Description: Years have passed since Amy Johnson trod in the limelight, her quest for glory and for power all but abandoned. In the week before Christmas, the mysterious Ash Crimson finds her hidden far beneath the moonlit streets of Southtown. Be it through simple boredom or enigmatic design, he sees fit to serve as an unlikely source of inspiration to the forgotten Templar.
Southtown may be the fighting capital of the world, rife with professional leagues, tournaments and the more fast and furious impromptu throwdowns so oft touched with controversy, but this is only a part of the tapestry. A full and rich variety of life flows ceaselessly through the city's veins, bringing colour to the most dull and grey of it's back avenues. For every band of would-be warriors there is a cluster of people - real, normal people, with all their physical frailty - who continue to toil during the day and party their night away. Theirs is a different form of thrill.
The pulse of desperate vibrance fills this secluded little nightclub some way hence from the most-beaten track. Lit by neon, kept extant by the two hundred or so figures silhouetted against the beating strobes, this is a cave of wonders much like so many others. Here, the singing of smiles and the flow of tears can be felt with equal clarity; because here is where this collective comes to truly live. Everything outside these walls is an illusion. This is the escape, and it is the reality, an organic flood of hedonism contained within four poorly-maintained walls.
In the far corner of this unlikely temple lies the squat pulpit wherefrom much wisdom is measured and poured. In more than symbolism, it is little to speak of, although - sometimes - the smallest detail can convey the most importance. The surface of the establishment's bar is chipped and stained with age, but even a discerning eye will note that it is kept attentively free from the more recent rigours of the evening. Likewise is each bottle placed with diligant care against the back wall, and as seekers seethe to and from the dancefloor, their contributions are taken and filed away with graceful efficiency by the darkly angelic figure hovering behind the painted formica.
A calm smile upon her lips, the black-clad barmaid's head nods to the technical vibration of the music as she mouths a thank you to a departing well-wisher, slipping a pair of notes into the pouch that straddles her skirted waist. Stunning blue eyes track across the delirious crowd while she quietly busies herself stacking away discarded glasses, pupils showing not the dilation of so many of her patrons; and filled instead with a keen, alert brightness that plays tantalising counterpoint to the curious aura that surrounds her. Unmissable, to those that are inclined toward such things, where those that are not will see only a pretty young woman in vaguely gothic attire.
For her part, she seems not to care who is watching, intent only upon her humble task as she awaits the call of duty, gently fingering the silver crucifix that hangs about her pale neck.
Just another body that takes up space, another face to blend in and blur with the masses, Ash Crimson is merely an oddity among oddities here. He is not unique, and as such, he does not receive more than the cursory glance. If recognition does dawn upon any of the patrons, expression twisting in feable attempts to determine just where, it fades quickly enough back to drunken stupor and merriment pursuit. They are all normal people here - far removed from his own world...
This sort of reaction, not something he is frequently exposed to, tickles the Frenchman's fancy. He stays to observe further, to 'people watch', stopping in at the bar. Too good to rest his arms upon the worn surface, the effeminate man instead twirls his platinum blonde hair thoughtfully around a single slender digit, ordering just a water, and a lemon slice.
EARLIER TODAY...
As the King of Fighters tournament approaches, Ash has been busy with various preparations. Duo Lon's sudden absence, by this point, forces the Frenchman to seek a replacement. He wandered the cold streets for the better part of the morning, gathering information on various unknowns. The fair-haired man is the sort of person who shuns fighters of considerable influence - the less that can be said about those whom he attempts to recruit, the better.
Finally, at half-past five, Ash found something of interest - someone to approach... He ate some delicious Shanghai crab at a quaint little Chinese restaurant, and as night fell, found himself lost in an unfamiliar part of the city. Lured by the pulsing bass, by the life that simple emanates from the building itself, Crimson passed through the iron-wrought door to the thriving, writhing deeps within.
PRESENTLY...
Ash has his water in hand, lemon slice set neatly upon the brim of his glass. He sips at the contents, blue eyes scanning this throng of dancers and inebriates, slipping away to the wall, where he is safe to stand alone and simply watch. Sadly, it is not long before the Frenchman is joined by a much taller, but rather thin, man. Hand to the stone, he looms over the smaller blonde and breathes, "Hey, cutie, are you alone? Want to dance?" He reeks of whiskey.
The flamewielder's nose wrinkles in disgust, "You stink." Ash states quite plainly.
Shocked, the man nearly pitches onto the Frenchman, "Wh..what?" Aghast, he gapes at the blonde.
