|Location||A Bar That We Can't Recall, Where No One Can Recognize Us|
|Summary||Two powerful, vulnerable women ...make out in the bathroom of a bar ...until it literally gets too hot.|
| It is a winter night. The weather is ...fluctuating.|
Rosalie issued the invitation, so she picked the bar, and she steered clear of the rather dubious places in Mutant Town. This one is...cleaner. And quieter. It's a place on the edge of Greenwich Village, the decor old wood, whitewash, and a number of beautifully coloured Belle Epoque. The prices are high enough to keep the students out en masse, but a few do drift in and out.
Rosalie waits for Tiffany at the bar, a drink at her elbow. It appears to be some sort of fruity cocktail served in a martini glass; it also appears absolutely untouched. She wears a dress of dark blue, well-tailored and demure, but with a neckline that shows just a hint of cleavage. Her hands are knotted together in her lap, anxious.
<FS3> Tiffany rolls Bluff: Good Success. (1 7 5 2 6 2 1 8)
Tiffany enters the bar at a deliberately slow pace. She slides off her parka to reveal a flirty, formless shift dress that ends just about mid-thigh and tall, strappy heels. There's no cleavage, but there's a hell of a lot of leg. Still not having located her Eyes, she wears large black wayfarer glasses. "Thank you," she says politely to the two handsome young men that hold the door open for her, smiling to them more for Rosalie's benefit than theirs. Oh? Does it look like she doesn't see her? She actually does. Wandering further into the bar, Tiffany pouts her coral-painted lips and runs both hands over her little clutch purse.
Rosalie's eyes are on the door, and she certainly does not miss Tiffany's entrance. She leans forward a touch, face brightening--and then falling a little again as Tiffany lavishes smiles on the young men in question. She hesitates, the lines of her figure tense, and raises an awkward hand toward Tiffany in greeting. Playing it cool is not her strong suit. The temperature in the bar inches up a degree.
Tiffany is almost past Rosalie. She might pass her by(!) but then… she slowly turns. Behind her glasses, her large eyes fall on the weather witch and her helpless expression eases into a confident smile. It’s larger than the one she gave the boys. “Hi.” Stepping closer, Tiffany greets Rosalie with an intimate peck on the cheek. “How are you?”
The colour rushes to Rosalie's cheeks in almost the same instant as Tiffany's lips. "Oh," she says. The temperature edges further upward, pleasantly warm for a New York March. "I'm...good," she declares, with a wave of her hand. A wave of her hand that hits her glass and knocks her drink right into her lap. Whoops.
"Oh!" Tiffany hops in surprise, wobbling on her heels. Leaning forward to set the glass back upright before its entire contents spills, she remarks, "I was just about to compliment your dress, too." Already at the bar with Rosalie's mostly empty cocktail glass in-hand, she leans, "Could we please get some club soda and a-" She doesn't finish because the bartender is already bringing over a few cloth napkins.
Rosalie squeaks in surprise, the dark stain spreading across the blue fabric. She is still blushing, now as much with embarrassment as anything else. "Sorry," she says. It's not quite clear what she is apologizing for, given it's only her who's been drink stained. "Sorry--I'm so clumsy sometimes..." A maraschino cherry, left adrift, slips down the skirt of her dress.
"Come on," Tiffany reassures her. Well, sort of reassures her. With almost no inflection in her voice. Tiffany lifts up the fresh glass of soda water and napkin in one hand, "We can clean it off in the ladies' room. That way it doesn't stain." Her other small hand goes to is held out, palm up. "I spill things all day."
"All day?" asks Rosalie. "Do you get paid for it?" It's an awkward joke, but it's still a joke. She slips off the bar stool, and smoothes her dress with one hand, trying to fuss it into a fall where the stain is less obvious, and fails. "Does that really work?" she asks, with a glance to the glass of soda water.
Tiffany ignores the joke because it isn't funny. She lets the hand she held out fall to her side, "It does." She takes step back to give Rosalie room to stand, turning her head this way and that to locate the restrooms. And naturally, she leads the way. She even says excuse me to people, which is probably also for Rosalie's benefit.
Rosalie says 'excuse me,' too. It's a reflex action, like 'sorry.' The restroom is not particularly large, but it's very clean, complete with a jar of spicy smelling potpourri and a small basket of apparently random toiletries in case someone needs to fresh up for a date. The cloud of warm air follows Rosalie; it's an embarrassed uncertain warmth. "I think that was mostly vodka and...fruit juice," she ventures, leaning against the counter and looking at the stain. "And cherries...and schnapps. Whatever schnapps are."
Setting down the glass of club soda, Tiffany steps over to the door. Her fingers find the bolt-lock, which she turns with a clean 'click' sound. "I'm sure it's fine," she says quietly, locking eyes with Rosalie. Very carefully, she removes her glasses and sets them aside. Her lips part as if she might speak. But she doesn't.
Over the bathroom speakers, relaxing instrumental music plays.
