. Though I'd think you'd want to know the really important stuff. Like how I take my coffee and whether I run hot or cold." No noticing of those other two fellows for her.
Scott doesn't jump to conclusions, no. The alley is convenient, cutting halfway through the block. Way easier to cut through than to go all the way around, right? So it's probably not that unusual to run into a stranger or two. And there's an easy distraction in Alison, what with her all-too-entertaining babble. And the missed nudge just earns a grin, Scott casting her another look. "Okay, okay. Skip the restaurant, then." He raises both eyebrows in challenge, what with Alison's suggestions for questions. "Yeah, you think? What, so I can get you your morning cup of coffee, huhn? That apron gave you ideas, didn't it. Next I'll be dusting your mantles, washing your dishes, scrubbing your bathrooms." The babble is contagious. But whoever said banter wasn't fun. "But fine. How do you like your coffee, Alison?" Yeah, totally using that name as much as possible now.
Alison laughs at the accusations, shaking her head a bit but not in denial. "See, now you're giving me ideas. And it's not my fault you looked really good in that apron." Can't fault a girl for trying, anyway. "Though I definitely wouldn't say no to a morning coffee-fetcher. That just sounds delightful. Who could say no to that?" There's a grin as she looks over at him, once he finally comes back around to that all-important question. "Skim and one sweetner. Maybe you ought to write it down." With the several pens and notebooks they're both carrying, obviously. "What about you? Though don't go getting ideas about morning coffee fetching," she warns with a laugh. Yeah, those guys are pretty much entirely ignored, not in her plane of consciousness.
"I look good in anything," Scott counters. He can pull of lace and pink bows, yeah. So what? Her teasing only prompts him to squeeze her around the waist, all the closer. "Yeah, yeah. You'll be lucky if I even get out of bed next time. There's no wager on the table as motivation." He means the eggs, of course. It's a sensible argument. Because without a 'bet' to tackle, why get out of bed? There's the warmth, the comfort, the sleep. And Alison being there doesn't hurt either. "But black with milk. Nothing fancy. I'd really rather a glass of OJ if you have — " And that's when the strangers pass. And just when Scott's about to exhale and move on, there's the metallic click of a gun being cocked behind them. And one of the two strangers backpedals, with that jaunty step of an overeager mugger. "Wallets and phones, bitch!" Ruh roh.
"Not gonna argue," Alison replies with a shrug, after she pretends to give him a cursory once over. He certainly doesn't hurt to look at, and she sees no reason to deny that. She can deal with the ego. Probably. As he holds her closer, she leans in against him. "Mmm. But - the coffee," she protests half-heartedly. She probably wouldn't rush to kick him out of bed, lets be honest. And lazing about until it gets dark again is pretty much one of her best skills. She opens her mouth to tease him about how hardcore orange juice is, but never gets that far. She tenses up as the muggers suddenly decide to shower them with attention, staring at the man with wide eyes, her brain needing a second to catch up. "O- Okay. Just…"
Dammit. Scott really can't blame them. To all appearances, it's a perfect set-up. The casual but inane banter, the drunken missed step every third or fourth, the fragile-looking blonde chick. The sunglasses probably don't help, giving off that cheesy Hollywood vibe — probably some wannabe actor. He doesn't react right away. His brain is also trying to work past the alcohol, trying to calculate and assess. A frustrating thing to do, when you're five or six drinks deep. One gun, sounds like. The other guy's the one expecting the loot, demanding their hurried compliance with frantic hand gestures. Probably not their first time, but that doesn't make them experts — or murderers. "Yeah, sure. No problem, man," Scott plays, pulling away from Alison with some reluctance. He wishes he was wearing his visor. He makes to pull the wallet from his back pocket, subtly angling himself between Alison and the muggers. Not just for her safety, though. He needs to get a good look at the gunman.
Alison sometimes really wonders if she's some sort of trouble magnet. Of course, that it could have to do with her tendencies to drunkenly wander around a dangerous city after dark is something she prefers not to assess, since it would probably mean having to change her ways. She doesn't really notice Scott angling himself between herself and the muggers, as she's busy working on digging out what few clubbing supplies she has stuffed into her cleavage or elsewhere. Subconsciously though, she's quite glad to let him form that protective wall, which is why she's so very easy to brush behind him. "We'll just give you the stuff and everyone wins." She's been in this situation enough at least not to completely lose her shit, though her voice does shake just a bit.
Scott's busy ruling out possibilities, determining variables, and other mathematical crap. He thinks like that, in a jam. Really, this is a small victory for the muggers — Scott's not carrying much in the way of cash. His phone is a crappy RAZR, something severely outdated. Of course, maybe Alison's belongings will make a buck on Ebay. "Jewelry, too, bitch!" And that, with the language, that just sets Scott off. He frowns, fingers twitching like some Old West gunslinger. But a concussive blast might be overkill. Though it would light up the whole alley — and probably send the would-be muggers running. Tempting. But in the end, Scott just wings it. Heavy wallet in hand, Scott makes to give it up — and then flings it, last second, at the gunman. Who promptly swears or something. But all Scott needs is that precious second, more than enough of a distraction. He slides onto the offensive, colliding with the gunman. Fueled more by adrenaline now, it's all too easy to lock the man's forearm under his own arm, seize the man's wrist, and wrench. Hard. There's something practiced and methodical about the movement — very controlled. The gun drops to the ground, thankfully not mischarging.