Rolling his slender shoulders, Ash refuses to repeat himself, "I'm here with a friend," At that moment, he thumbs to a certain gothic bartender, "Besides, I don't dance with men." And he saunters off, right back to the bar.
"And so I am back. Bonjour!" He addresses the woman in a projecting voice, eyeing the crucifix, but smiling all the while like any friendly individual would, "I hope you don't mind if I just stay here with you for a bit - I'll even pay for the privilege." Why? Ash does not say, but he takes an actual drink of water, "What is your favourite drink and why? I'm not sure what to order." Liar. Plucking the lemon from the glass, he... puts it in his mouth?! Ash Crimson has no taste buds!
'Normal'. A word that Amy herself has used upon frequent occasion, daubing the masses with a single, wide brush-stroke. Of late, however, she has turned her mind to a frank reassessment of the populace, striving to supercede her own judgemental appraisal with a more open, caring aspect. This is the reason for her pleasant smile, and the almost demure set of her shoulders as - one after another - she fulfills the orders of these mundane people. For all that she considers herself different, unusual, and even unique among this kind, the raven-haired serving wench seeks intrigue everywhere.
Returning to her own perch against the wall, she resumes her solitude, but never fully removes her attention from the Frenchman, blue eyes dancing to him occasionally as she scans hither and thither across the club floor. There is something about him, a prickle against what ethereal senses she has honed, a suggestion of importance and interest beyond mere eccentricity. She is hardly staring - neither filled with longing nor particular nosiness, but it is safe to assume that he catches her eye. And may be responsible for the upward tweak of her lips, even before he returns to her vicinity.
When he does, it catches the vigilant barmaid unawares, as she has turned away from her own crowd-gazing to perform one of the myriad small tasks that occupy her. In this case, slicing fresh lemon in preparation for subsequent orders. The bar is often busy between sets by the much-lauded DJ, and it pays to keep all ingredients on hand. She doesn't even think about it, allowing her mind to wander such that as she turns, gracefully spinning to the fore, she finds her vision filled by Ash only a split-second before he addresses her. She jumps slightly, shoulders jerking and eyelids batting.
"You're French," is the first thing the crisply accented English rose manages to say in reply, a dark eyebrow arching as she surveys the flamboyant gentleman anew. Perhaps realising how ridiculous this sounds, she swallows and hastily appends a warmly sardonic half-smile, stepping forward and folding her arms against the surface of the bar as she leans gently in to proximity. Those startling eyes meet his own. "My favourite drink is, ah," she grins faintly, canting her head to one side, "Bitter lemon. It's refreshing, and reminds me that life should never grow too sweet."
It seems to be a candid answer, as she does not pause for thought. Neither does she allow a reply to be made instantly, pulling away from the bar to fix herself a drink as she continues speaking to this curious stranger, "Would you care to explain why you'd be willing to pay me for my company? I'm not one to be easily insulted, but it's the kind of gesture that could be misconstrued... or are you merely afraid of keeping any other form of 'company'?" She looks up and over at the last, pausing with a bottle in one hand and a glass in the other, eyebrow once more raised to punctuate the forthright query.
At her surprise, Ash flat-out grins, plucking the rind from his teeth and tossing it past the bartender to the trash. It's in! Three points! "Oops, didn't mean to sneak up on you like that." His following gesture is flippant, pausing only when the obvious is noted, "Ahaha, oui, you would be correct." The Frenchman often peppers his speech with various words and phrases born out of his homeland, but if that weren't enough to give it away, then the slight accent is enough of a hint. Any word with a 'th' does not roll easily off his tongue.
"I'll have that, assuming you'd recommend it." While she leans in, he maintains a respectful distance, and returns her expression with a simple but pleasant turn to his thin lips, replying as she turns away. Ash also notes that the answer is likely knee-jerk; the barmaid is probably asked this question quite frequently by those seeking to earn her later favour. He is no such person, and so his presence is nothing save for maybe good temporary company. The Frenchman pushes his lengthy fringe back, tucking a particularly long strand of hair away behind his ear.
"Well," He begins, searching the worn surface for an appropriate place for his elbow, leaning comfortably against the bar, ankles crossing, "Don't misunderstand, I wasn't trying to insult you." Ash projects an honest, pleasant air - more tangible is the fact that he even smells nice. Unlike that person, who is now pointedly glaring at him, "Don't you normally shoo away a nuisance who hangs around, not drinking, generally wasting your time?" That's exactly what Crimson was trying not to be.