Rosalie glances over to the door as Tiffany locks the door. She draws a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the motion, her gaze following Tiffany, locked onto her. "It's dry clean only," she offers. Her fingers brush, anxiously, over the damp cloth. The warm air takes on a hint of dampness.
"Kiss me," Tiffany commands quietly. Her eyelashes flutter. She doesn't move from the door.
Rosalie's lips part, her eyes huge and dark. "My dress," she begins, and doesn't finish the sentence. The temperature in the bathroom soars, the atmosphere electric, prickling at the skin. Her fingers pluck at the damp cloth. With a sigh, a sudden outrush of breath, she takes a step forward, unsteady on her heels, and stretches upward, awkward, uncertain--but her lips, warm and soft, find Tiffany's.
Tiffany touches her lips delicately to Rosalie's. She loses some of her height by leaning back against bathroom's door. The way she kisses is tender, but far from innocent. Her chest heaves against Rosalie's as if... as if she might be simply overwhelmed at any moment by even that little bit of contact.
Rosalie kisses like a virgin, clumsily, but in earnest, exploring the curves and dips of Tiffany's lips, her eyes fluttering closed. The heat in the small bathroom grows; a tropical heat, sticky, sweat and damp, still alive with electricity. Rain patters against the window. Rosalie flattens one small hand against the door, leaning into the kiss, her own chest pressing against Tiffany's with every breath.
Bringing up her hands, Tiffany traces up Rosalie's arms with her fingertips. She jerks her head away just subtly, enough to break the kiss for a moment. "Like this," she whispers, "Slowly." She dips forward once more, running the tip of her nose against Rosalie's before pressing her lips forward. She leads by example, giving the other woman a tutorial so to speak of how she'd like to be kissed.
Rosalie is breathless when Tiffany breaks the kiss, and stares at her in response, eyes wide. She sighs as Tiffany's lips find hers again, the small exhale of breathe warm in the kiss, eyes fluttering closed again. She follows the example, slowly, oh slowly, taking her cue from Tiffany's lead.
Outside, it rains with the fury of a tropical storm, the sound of the rain against the pavement audible over the bathroom's music.
Tiffany finally pushes Rosalie away, letting out what can only be described as an orgasmic-like yelp. "I can't-" Hands wrapping around the other woman's shoulders, she presses her an arms length distance away. "I can't breath," she pants, turning her head to press against the cool bathroom door to escape the spiked temperature of the little room. Her neck shimmers with the sweet sheen of her sweat. "Oh," she turns to look back at Rosalie, her eyes heavy and dreamlike.
Rosalie stumbles backward, catching herself on the counter. She gasps for breath, staring at Tiffany, her shoulders heaving. "I'm sorry," she manages to say. The temperature in the room does not abate, the heavy heat almost tangible against the skin, the electricity prickling at the backs of necks. "I--" She stares still, her eyes tracing over the line of Tiffany's body and then back up to her--neck. She touches her tongue to her lips.
"You are..." Breathing in small, quick heaves, Tiffany slowly squirms under Rosalie's eye. It's as if she's pinned there with her dress hiked up almost the entire length of one thigh. "...you are so much stronger than me," she says quietly. Her eyes don't roam over Rosalie's body. Still in a daze, they memorize the details of her face. "There's a poem," she whispers between breaths, "By a woman named Rupi Kaur." Her mouth is suddenly dry and her lips don't want to part, "When they have gotten a good look at everything you have to offer. When they have taken your skin, your hair, your secrets with them. ... when they realize how real this is. How much of a storm you are. And it hits them. ...that is when the cowardice sets in."
"That is when the person you thought they were," Tiffany doesn't look away, nor does she appear to show any visible change in her desire for Rosalie. Her body does slump further against the door to which she keeps herself pinned, "Is replaced by the sad reality of what they are. That is when they lose every fighting bone in their body and leave after saying... you will find better than me."
"But," says Rosalie. She continues to stare at Tiffany, her eyes dropping briefly to that nearly-bare thigh. The air continues thick, warm. The rain continues to pour outside, untamed, furious. She takes a deep breath, and then another. "I'm not stronger," she says. "If I was stronger, I could control it." She straightens up, with a little wiggle of her hip to try to shimmy her dress down, and she takes a step forward, back into Tiffany's sphere. She leans forward, slowly, deliberately, putting one hand on either side of Tiffany's body, face close to hers.
"Something like that," Tiffany's attention wanders down to Rosalie's lips when she comes so near. She gulps dryly as she looks back up, making eye contact, "Isn't supposed to be controlled." Dizzying, she turns away and brings the heel of her hand to her brow.
Rosalie presses closely; still awkward, but shedding some of her shyness. "Do you think that?" she whispers, her voice low, her breath warm. "Do you really think that? Do you think I should flood the city every time I want someone?"
Tiffany tries to keep her eyes open, but the warm breath against her almost sends her over the edge. A fat bead of sweat runs down her temple, slowly making its way down the curvature of her neck. “I’d let them drown.”
