Summary:The Chastain twins encounter one Hank McCoy as they enjoy time in the park with sun and painting. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
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It's the swell of mid-afternoon and the summer sun is blazing down on the park-goers below, in Washington Square Park, as they mill about, play, and enjoy what little nature there is to be had in the city. There's the hint of rain in the air, and the slender curves of Beauie's bare shoulders are protected from the sun by a portable umbrella that Red staked into the ground.
It had taken some patience-testing time to position it so that she was completely covered by the shade, but success was achieved. After that, everything was relatively simple. Her easel and supplies were set up around her chair. Red's chair was close by, but not so close that she would feel cramped. A little table and a cooler of drinks and snacks placed between them, and they were set. Beauie began painting as soon as Red was seen comfortably settled. Her subject of the day seems to be the park's famed fountain and elegant arch in its classical style.
Dressed in a strappy yellow-and-white sundress and white Keds, Beauie foregoes the protection of a painting smock because it's a hot day and the air thick with moisture makes no promises of providing cooling breezes. Her hair is pulled back in an intricate-looking, but easily accomplished fishtail braid, her fiery locks slightly subdued in the shade, but brilliant against the cream of her complexion and the lightness of her clothing, nevertheless. She hums to herself as she paints, blending colors on her hand-held palette.
Red Chastain sits nearby on a park bench, a pair of earbuds in his ears, sprawled a bit as he lets his sister do as she pleases. He doesn't mind the fresh air, or at least what passes for it here in this tin-can city. Of course, his cigarette probably doesn't count much as fresh air, hanging from the corner of his mouth as it is. He wears a black Atlanta Hawks t-shirt with red print along with jeans and black Vans.
Distracted as he might be by the sound of Hank Williams III in his ear, his eyes keep a steady flicker over to Beauie, making sure she's content, undistracted and unmolested by the passers by. Red didn't think much of northern manners and still considered himself as something of a ward against predators.
Not that Beauie couldn't take care of herself, if it came down to it.
As for Hank, he'd just gotten done with a lecture at NYU, some abstruse bit of mathematics that is dry enough that the Sahara desert might well want a drink after. Still, the fuzzy-blue genius loves him some math, oh indeed he does, and that was enough to keep his audience's interest. Afterwards he did feel the need to unwind a bit, and so he headed out to the Park, loving the ebb and flow of humanity in such a serene setting.
Blue eyes are bright, emerging from the lecture hall he fair to skips down the steps towards the park, his reading glasses tucked away in a vest pocket of his jacket en route. A regular figure at the school, a number of students call out greetings which he returns on his way to the park. Dressed for the lecture, he's wearing an eggshell white suit, the shirt under it a fine burgundy linen, and his bow-tie egg shell as well. He really does feel naked without his fedora, but what can a guy do? Plain, albeit /massive/ black leather shoes complete his ensemble.
Somehow he doesn't melt - after all he's wearing a full suit /over/ blue-black fur.
The carefully setup painting area does draw Hank's attention, and so this rather exotic northerner will adjust his heading to see what's up. A genial smile is offered Red from a short distance away, and though he's in Beauie's peripheral vision he's not obtrusive, simply watching and taking care not to distract.
Beauie is content to work on the base of her painting, laying out general shapes that she'll eventually sharpen gradually into more recognizable images of the fountain and the arch, and testing colors on her palette, working until she gets just the right shade. She works at a steady pace, unbothered by the sounds of the park, people laughing, talking, and children's shrill voices cutting through the thickness of the summer heat like the sharp pealing of bells. Like Red, Beauie sports a pair of earbuds — though hers are pink and yellow in design — their cord trailing down the elegant length of her neck, revealed only because her long, long hair is bound behind her back in a plait. The music filtering through them? Dolly Parton singing heartbreaking bluegrass about little sparrows.