While Scott is busy analysing his variables and whatnot, Alison is mostly just thinking along the lines of 'oh shit, oh shit, oh shit'. Her hands slightly shaky like her voice, she hands over a small wad of cash, and her considerably more expensive cell phone. Still, it really isn't a huge pay-day since she's travelling light. She flinches a bit as he demands her jewellery, which will net him far more money, but she's not inclined to argue. "Okay, okay. Just - stay cool," she urges the muggers as she starts trying to get off her bracelet. The tiny clasp is hard to work under pressure though and she keeps missing the little hinge, or having it twist away from her at the last second. So she's distracted when Scott suddenly makes his move on the gunman, looking up sharply only at the sound of the gun hitting the ground. The other mugger though is paying a little more attention. As Scott goes Rambo on his partner, he quickly steps up, grabbing hold of Alison in an attempt to use her as collateral damage, with a warning, "Hey now." Alison struggles to pull free, but the man holds her tight and far too up close and personal for comfort.
"The fuck — you crazy bastard, I — ow!" This is the eloquent string of words that the former gunman shouts, the verbal diarrhea sprinkled with a few more curse words. Scott doesn't say a damn thing. Clever one-liners are for comic book superheroes. He's cold and calculated with the gunman, acting with methodical ruthlessness. Still holding the man's probably-sprained wrist, Scott snaps the opposite elbow back into the man's face. There's a satisfying crunch and a spray of blood — but the impact was from a sideways angle, not the front. Broken nose. He then rolls to a side, dragging the cursing-and-groaning man by the wrist — prepared to throw him back against the alley wall. And it's then that the other mugger grabs Alison. Fuck. Frozen, one fist pulled back and balled, about to punch the now-whimpering gunman out. "You might want to just run," Scott suggests. Helpful!
Alison will probably be impressed (and a little confused) with Scott's awesome fighting skills once she has time to process them. Right now, though, they're just flying past the filter of conscious thought, blurring in with all the other 'holy shit' things going on right now. The other mugger, though, he's seeing all too clearly the bloody mess being made of his partner, which is why he's starting to edge away. Which would be good if he weren't still holding Alison between himself and Scott like a meat shield. "You crazy son of a bitch," he mutters at Scott, as though he's mad at the victim for screwing up what should have been a simple mugging. And he decides to take out of some of this frustration on poor Alison, gripping her more tightly and giving her a rough shake. Between being dragged slowly away up an alley and the fact that this is now starting to really hurt, Alison finally panics. And her form of panicking? Feeding off the ambient noise of the thumping club, she emits a short, sudden flash of light. It's like a flash went off in the alley. Except this flash is bright enough to momentarily blind anyone unfortunate enough to be looking at her. Her captor, being right there against her and all, takes the worst of it, and Ali tries to take advantage of his distraction, yanking herself bodily away without enough force that she stumbles. But she's free at least!
Scott is, unfortunately, looking at Alison, too. He's trying to gauge the probability of a successful eyeblast — something to make the healthy mugger jump, hopefully drop Alison in surprise. But then, none of that's necessary, is it? Because a small nova explodes, like a flash grenade. Only Scott's pretty sure Alison doesn't carry flashbangs. Luck's partially in Scott's favor, though. He was just about to check on the bleeding and snivelling gunman when Alison's defenses kick in. So Scott doesn't catch the worst of it, blinded for only the better part of ten seconds. But even with his vision returning in spots, Scott is bewildered and disoriented. "Fuck, what.." He drops the gunman with a rough shove, staggering a step away to blink through the crazy after-effects. What was.. Alison. Got to focus on Alison. He looks up again, to see if she's free and away. This would be a great time to be able to rub at his eyes with the back of his hand. And there's the other mugger, scrambling and swearing — trying to back away, blindly stumbling down the alley. With her phone! Scott can't have that. But precision aiming is just about out the window — no way to knock the phone free, not with the residiual after-effects. So Scott just goes for bold. He tilts the glasses up, releasing twin beams of redness that converge into one. The concussive force miss Alison by a sorta-healthy margin of eight inches, blasting the concrete at the mugger's feet. Which is sure to make him drop to the ground, and cause the phone to clatter away.
Had Alison been thinking more clearly, or, you know, ever mentioned this little bit of trivia to Scott previously, she might have tried to warn him. As it is, she was pretty much just trying to get free - which worked. She, of course, is still able to see fine in the aftermath, and it's only when she notices Scott stumble back a step that she realizes, dur, that got him too. "Shit. Sorry," she offers with a wince, losing all chance of plausible deniability. And there's there's a little noise of surprise as those beams go shooting past her. She's got no idea what they are, but seeing what they do to the concrete, she kind of suspects eight inches is a little too close for comfort. Scott gets a wide eyed stare, as if she has any grounds to be shocked at what he just did. The mugger, of course, is too busy falling to the ground, dropping all sorts of things in the process. At this point, he's ready to cut his losses, forgetting about them as he tries to scramble to his feet, muttering unkind things about psychotic muties.