Laughing all the same, he drains the tumbler of water, but holds onto it, his head turning. Ash's hair has been recently cut, and is pulled back into a strange, archaic style. Right out of the 50s, even. Fingernails tap the glass in his hands, the sound lost to the waves of noise, the level allowing no quiet conversations to be had. "I'm not sure exactly what you mean by another form of 'company', though." He dodges the question by feigning naivety, for no reason other than to see if her thoughts coincide with his own. Let's see how interesting this barmaid is.
Turning back, Ash sets his glass down, "Do you have a name, cherie?" Oh, is she getting herself something? The Frenchman didn't know that a barmaid was allowed to drink on the job!
The Frenchman's reply is heeded as the cross-bearing barmaid drizzles her somewhat opaque drink-of-choice neatly into its glass, stopping a precise measure short of the rim without once removing her eyes from him. Tending the bar is much like any repetitive means of employment; one's body and mind grow accustomed, and the occupation of self becames an automated response. Instinct grows easily, particularly in one such as she.
Amy chuckles underneath her breath as Crimson strives to justify himself, lowering her gaze a moment as she caps off the bottle and places it to one side. Her freed hand lifts to brush one sweep of straight black hair behind her ear, lingering a moment to tweak idly at the lobe as she reappraises the stranger. Yes, his style is bizarre; even in the outlandish underworld of Southtown. But what does she think of him? Despite her gestures, she is not entirely relaxed. A curious depth in the woman's eyes makes her stare hard to fathom, but whilst she does not seem to judge harshly, neither does she fully open herself.
"That," she murmurs after a moment, only barely audible over the background hum of a frenetic bassline, "Would depend on the nature of the nuisance. Only /I/ choose when my time is being wasted." She draws her chin up slightly with that, a nuance of pride surfacing over the otherwise well-humoured jibe. A glance is darted to the side as she considers the next point, and she pauses in thought, filling the momentary lull by gently nudging the glass of bitter lemon toward her conservational sparring partner.
"Company comes in many forms," she concludes, "You're not drinking, but you've dressed to impress. Given your reaction a few moments ago, you either seek a particular sort of acquaintance, or you're of a type that wouldn't normally come here. Why wander where one is unaccustomed? If you weren't seeking something, then you must be striving to leave something else behind." With that, she lifts her shoulders in a gentle shrug, and again leans against the bartop. "So."
Dropping herself a little lower to Ash, Amy cranes her neck to peer up at him with a subtle, mischievous little twinkle in her eye. "Which is it? Were you looking for me, or just running away from him?" Indicating the earlier interloper with a finger raised just above the formica, she graces the Frenchman with a wide smile, "And yes, thank you, I do have a name. And you, monsieur?"
His order not withheld, there is an exchange of yen, pushed back across the bartop, along with his empty glass. Ash doesn't take the offering yet, instead opting to continue as he has, standing at ease, hand gently clasping his wrist, lips pursed together thoughtfully. Keeping his gaze level on the barmaid's face, her answers and observations don't quite hit the nail on the head. The mention of his appearance causes Ash to dedicate a sweeping glance to his attire, quirking an eyebrow.
Truthfully, the Frenchman finds his clothes to be an understatement via comparison to his 'companion', not some impressive selection - upon parting with his jacket at the coat check, that leaves the flamewielder with a punk-like white dress-shirt and tails, laced up along his sides, red tie, then black slacks. She's the one whose style can be rightfully determined as 'bizarre', but moving on...
"You caught me." Ash admits defeat at the end, laughing playfully and lifting his glass. He curls his lips around the rim, smiling at her in the same way as always, "I came here mostly by accident, and sometimes wandering leads to opportunities and experiences. It's best not to shun them, unless you want to live in a glass box for the rest of your life, oui?" A pause, mostly so he can drink, the dark liquid washing down his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. The taste is certainly not what he was expecting, "I'm not really a seeker, and don't necessarily strive to leave anything behind. What will be will be."
At last, snorting as she mentions his earlier 'suitor', the Frenchman leans back just a little, almost looking at her upsidedown, "I'm too lazy to run." He says, and means it. That would just take far too much effort, "But in my walking away, I discovered you anew, and now here we are." It's not often that he's the one being teased, but Ash handles it quite well. His voice is clear, but his tone is low. Almost flirtatious, even.