Every so often, as his does to her, her eyes stray to Red, to ensure he's present and at peace. It's simply instinct, muscle-memory born of being practically within arm's reach since birth. She doesn't smoke, though at least two of her alters do, and she can feel their edginess prodding pointedly at her at the sight and scent of Red's cigarette. She takes a deep breath and returns to her painting. After a while, she notices a rather large shadow being cast nearby and, curiosity piqued, she turns her head slightly to catch sight of Hank. In a very fine suit. Her brows lift, her eyes widen, and she barely holds on to grace enough not to let her jaw fall open. She blinks a bit and tries to school her surprise away to a more ladylike and polite expression. "Oh," she comments, very simply.
Red notices when Beauie's attention is drawn away from her work and follows to the distinct figure of Hank McCoy in a suit. He takes a moment to put out his cigarette, not pushing up from his seat but certainly curious as he takes in the unusual figure.
"You gotta be hot as balls in that thing, old son," he calls out, his expression attentive if a bit wary as of yet. The air around him starts to feel a little brittle, a low vibration that Beauie likely recognizes as him coiling his power, not unleashing or targetting anything. He isn't cocked or loaded, but he has a finger on the hammer. The hammer, in this case, being psionic slashing force capable of beheading a wild boar at twenty yards.
Bright blue eyes track Beauie's work on the painting, and the observant might notice that one of Hank's hands is tapping to Red's Hank Williams tune, and one of his feet, tapping in time to Beauie's Dolly Parton bluegrass. It is somewhat subtle, but people notice the oddest things!
And nigh six-feet of bulky muscled blue-furred Beast /is/ rather odd if you're not expecting such a sight, or familiar with it.
Blue lips curl at Beauie's 'Oh', and he shakes his head in apology. A massive hand is pressed splay-fingered to equally massive expanse of chest as he offers a beautifully executed bow. "Oh, forgive me, dear lady…I had hoped not to distract you from your art." His voice? DEEP. Enunciation cultured, every syllable uttered with rich expression.
At Red's comment, he snorts amusement and straightens. "Yes, well…if I played by the rules, perhaps." He approaches Red, but keeps the wary young man between him and the lovely ginger painter, some instinct perhaps, there's definitely something there between the two. Once within arm's reach, he offers his hand. "Hank McCoy, a pleasure, sir." And if Red shakes that hand he'd feel that there's…cool air all around it. Somehow.
Beauie's smile is polite and warm as Hank bows and extends an apology, shaking her head. "It was curiosity that caught my attention, nothin' you're t' blame for," she says with a rather rich, rounded Georgian accent. Very out-of-place in the thick of New York, despite it being quite a metropolitan melting pot.
She turns her gaze to Red, feeling the coiling in the air, knowing he's on alert. While it's true that New York is dangerous and a large, massively muscular being covered in dark blue-black fur and blue skin would give one pause at first sight, she's not getting a dangerous vibe from Hank, as of yet. That said, she remains seated where she is and watches to see how Red reacts, setting the palette atop her lap, resting her brush on it.
The offered hand soothes a bit of Red's tension, letting his power relax a bit as he takes the proferred paw. "Red Chastain. Always glad to meet a Hank," he says with a hint of a grin. "This is my sister, Beauie. We're artists, the both of us, but she had an itch to get out and paint a little bit of mother nature. I don't always have her appreciation of the brighter side of life, but I wouldn't dream of stiflin' her talent," he says.
He flexes his fingers after feeling the cool air, "That's a neat trick, mister. I get the feelin' you got a lotta those."
"Well, I am least a curious sight to the unfamiliar, I think you for not shrieking and running for the hills." Hank's grin is toothy, and yes, there's fangs, but the expression and his eyes are both so friendly that there's no menace at all really. The sheer fact of how he's laughing at himself surely doesn't hurt either. The hairs on the back of his neck unruffles a bit as he feels the tension from Red ramp down a bit. "Mister Chastain, Miss Chastain, truly my pleasure to make your acquaintances."
He shakes his head at the very -thought- of interfering with art. "I should say not, sir! How could you?" Once the handshake ends, Hank laughs softly. "Oh, just a little something I whipped up a couple years ago, when you're furry /and/ have to wear suits in warm weather, well, one adapts." He removes his wristwatch, a fairly bulky and utilitarian brushed steel design. "Here." He offers it to Red, should the man take it there's be an immediate cooling around him! "Good for shedding too, added bonus."
