Participants:
| Scene Title | Tea For Two |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Boy meets girl onna boat, boy asks girl onna date. |
| Date | August 14, 2009 |
The Casino Royale
The best part of waking up is a blooming green tea chrysanthemum in your cup… or your teapot, as the case may be. Fuck that Folgers Crystals shit! Bebe doesn't brew coffee in the morning — blasphemy! — and instead prefers to start her day with a fresh spot of tea. Green. Black. White. Even red. She isn't apt to discriminate; she'll even stoop to instant powder if nothing else is available. Blame the combined Chinese influence of the Sheung Wan kitchen and that strange creature of protean flesh who sometimes comes calling at all unholy hours but, truth be told, Bebe's early morning tea time ritual has its origin somewhere other than Staten Island.
She stood out on the bow of the ship with her eyes turned to the finger-painted eastern horizon and watched the sunrise smear blood and roses and gold across heaven and the bay beneath it before retiring to take a seat beneath the hardtop cover on the main deck and thumb absently-mindedly through a magazine… all while cradling her cup of tea.
Now of her third refill and nearly at the bottom of her glass carafe, Bebe has opted for ultimate laze and still remains clad in a thin t-shirt and a pair of boy shirts. This is what passes for nightclothes when she sleeps alone; an all too uncomfortably common occurrence ever since—
Time for a fresh pot of tea. Bebe takes her teacup with her as she descends once again into the belly of the beast that she intends to call 'home' until other arrangements are made. She leaves the magazine right where she left it, pages turning of their own accord with the help of a mild morning breeze.
By the time the wind has ruffled the magazine over far enough to show off the cheaper advertisements and credits on its last pages, a hand comes down to pin the last cover to the table, swiveling the magazine around to look at. It's the kind of literature John Logan is inclined to pick up if he ever thinks to, or is bored enough; glossy images and fine print. He only gives it a passing glance, however, before turning his eyes towards where the narrow door leads down into the bowels of the boat.
Able to pick it out from the crowd at the sunny Manhattan docks, his self-invitation was carried out with quiet, expert steps and without hesitation. He's embarked on too many boats between the mainland and Staten Island to be in any way uncomfortable - which never did stop him bitching when his main ride had been that dreadful little speed boat for the better part of several months. The Casino Royale had been a remarkable improvement, and so Logan recalls it, very well.
The magazine left where it is, he opts to knock sharply on the door before opening it in the next moment. He's well dressed but appropriate for the hour - no silk, nothing dark, almost ordinary in an expensive kind of way. Well slept, too, for once, despite the early hour, despite his tendency to appear not so. Pleasant dreams, one would suppose.
Pleasant dreams, indeed. Whatever might those be like? Bebe wouldn't know. Not lately, at any rate, which is half of the reason she rises so early; she just can't bear the awkward agony of lying in bed all by herself and simultaneously suffers the onslaught of a subdued sadness that haunts her even when she's asleep. Or some such bit of psychological claptrap.
A knock on the open door that might otherwise close off the upper deck from that what lies below doesn't motivate the young woman in her underwear to lift her eyes up from her tedious bit of teapot refilling as quickly as one might expect. Instead, she says, "Bit early, isn't it, Brian? I thought you were going to call before y— "
Oh, wait. There she goes. The brief clatter of a water-laden vessel greeting the shallow bottom of a stainless steel sink basin fills the air and Bebe blinks as she sort of can't help but stare at her unexpected guest. "What— what are you doing here?" she inquires quietly. Her voice seems to be stuck somewhere between sorrow and wonderment.
That has to wear on a guy's ego now and then, although it might be about as futile as whacking a monolith with a tree branch in an attempt to erode it. Just because the foundations of such have been a little more crumbly than usual doesn't mean it's gone. Logan lingers in the short descent from doorway to interior, hands placed against the walls on either side of him in a casual kind of stance. There's a tick of a pause, his eyebrows going up, before he says, slowly and deliberately, "Good morning."