So it didn't go as smoothly as Nite-Owl and Silk Spectre, but hey. They're both uninjured and unrobbed, right? Things seem to be in the concluding stage now, with the one mugger abandoning his fellow mugger — who appears to be on the brink of unconsciousness, overwhelmed by the tragic turn of events. Should've been a simple mugging, yeah. Which is just fine with Scott, who promptly forgets about the muggers. He's staring at Alison, blinking behind those replaced sunglasses — still trying to recover from the blinding distraction. Did she say sorry? Does that.. Well, it certainly does something towards confirming suspicions. So she's outed, and he's outed. So she's a mutant, and he's a mutant. What are the odds of.. With a stumble, Scott starts towards Alison. The aim is pretty simple if she doesn't run away: scoop Alison up in his arms and kiss her. Hard.
Then again, when have these two ever bothered to obey the laws of statistics. Alison is still working on recovering from the shock and awe of it. Superhero-ing is so not her usual line of work. She finally glances away from Scott long enough to give a quick assessment of the alley, namely trying to make sure that neither of the muggers are going for either of them again. But that threat seems effectively passed, so she turns back to Scott as he stumbles towards her. "Are you o- Oh." Suffice to say she doesn't flee from him, though he does catch her a little by surprise with the celebratory macking. Not that she's inclined to complain. She returns the kiss, her arms coming up to wrap around his shoulders, holding onto him tightly.
Celebratory, kinda. But also oh-my-God-you're-a-mutant. And maybe just a splash of oh-my-God-turned-on. Both of them involve that OMG-ness, obviously. He hooks an arm around her waist, reeling her in tightly — perhaps too tightly, given she's just been pushed around. The kiss is fervent, but thankfully brief. He pulls away, further than just nose-to-nose proximity, to give Alison a long look. She looks okay. Is she okay? She's okay. "You are so hot," Scott spills, the words breathed out somewhat hoarse. An odd time for that comment, but it's the only thing playing through Scott's thoughts. And there's a breathless kind of grin, something disbelieving and dumbfounded. "You're totally a mutant." He doesn't really have the sensibility to lower his voice — but then, besides that one mugger, who else is in the alley?
If the tightness of his hold hurts at all, it's worth the trouble. Alison is certainly not too proud to admit that whole thing was just as freaky as hell, and there is something very … safe about being held so tight. That and, well, channeling all that adrenaline into hormones is certainly an excellent way to blow off steam. She looks back up at him as he pulls away, slightly concerned until he makes his awesome observations, at which point that familiar wry grin returns. "Yeah," she replies with a modest shrug of her shoulders - whether to being hot, a mutant, or both. "Well, so are you." Again, could be either or both, couldn't it. She isn't too worried about this public discussion. Anyone near enough to overhear probably got a first hand demonstration, anyway. The cat, she's out of the bag, in that case.
Yeah, Scott's definitely riding that wave of adrenaline in its natural transition from danger to sex. And being biased, she may've just gotten that much more attractive with this recent revelation. That and.. Yeah, that safety thing. But it's more than that. Him a mutant, makes him a target. And her a target, by association. But if she's a mutant, then she's already a target — and capable of holding her own in a pinch. There's that whole overthinking thing again. But it's a small comfort, knowing she's not just another human. So ordinary, so defenseless. Mutants are the rock. And she's one. And.. "Let's get back to your place," Scott decides, thinking clearer. The booze and the mugging are but memories now. He's got a one-track mind now. And it involves Alison, and a bit more privacy than this damn alleyway affords.
And Alison's mostly just trying not to think about it. Things like being a target and marked by her DNA and what that means, well, those are a little too serious to dwell upon. So, along with the mugging itself, these serious thoughts are shoved down into some dim back corner of her mind. Mostly she's just grateful that he isn't going to freak out because she's one of them. Since 'them' is 'us' now. And that also means he might just understand, which is another definite plus in that column. Biting her lip lightly, she nods emphatically a few times to his suggestion. "Yeah, let's - let's go." Despite her eagerness to get the heck outta dodge, there's still some reluctance to let go, as her arms slowly slide from his shoulders.
Understand, yeah. He's already a'buzz with questions. Just what did she do back there, how does she do it, what else can she do, when did she discover she could do it.. Whether or not Scott ever badgers Alison with those questions, well, who knows. For now, Scott's got the sense of mind to keep them quiet — now's not the time. And even once they get home, in a more private venue, there probably won't be questions. Right now, Scott's number one priority is to flag a stupid taxi down, get Alison home. And just do more of that whole being close thing. Being close is good. Being close means not having to think about junior varsity muggers, about Sentinels. Which is the best two mutants can ask for, isn't it?