He's kidding…right?
Beauie smiles lightly as Hank thanks her for not flipping out. "Oh, it's nothin' t' be thanked for," she shakes her head. "Bein' a decent person should be th' status quo, if y' ask me," she says. A pause as her eyes lose focus, her face going still. "'Sides, it's not like we should be throwin' stones. Our 'different' s'just not as readily visible as yours is," she says truthfully.
Smiling to her brother, she shakes her head again. "He misses the outdoors as much as I do, if not more. He just tends to like it when it's darker. Only problem with that is…it's often not bright enough for me to paint by. That's not t'say I can't imagine a beautiful moonscape painting," she says thoughtfully, losing the thread for a moment as she contemplates it. "But, he loves my art, as I love his. Very different in style, all told. Sorta gives our clients more variety to choose from, though," she smiles, lifting her paintbrush and resuming her painting as the two talk about technical whosits.
Red nods, "She's more wide in her canvasses. I tend to prefer skin. Somethin' about seeing somethin' you created come to life on somebody else, makes it special," he says. He looks a little warily at Beauie as she casually acknowledges their own invisible 'difference' but doesn't comment on it. Maybe Hank won't notice, but given the furry fellow's penchant for eloquence, he's probably a pretty sharp customer.
"Can't exactly just go on a spontaneous fishin' trip in the city. I mean, you can, long as you don't mind drivin' fifty miles. Which ain't real easy since we don't even have a car right now," he says.
Not that they can't afford it, it's just the last one may have had a few outstanding APBs on that particular license plate.
"Well, in the venerable words of one Doctor Horrible in his sing-along-blog 'The status is NOT quo'." Hank says wryly, even to the point of doing a fair Neal Patrick Harris if you allow for how much deeper Hank's voice is. The comment about the 'different' is unfortunately not something, no doubt much to Red's chagrin, that Hank misses. He doesn't show much sign of notice, but his eyes do focus a little closer on the red headed lady, and his nostrils flare, once, there's a faint shift towards Red, and then another flaring. And then Hank is all smiles once more, that instant very brief. "Mm, I am afraid my own artistry is limited to a canvas that relies on pure numbers, and CAD rendering, and the mixing of various and sundries in beakers and alembics."
His gaze shifts from Beauie back to Red. "Body arts, mm? Interesting. Alas my body is a poor canvas to work on between the skin and that fur. As to the drive, oh yes. Believe me, I know about the commute - my home is in Westchester County."
As the watch wasn't taken, and he definitely IS feeling the 'hot as balls' as Red so eloquently named it, Hank puts his watch back on, visibly relieved. A handkerchief is taking out, and he dabs rather fastidiously at his brow. Then again…that much fur? Can you really blame him for it?"
Beauie lifts her shoulders airily, an easy smile given to her brother as he clarifies things. "What can I say? I like being able to look at the art I create, decide if I wanna sell it or not. People come, pay for me to mark them with my creativity, and go. It's nice, and I do it for some, but I never get to see it again. Like a mama, sending off her little babies. I'll be awfully clingy of my little ones, I fear," she laughs softly. There's a hitch at the end of her laugh, where the laughter dies a little more abruptly than it would've, when she sees the warning in Red's glance. She lifts her lemonade to her mouth and drinks, turning her head away from the two men as she recomposes herself. Everyone's different, aren't they? It doesn't automatically read as a big, flashing 'mutant' sign, does it? She gulps inwardly.
When she turns her gaze back to them, she looks much the same as before. However, Hank's description of his art has her tilting her head slightly, eyes squinting. "Mmmmmnope," she shakes her head with a half grin. "Didn't catch any of that, I'm afraid. I didn't do all that well in school, though Isa— Well, there're times when I'm better with numbers. Put it that way," she says, smiling lightly. "As for fishin'… I do believe it's past time we went, Red. This little taste of nature," she gestures with her head at the park, in general, "…it's kinda like an appetizer. Takes the edge off, but by no means satisfies the hunger." She pauses, "We're real new to this city, an' I'm not the best with directions, but I don't rightly know where'bouts Westchester County is located," she admits.