"Since you ask, I'm quite certain I have a name as well." This is a game that can be played by two, but Crimson does not mind revealing his hand... Quite literally. He reaches out in a casual manner to shake, "Ash." Blue eyes vanish behind pale lids, and his expression softens, "Of course, I'd like to know yours, but if you'd rather not share, that's fine." He respects that, and doesn't care.
Perhaps it would be fairest to affix both barmaid and patron with the mark of the odd. Even within these four walls, neither has an obvious counterpart, though at least it can be said that Monsieur Crimson dresses his own part. Amy's attire suits her only insofar as it would suit anyone with the right physical attributes... in tastes and demeanour she does not seem to typify the role denoted by her aspect. Certainly, she is smiling too much.
The transaction is over quickly, the clink of glass and the lilting tumble of coin passing by in moments. Amy drifts back to the stranger-no-more, deftly snatching a glass from below the bar and placing it between them. She says nothing for a moment longer, pouring herself a drink and lifting it to her mouth, hesitating at the instant her lower lip brushes the cool surface.
"Amy," she offers simply, tipping the glass toward the Frenchman, "You could call me a seeker, though I am very much tired of running away. Still." She takes a sip of the smooth, bitter drink, savouring it before swallowing, then exhaling softly past parted lips. Her gaze gains a certain measure of distance, seeming - for a second - to travel straight through Ash. Where she looks toward is her own secret, but it draws a sad, almost nostalgic smile. "There are things I might run towards. The world does not wait forever, even for the carefree."
Though obvious counterparts are lacking (for Ash, this is usually the case anywhere he goes), it would be difficult to brand the two as 'odd' here. No one even bats an eyelid at them. They are not seen as unique or noteworthy... Just people who are there, populating this space, as one who serves and a consumer of service provided. The odd receive attention, and a fair bit at that. Ash finds this interesting, how backwards the nightclub is in comparison to the world outside.
When Amy departs, having shaken his hand, he lazily glances in the direction of the new patron, but can't seem to maintain focus. Movement means that, like some attention-deficit child, he looks, eyes drawn to the crowd on the floor, dancing endlessly, leaping, screaming, smiling all around. Seems fun! Maybe the Frenchman will have a go after a few more drinks. He doesn't need the courage; Ash wants to prolong the conversation.
How nice that she deigns to join him for a drink, even should it be frowned upon by particular employers. The vibrations caused by the object connecting lightly with the bartop drag him back to the very reason why he's here. Ash flashes the English woman an indulgent smile, tipping his glass in return, "The thing is, those who are carefree... do not run towards anything. We live our lives beholden to no one, and it is we who do not wait for the world."
He hates philosophy.
But she's slowly pulling this side of Ash to the surface.
Not often the type to share advice, he is running into these people more often. Those shackled to things, people, time, places... Oh well, it's none of his business. Shifting his slight weight, fully facing the barmaid, Ash lowers himself down, glass set before him, and chin in his hands, "Did you know that your name originally came from France? It means 'Loved'." Why Ash knows this though, he won't say. Don't bother asking.
Those who attend this temple to hedonism do so that they might avoid all the mild bothers of their lives. Nobody pays attention to the pair because this is not the place for them; for Ash or for Amy. Though neither is aware that the other belongs to that self-same group known unambiguously, and rather crudely, as 'fighters', there is no denying that this type does tend to gravitate toward its own. Those driven by outside forces, and those by themselves, share a similarity that sees them ever as bedfellows. Here, the mundane come to transcend their 'normal' existence. If the barmaid has run from anything, then in this way she has run from herself. From the burdens of a warrior.
Or perhaps she merely enjoys the company of others. Despite the occasional cool trace in her demeanour, she appears pleasantly soothed by the atmosphere, at peace with the presence of the Frenchmen as she is with the milling, spilling throng nearby. She seems especially to respond to his creed, shaking her head slowly, an emotion upon her face that may be read as admiration, coloured with a little fine-natured envy. He pulls her toward something she feels she cannot have... but it is alluring all the same.
"That must be nice," she responds with the ghost of laughter, shaking her head, raven locks shifting gently, "To live without restraint, or obligation." Her eyes tarry on his a moment longer, before she glances away, not speaking the question in her mind; 'How long can such a dream last?' Because now is not the time, and because this vivacious creature seems unlikely to change his tune at the simple, insistent quizzing of a new acquaintance. Besides, she is basking in his attitude, curiously fascinated. Hooking a leg out across the floor, she snags the edge of a stool and pulls it toward her, taking a seat upon her own side of the bar.