"But," whispers Rosalie, voice tremulous, "the people..." For all her words, she presses shamelessly close, her slight figure firm against Tiffany's, body heat seeping through fabric. She chokes on a breath, and leans forward, pressing her lips against the curve of Tiffany's neck, in the trail of that bead of sweat.
Tiffany sways. Her arms go almost slack. "Oh," she whimpers passionately as her eyes close for a moment. Her dark hair trails above her against the door as she slides down it. Somehow, she finds the wherewithal not to slide all the way to the floor.
Rosalie takes a step back. Half a step. It's a tiny bathroom. "Tiffany," she whispers, leaning down to grab her by her shoulders. The neckline of her dress gaps open a touch.
"I can't breath," Tiffany repeats her previous statement. Her voice is barely a voice. "It's too hot," she looks out at Rosalie from the two thin slits that her eyes now form.
Rosalie swallows. "Do you want me to go?" she asks, voice small. "Or--try to think cold thoughts? Or..." She doesn't finish the third option.
Tiffany nods, or tries to nod. Eyes closing, she presses her palms back against the door to push herself back up. Hair tendrils stick to the sides of her face. "I'm-" She stops moving suddenly, shaking her head, "-I'm gonna throw up." She frowns, "I think."
"Oh," says Rosalie suddenly, a sharp exclamation this time. That's not very sexy, after all. She takes a hasty step back, nearly tumbling over the counter. She turns in a sudden flurry, turning on the cold water tap and letting it run, before taking one of the napkins meant for cleaning her dress and letting it soak in the cold water. "Here," she says, turning back to Tiffany, and pressing the cold damp cloth against her forehead.
Sinking to the floor, Tiffany's knees knock together in front of her and the dress she wears crumbles up around her hips. Exhausted from the heat as she is, the fragile young woman presses her face into the cool, wet cloth napkin. Reaching up, she snakes her fingers between Rosalie's, "Thank you."
The heat subsides just a touch, from tropical summer to tropical almost-summer. Rosalie swallows, watching Tiffany. Her fingers tighten on Tiffany's. "Maybe you need a cold shower," she offers. Not that there's a shower nearby.
Tiffany heaves as if in a small laugh, although no sound is emitted. “Is it still raining?”
"Yes," admits Rosalie, a little sheepishly.
Loosening her fingers, Tiffany drops her hand to the floor just beside her. She looks down to it, pushing away the wet rag with her other hand and allowing her hair to fall into her face. “I uhm,” she clears her throat, “Want to go outside.” She blinks hard, trying to will herself up from the ground. All she really manages to do is not lurch which, granted, is pretty great.
Rosalie blinks, but says, "Okay." She reaches out to try to help Tiffany up. "Let's go outside, then."
Tiffany comes to her feet like a newborn filly, all wobbly-legged and off-balance. Quite vulnerable, she wraps an arm around Rosalie. She relies on the other woman for balance, and to maneuver them through the bar and out into the city. She'll feel better when she's drenched, she's sure of it.
Rosalie helps Tiffany out of the bar. Outside, it is raining. Not just any rain, but a heavy rain, water coming down in great sheets and crashing against the pavement, nearly hard enough to rip clothes off. It is a warm rain, the air as warm as summer, steam arising from the melting snow as the rain hits it. The street is quiet, save for a few people running for shelter.
Tiffany breaks away from Rosalie. Her high heels click as she takes just a few steps on her own, shrugging off her coat and letting her clutch fall into a nearby puddle. "Oh, thank fucking God," she groans as she runs her hands through her hair. Tiffany surrenders to the rain, letting it soak her dress until the garment is nearly transparent and clings to her body. She turns her head up to face the sky briefly.
When she does finally turn back to Rosalie, it's with a tired look of satisfaction.
Rosalie just watches. She stands under the overhang by the entrance to the bar, sheltered from her own rain, watching Tiffany glory in it. She takes a step into it, and the another, hesitantly, turning her face upward to take the rain on her face, before looking to Tiffany. "Better?" she asks.
"We should have been out here," Tiffany says quietly in a pleasant sort of way. She presses forth a tiny twitch of a smile that fades right away. She bends, wrapping one arm over her chest while the other retrieves her coat and purse.
Rosalie considers Tiffany. The rain pounds her hair flat against her head, dripping water over her shoulders. "Next time," she says, and tugs her coat closer about her, protectively.
Wrapping the flaps of her own coat around herself, Tiffany lets out a non-committal breath in response. Still not quite fully recovered from /this time/, she sways dangerously in her heels.
Rosalie considers Tiffany a moment more. "I'll walk you home," she offers, awkward again. "If you like, I mean. Just to make sure you get there safe."
"Okay," Tiffany answers, appearing perfectly open to the idea. She begins to walk first, but paces herself with Rosalie. She's quiet for the rest of the evening, which ends the same way it began: a peck on the other woman's cheek.Rosalie is quiet. The rain follows her, in a steaming fall of water, but, slowly, it peters out, becoming nothing more than a light drizzle when she accepts the peck, with a faint blush, and turns to leave, quiet.