He wanders down a little further, a darting look about the boat. "You could act less surprise - I did say I'd come find you again, did I not?" He doesn't exactly swoop on over, tilt her into a debonair kiss, or any other such familiar greeting - rather, Logan allows for some distance, setting his shoulder to lean against the entryway, though warms a smile up for her. "How are you?"
Oh. Right. He did. Sort of. "Good morning," she offers in an acknowledged habit of human reciprocity. Bebe's smile is slow to grow but, eventually, it becomes something that's very nearly half as much of the spectacle that it used to be. That's the best she has to offer at the moment. Then again, it's god-awful early a bit, eh?
"I'm good," she lies, still sporting that shadow of a smile, all the while resuming her refilling ritual as if her fingers weren't suddenly shaking. It takes every ounce of willpower just to keep herself from literally dropping everything and running right over to Logan so that she might throw her arms around the Englishman's neck and— no.
Bebe prolongs her task at the stainless steel sink for as long as humanly possible before it become undeniably obviously that the tiny teapot is full. For the third time. Right right. "Tea?"
She pours the water into a waiting kettle that has been playing the silent sentinel on the small stovetop behind Bebe this entire time before then gesturing to the C-shaped built-in bit of ivory leather seating that surrounds a table which serves as the dining area. It's really rather nice. For a boat. Or, you know, for anything you might find anywhere in the vicinity of midtown Manhattan these days. In fact, it's pretty fucking posh.
Bebe, however, remains awkwardly frozen in place just at the mouth of the galley arrangement; one bare foot atop the other, toes curled, lower lip bitten gently between her teeth. She certainly is thinking awful hard about something but, whatever it is remains unsaid.
Now that the gunpoint of an accusatory question aimed his way has summarily been lifted, Logan sees it fit to saunter further inside, hands clasped behind his back, allowing himself to take in familiar scenery, not the least of which being Bebe's legs. "No, thank you; I shouldn't be staying too long," Logan declines, once he's dragged his gaze back up to meet her eyes. "I've a boat to catch and head Statenwards for the day."
There's a pause, taken up by a little more observation, focused and narrowed and in some ways calculating, before he moves ever closer, enough to encroach upon conversational distance; past it; to the point of touching as a hand moves to seek one of her's out. Fingers move to link and twine between her's in a tangle.
"I have a new place too," he adds, conversationally. "You should come see it sometime."
Is it possible to be both disappointed and relieved simultaneously? Bebe certainly gives the expression her college best, although it ends up looking more like she might be anticipating a sneeze than anything else; brows up and eyes damp with those longing lips parted for breath, behind which the tip of a bubblegum tongue is tickled by all of her unspoken sentiments.
The approach is very nearly enough to beg a backpedal but Bebe remains stoic — that is, right up until Logan so magnanimously manages to coax out from the corners of her mouth a slightly sly and lascivious sort of smile merely by the fondling her fingers. Once a tactile connection is established, it ought to go without saying that the young woman's invisible armor is all fallen down in a pile at her feet. That's some serious chink.
So, what's this about new digs? Her attempts to play it casual at the offer of a tour are only marginally successful; an enthusiastic I would love to! is transformed into a coolly crooned, "I would like that." And, while her word might not make her seem all that interested, the soft pressing of the pad of her thumb against the Venus Mount on the underside of the Englishman's hand speaks of an adamant and arguably immediate interest.
"You know, I could give you a ride over… if you'd like?" To Staten Island, she most likely means, but— hey. Let's not ruin what little bit of inappropriate innuendo there might be had this morning, eh?
"Would you?" Logan says, with a brighter smile. "Well, that'd save me a few Jacksons." Bebe is rewarded with a Euro kiss to the cheek, a murmur before he can entirely pull away again of; "I don't deserve you." Affectation, naturally; of course he deserves her, there are few people in the world Logan doesn't deserve. Invert that and you might get something closer to the truth.