Amy lifts a hand to her own chin, fingers unfurling to cup the cheek. Once more, nearly the mirror of Crimson. "Love," she replies a little dreamily, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling not in exasperation, but reflection. They remain only a moment before returning to gaze across the surface of the bar. "Love is part of the reason I run. There are people who believe in me, who would depend on me. If I was carefree..." She pauses, and that teasing grin creeps across her lips as she shifts just a mite closer to her companion, "Would I still be 'amee'?"
Ah, the strange attraction that exists between all fighters, beautifully explained...
But enough of that.
The burdens Amy possesses are only there because she has placed them upon herself, warrior or not. She has filled what could've been an easy life with obligations and strange notions concerning others and their expectations. Perhaps it is to occupy a particularly empty void? Ash does not read her expression - he has no need. This isn't the first time he's been admired or envied. The flamewielder knows perfectly well through repeat exposure just what she's feeling as the English woman looks at him.
Adjusting the position of his hands, the Frenchman's head tilts gently to the side. His blue eyes flicker down to Amy's mouth, but return, "If you love something, set it free. If it flies away, then it was never yours to begin with." Quoting this, he laughs softly, "I think that should mean, in a sense, that the people who care for you will continue to do so and respect your decisions." It doesn't matter if her words were in jest, because his are in earnest, and suddenly, Ash is moving. Pushing up and away from the bartop, the flamewielder scoops up his drink and taps the brim of the glass to his freckled cheek. Ah, cold! Wait, what was he expecting?
"What time are you off work, Amee?" His accent, subdued for the most part, is suddenly very apparent, "Don't worry, I'm not asking you out on a date." Unless she wants him to? Ash would likely be delighted to comply with such a request, but for now, he'd rather Amy not get the wrong idea, "I was thinking that maybe we could dance." Consider it a lesson in freeing oneself! He seems to be under the impression that the bartender more often than not hangs back here, and once she's done, she gathers her belongings and leaves the livelihood to be found all around behind.
Taking what happens to be the final long sip of the bitter drink, Ash's slender fingers tangle in his platinum blonde hair, pushing it away from his face in a distinctly feminine gesture.
Love without condition, companionship without the burden of duty... the very thought seems to irk the raven-tressed barmaid. Her lips twist into a wry smile, hand slipping from her cheek to the nape of her neck as the Frenchman's poetic waxing is summarised. He's right, she knows; but she is aware also the wall she so stubbornly maintains, disallowing herself still the trappings of a vagabond existence. For all that she travels, ever motionful, falling without ever striking the ground, she remains bound and tethered by her own strict rulings.
The bleakness of these musings does not afflict her overmuch. As Ash unexpectedly moves away, and places that cool glass to his smooth skin, Amy espies his reaction and utters a bright laugh in turn. A bird released, the sound is lilting and musical beneath the chaotic pulsation of drums in the backdrop. Drawing herself up, she attempts to hide her own alarm at the sudden release of passion, only to betray her innermost as a touch of crimson blossoms in her cheeks.
Did he just...? Did he, indeed.
“T-Three hours,” she stammers in reply after a moment's hesitation, glancing aside toward a clock upon the dimly lit wall. She takes the moment of broken eye contact to gather herself, but finds another surprise lurking in her soul. It is with a schoolgirl's wicked grin that she looks back, twin sapphires gleaming from within darkly-lined sockets. A lesson in freeing oneself? Her hands slap to the bartop and she starts to stand. Then stand taller, and then...
As Ash busies himself tidying that astonishing hair, the Templar rather gracefully swings her legs up over the formica, crossing them at the knees to end up seated before the engimatic flame-wielder. The flush is now firmly established on her pale features, freckles burning an endearing counterpart to those distinctive eyes as she tips her head toward the waiting dancefloor.
“I don't mean to steal your words, monsieur, but if the people here care for me, I feel they will respect my decision to take a well-deserved break. And if they don't...” she leans forward, lips tugging upward that little bit more, cheeks dimpling, “Then perhaps I'll simply break from my cage and fly away with you.” A hand rises, and is offered to her companion. “Shall we?”
Perhaps freedom will come with time, and the lesson here to be learned. Who can say, really? He won't force the issue endlessly. Let people do what they will - Ash is only the first step, with his words and easy lifestyle.
Finding flushed cheeks endearing, it's a shame that she's off in three hours. Isn't that when this establishment closes? He's really not very aware of these things. The Frenchman tends to just come and go, especially when bored. Ash exhales softly with disappointment, but he is pleasantly surprised when Amy vaults the bartop, seated before him. The lean man counters her wicked smile with a coy one of his own, setting his glass down and reaching towards her. If she lets him, the flamewielder won't take the English woman by the hand, but lift her right up under the arms.
For his size, the Frenchman is actually quite strong.
"Then let us spread our wings and soar." Because the outcome may indeed require their flight, running off with the barmaid like this. He'd caution her about the consequences for the sake of preparation, but Ash is carefree, and he would also be directly contradicting himself. Wouldn't that be funny? Encouraging Amy to make life her own, then mentioning obligation to the club and its patrons?
In the dark recesses of the nightclub, the man from earlier scowls at the two, apparently still offended by remarks uttered by a certain platinum blonde-haired flamewielder.
Of all the things that Amy is, has been, and will be, she remains an excellent student - in whatever field she chooses to apply herself. Leaving the rigid inner core to bemoan this abandonment of duty, she is already floating through the clouds of rebellion when she is buoyed up further by her mysterious courtier. Her eyes widen momentarily as she is plucked from the bartop, smile missing a beat before she relaxes into the new sensation.
A hand slips forward against Ash's shoulder as she drops again toward the ground, landing with a prideful toss of the head and letting her fingertips slide down his arm toward those slender fingers. She maintains eye contact all the while, only breaking it once she has his hand in hers, when she turns upon her heel to pull him toward the hot, seething throng shifting in the strobes.
As they approach the mass, it parts as though gently bidden, the very motions of dance conspiring to create an avenue to the floor's central point. At this point, the dark-clad barmaid turns about, seeking to seize the Frenchman's other hand and draw him close as she makes the last few steps backward, hips and shoulders already shifting in a subtle rhythm. Not a single glance goes to the area they have left behind, nor to the patrons she is abandoning - including the insulted man. She has eyes and mind only for Ash.
"I'd ask you to be gentle," she raises her voice over the music, that distinctive clipped accent carrying well enough, "But that would defeat the point of the exercise, wouldn't it?" That minxlike grin is reinstated as the music picks up, and Amy's athletic form answers the call. Something shifts across her gaze, shadowy and creeping, before it is abruptly concealed by a lashing sweep of ebon hair. "Fly me to the moon!"
This style of dancing is very unfamiliar to Ash, and looks more like spastic wiggling around, as if the crowd were some deformed mass with many arms and legs, all trying to propell itself forward at once. It doesn't really know which direction to go. Guided into the mess, soon at the epicentre, he is pulled into an informal embrace without protest. "To the moon?" The lean fighter repeats, similarly raising his voice in order to be heard over the music. His laugh is a cheerful one, and the Frenchman appears almost boyish in his delight... Not that Ash wasn't already quite young to begin with.
The way he adapts to the situation is as swift as the tempo itself. Moving carefully at first, Ash relaxes into what is a graceful sway, timing each step, each graceful turn, to the very beat that drives all life around them. It is an entertaining foray, broadening his horizons.
All good things, unfortunately, must come to an end. Perhaps it is only twenty minutes, or maybe the night passes them by, but laughing and holding Amy's hands in his, he twirls her around and catches the girl in his arms. "I didn't think exercising was this enjoyable," Joking, he straightens them both and leads the way back to... Well, Ash seems almost uncertain which way to go. At the very least, it is away from what is still the large gathering of bodies, sensually writhing in dance. The glaring man from earlier is gone.
Pale face flushed from the effort of keeping up with a constant pulse, the Frenchman fans himself with a soft giggle, "Saa, I don't know where they get all that energy." It can't be from the alcohol... Even drunk, he would doubtfully be able to muster up so much.
Amy moves as though striving to dash the stars from the sky, her more subdued oscillations soon elevated by a wild release. When freed, her limbs move in dizzying patterns, and though she keeps close to the Frenchman she is not shy to shift around him, circling from flank, to rear, and back in the blink of strafing strobes. Her eyes ultimately close, her neck arching back to present her enraptured face to the lights as her body continues to propel her through the music. She certainly possesses something the majority of the crowd do not; an almost otherworldy quality separating she and Ash from them. But in spite of this, there is a synergy. She, they, are a part of the mass.
Those stormy eyes flicker open as she is finally spun and caught in deceptively strong arms. She seems to tremble a moment at the motion's cease, releasing a long breath as she glances up at the Frenchman. For the first time since she led him into the dance, her lips twist upward into a smile. Far from the teasing expression she wore before, this is something else entirely. The heat in her skin seems to touch her gaze, a strange, compelling intent rising in her breast...