More of a reward would be the flutter of chemical good mood that accompanies that murmur, warm breath curling against her jaw and serotonin levels spiking accordingly in her nervous system, sharper thanks to where their hands are joined. Bebe is left bereft in the next moment, Logan wandering to sit down after all, staying for tea. "It's this apartment in the Upper West Side, verging, at least, on the kind I've always wanted. The view's nothing special but the area's fantastic."
Which is, incidentally, something he's never been able to say before about where he happens to live. From Brixton to Mexico to the Rookery, and everything in between. He says it now as if he enjoys the words rather than the location itself.
The next few words that Bebe manages to murmur are rife with innuendo and the crooning tone of voice she employs in conjunction with that widening smile make it clear that this is the intention and not coincidence. "I don't work for free, you know…" She also doesn't owe John Logan any favors. But, she certainly doesn't say that aloud.
But then, all of Bebe's pink parts begin to tingle and whatever else she might have wanted to say gets stuck in the back of her throat until the Englishman pulls away. The sigh she exhales after his departure is heavy and audible and laced with longing. She's forced to clear her throat as she turns to attend to kettle and offers him a very genuine and seemingly pleased, "Good for you!"
Another strange little ball of dried brown and green is delicately plunked into the bottom of the teapot before Bebe lingers in the shrunken galley space, turning her eyes once again over to John Logan and gracing him with one of her wide smiles. "I can't wait to see it. When can I come over?"
Lanky though he is, Logan isn't terribly tall and so discomfort in the confines of the seating is reduced, not to mention being relatively used to the space. A long arm sprawls along the back of the ivory leather lounge, fingers stretching as he glances over his fingernails before steering his attention back to her. "Any time, my love, so long as I know to expect you. I could send a car around whenever you like."
Hey, big spender, who's freeloading off his ex-employee's boat travels and kicking back quite happily. "Mind you— I was hoping perhaps you might be up for taking a gander tomorrow night. I've got a bit of a shindig to attend and was wondering if you'd like to come along. Drinks afterwards, perhaps."
Well, well. Send a car. How positively posh! Bebe's eyebrows bounce and rebound at Logan's lackadaisical lapse into what is clearly a significant step up from the resources available to him on Staten Island— or, perhaps, he's always been this rich and was just keeping it low key in order to indulge his vices and play the proprietor without the hassle of hangers-on. Like Bebe. How ironic that she somehow seems to feel as if she's the one mooching off of him.
"A shindig," the tiny (ex)tart echoes, her sly smile unavoidable now in the wake of the Englishman's chosen terminology. "Sounds like fun. I wouldn't miss it." So, that would be a 'yes' then. "When should I expect you?" To pick her up, she means. Or send a car.
The kettle barely has the breath to whistle before Bebe's fetched it from the flat stovetop and begun to pour the boiling water into the teapot, whereupon the little ball at the bottom begins to bloom into a beautiful and strange fragrant floral arrangement that just so happens to taste delicious. Jasmine. Mmmm.
She retrieves a second teacup from cupboard storage before bringing both items over to the table and serving Logan his morning spot of tea with obedient grace. She then lingers momentarily by his side, teapot on the table, and bends a bit to place a little kiss on his cheek.
How convenient that she should feel the moocher in this scenario, and Logan certainly wouldn't have it any other way. He inclines his head to allow for the kiss, a certain amount of satisfaction in his eyes at the gentle gesture, then a twitch as if to nudge her into a true version of the same— though it never happens, a smile playing out on his mouth. "Yes, a shindig. Starts at seven, but I expect to be fashionably late. I'll come pick you up on the dot."
He picks up the cup of steaming tea, takes a delicate sip from it. "And this time, the building won't even be on fire," Logan adds. That is, if he (and everyone else) opts to be on his best behaviour— which he is accomplishing remarkably now, and why shouldn't he be?
Everything is going so well~.