Before suddenly the moment is broken.
She straightens with a breathless laugh, reaching to idly straighten her hair as she follows in the strange young man's wake. She knows the way, but the route of their path is not important - any way leads away from the overwhelming centre. As she settles back into the composure of reality, Amy quickens her step just a touch to draw level with Ash, stepping through the last of the crowd to prop herself against a wall beside him. She glances up the length of his body before replying to his observation with a shake of her head and a peal of laughter.
"Not from the same place we do," she assures him, a hand travelling to the nape of her neck as she curves her back against the hard surface behind. Flushed from the endeavour, she breathes long and deep, watching Ash a moment later before she cants her head to one side. It's a quizzical gesture. "That is, supposing I'm not wrong about you. You feel..." A curious choice of wording, that. "Unique." She hesitates, grasping for the next. "Powerful."
His expression of freedom is in no way comparable to Amy, or her entrancing display, but it is over... While a fascinated gaze could have followed the English girl all evening, instead, narrow hips jutting out to a comfortable angle, Ash leans in with his elbow to the wall, listening intently. She is like a butterfly; one that only recently escaped confinement and waits for its wings to dry. Wonder what colours they'll be? Maybe what the chrysalis truly held was a moth in disguise.
"I believe that is probably the most interesting way anyone has indirectly proposed that non-question." His musical, lilting laugh carries somehow over the music, despite soft utterance. At that moment, the Frenchman's presence, his very aura, is almost palpable, "But if you don't ask me properly, then I won't say." Perhaps he had suspected sooner that Amy was from the same world as himself - they always seem to find one another. This confirms it, and explains just why he was compelled to stay.
... Or maybe it is because she too is 'unique'. From her clothes to that dark hair, but with a personality that does not shape to the mold from which it was wrought.
Blue eyes, startlingly bright, trace a path from her ebony locks to flushed face, following her smile and any changes thereafter. Is it another moment? Such things are not wisely shared with one so deceptively charming as Ash. "I am flattered though, Amee." The Frenchman likes the barmaid's name, and is now drawing upon it intentionally.
Their flittering near-intimacy is perhaps not 'wisely' shared, but this night is not an exercise in wisdom. Certainly not for the darkly-clad barmaid. Even as she reins herself in from their entanglement on the dancefloor, her figurative wings remain spread. Not a glance goes to the post she has abandoned - her attention is rapt upon the enigmatic Frenchman; deep, stormy blue transfixed upon his own brightness.
It would, however, be wrong to call her awed. She is drawn in by his unusual charms, intrigued by his appearance and the grace of his movements, most definitely aroused by his aura... but hers is the position of a gourmand sampling a promising new dish. A mere taste can be enough to satisfy. So she makes no lunge, does not draw any closer than she already is, merely favouring the man with another dimpled smile as he speaks the pet name.
"No," she responds, with a negative entirely contrary to the story told by her posture and expression. Her tone is gently, amusedly teasing as she continues, "You're not flattered at all. You know what you are. I'm not sure I even need to ask the question, because the answer practically pours off your shoulders." Raising a hand almost lazily, she lifts a finger and presses it's tip to his collarbone, tracing the outer line.
"You're nothing like a single person in this room, are you?" Once more she laughs, tossing her head, allowing her hand to drift back to her side as she flicks her gaze from Ash to the crowd. She returns her attention to him with just a faint lean forward, hands pressed to the wall as she eases her face just a little closer, in much the manner she did back at the bar. "And yet you came to me. Are you merely so curious? Any similarity between us is distant, and it has laid dormant for..." She pauses, momentarily frowns, that fleeting troubled element again entering her manner before she finishes rather clumsily, "For a long time."
Her light composure is recovered as she raises her chin, eyes flashing, "Tell me about yourself, Ash."
Tending to the bar is not a post many would value, in his mind. It is a form of servitude that curtails the freedom of butterflies, left longing for the day and light until their moment ends. He has no more than a passing thought of concern for her continued employment, since Amy was been stolen away, and as long as she continues to interest him, it will be left at that.
Similarly sparing no glance, the Frenchman clears his throat gently, attempting his very best to look humbled upon truthful observation, but failing miserably. Ash is not a humble man by nature, though he does not possess the overt arrogance that many other flamewielders do. "I appreciate your noticing, then." The freckle-faced fighter amends his previous statement, her finger at his collarbone.
There is no end to Amy's perceptiveness, but Ash is only different because he is not like them. Seen day in and out, they have become mundane. To him, those that express their individuality through style and movement are quite extraordinary. It will eventually fade with time. "You know..." His gradual lean is almost identical, mimicked expertly until their noses are a mere hairsbreadth apart, "you have lovely eyes." His own are lazily half-lidded, a bright azure with surprisingly narrow pupils, "And similarities lead to boredom. I don't think my curiosity was misplaced."
Thin lips curl generously further, and he allows the English barmaid to regain her personal space - Ash tends to invade that far too often. "If I tell you about me now, what will we discuss the next time?" His head cants to the side, long fringe of hair drifting away, revealing his face in full. Something about it all suggests that even then, he'll likely reveal scant few details.
Doubtless Ash will be pleased at the light gasp that eases from the barmaid's throat as he draws so near. Those commented eyes widen a touch, Amy's composure cracking as the compliment sends a notable blush creeping once more through her cheeks. She does not budge, though, her shallow breath mingling with the Frenchman's as they remain close. The smile returns to her lips, less pronounced and more bashful, an echo of the deeper crimson now upon her face.
Beneath it all, that analytical mind continues working. She never quite loses herself in the moment, does not abandon reason. Her gaze scans his as he speaks, reading for truth and intent behind the words. It is a hunt she revels in, abandoning the taut strings of propriety and enjoying the sinful proximity until he finally draws away.
Leaning back herself with the softest of sighs, she rests her head against the wall behind, watching Ash watching her. There is, she decides, something decidely feline about the man. From the feminine sway of his slender body to the cool, listless charisma he exudes. But Amy is no cooing fool; she can interpret what lies beneath. As his earlier acquaintance with one of the club's patrons attests, not everybody is capable of sensing this kitten's claws, yet it seems to her that they must be present. He is more than the mere surface seems... and that's intriguing, that hint of danger and uncertainty.
His answer to her gentle demand is not unexpected, flowing along with the unwritten script for the evening. It does draw further laughter from the raven-haired wage slave, who finally spares a glance across the chamber to her former perch. A throng has predictably gathered. Her customers, her flock.
"'Next time'," She echoes as she turns back to the Frenchman, favouring him with a twitch of her nose as she smiles, "I'll take it as a promise. And if I do not bore you then, perhaps a little more the time after that. Until then," she pushes herself up away from the wall, taking a step away as she smooths down her shirt and nonchalantly, playfully adjusts the hem of her skirt, "I shall endeavour to fly by myself. Wings once spread should never be clipped." She flashes that mischievous, sparkle-eyed grin. A gesture she does not share with many. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Where many would feel uncomfortable at such an invasion, the English girl instead blushes. He has to suppress a laugh. She's cute, Ash decides.
It is odd that Amy likens the Francophone to a cat; he's been thoughtfully (or perhaps not, considering that the thinker was Shenwoo) compared to felines very recently. Something about being fussy, or maybe selfish? He grins a Cheshire Cat grin in tribute, her echo of his words drawing a unique reaction from a unique person, "Just don't clip them yourself while I'm gone, Amee." The flamewielder eventually looks to the bar as well, noting the crowd coolly before turning away. He breaks from the wall and stands on his own, blue eyes listlessly scanning the nightclub for any other source of entertainment that was previously overlooked.
Ash finds none, perhaps because he doesn't want to. Already the Frenchman is growing bored in the wake of her eventual absence.
With nothing left to stay for, before collecting his jacket and while Amy is still close-by, the Frenchman waves politely and says, "A bientot." After some careful consideration, he also adds, "Joyeux Noel." Ash will be needing to send out an invitational letter tomorrow morning. The King of Fighters tournament draws closer as each day passes, and there is so much preparation to be done. He needs one more teammate, hopefully to be found in a man named... Elias.
"Merry Christmas."
Her alike response to his sentiment is delivered with a swift curtsy, though Amy seems to linger a moment. As if unsure whether to add the words that next come to her lips. A hand strays toward her collar, stretching slender fingers toward the cross that hangs there, before the darkly clad barmaid shifts and turns upon her heel with a smile. She maintains eye contact until the last possible instant, but then she is gone, setting off toward the distant side of the nightclub.
In the now, duty beckons. Tomorrow? She knows no more than he what will happen. But the curious Frenchman may have altered the woman's path, serving as a call to the life she had left behind. To a life she has turned away from. A funny thing, how one person - with so few words, so little time - can change forever the destiny of another.
Until next time, they part.
Log created on 15:48:14 12/23/2010 by Amy, and last modified on 08:14:07 01/02/2011.