Red Chastain shakes his head, "Yeah, I'm with Beauie, math never was exactly my strong suit. All power to ya, though. I imagine school was pretty rough on ya, what with all the fuzz an' stuff," he says.
He reaches down next to where he'd been sitting, drawing a small flask from the knapsack there and taking a quick swig, "If lemonade don't suit ya, I got the harder stuff here, but it'll put a little straight in your spine, fair warnin'."
"I know roundabouts where it is. Almost like a real town, still a little too close to this place. But I"m gettin' used to it. Mostly. Can't exactly make a livin' as an artist livin' out in the boonies."
"Well, in a sense the art you create is birthed from your mind's vision, and your talent's expression, is it not? I can see a certain maternal feeling towards it." Hank says with empathy if not perfect context. When Beauie turns away, he shifts his attention to Red, politely allowing her to regain her composure. Though…Hank's mutant nature is VERY visible, his strange body proportions, the fur and fangs, his sheer bulk. If anyone would be understanding about being mutants, it would rather have to be him wouldn't it? "Ah, well, I'm something of a scientist and engineer, Miss Chastain. My art isn't the sort that most could, or really -should- have the appreciation that yours and your brothers merits."
A nod about school. "Oh, it had its less than stellar moments, truly I wasn't always furry but yes…even without my pelt I was always a bit 'off' in my proportions, so my 'different' has been around most of my life."
Subtle allusion perhaps.
"And yes, it is a bit of a ways to Westchester County, the drive some ninety minutes on a good day, but there's some truly spectacular parks in the area, and the fishing, well, I know a few spots where the fishing is quite good indeed." Warm laughter at the boonies. "It is definitely that." The boonies. "You certainly would find it harder to build clientele out that way, though." No comment about the flask, or its contents. "I haven't been fishing in some time, come to think if it." Hank says, hand rubbing at his chin a moment.
"Well, rest assured in th' fact that alla us are uniquely different from th' next. Even my twin and I are different, despite the twinness. Our talents, our weaknesses, our likes and dislikes… I wouldn't go so far as t' say 'night an' day,' but we're unique. Just as you're unique. Just more visibly so. You speak real well, an' you're real polite, so I'm sure people adjust quickly an' never bother t' think twice after that," Beauie says kindly. She's also working to drive home the fact that she hadn't intended on insinuating anything that might make trouble for them in their new home.
She listens quietly as Red and Hank talk, refocusing on her painting, which is very nearly done. She's mostly just putting on finishing touches, highlights from the sun, cleaning up some of the details. When she's satisfied, she begins cleaning her brushes and palette, making sure not to make a mess on the ground, keeping everything contained to her art bag, with extra plastic bags with ziplock seals. She's neat and fastidious, putting things away with practiced ease, zipping everything closed with a finality.
Then, she smiles, "You definitely should, Mr. McCoy. Fishin's good for the soul. Even if y' let 'em all go. There's just somethin' about the meditative serenity one gets while waitin' for that bite on th' line. The adrenaline surge as one feels the tug… Ah, me." She sounds wistful, and she finishes off her lemonade. "Bubs, I just noticed th' time. We got that couple comin' in at 5:30 an' I wanna give everythin' a once over before they come in. S'gonna be a long sittin'," she says, speaking first to her brother, then to Hank. "My tattoos take longer, bein' stick-n-pokes, but they're th' only style I'll do. They create such soft, beautiful tattoos. Fits my style better," she says with a smile as she begins to pack up the rest of their things. "It sure was nice meetin' ya, Mr. McCoy. Real nice," she says with a warm smile.
Red Chastain nods, "Usually best to be around the shop come evenin' time. Folks tend to like to get the work done after a nice meal. Fortify themselves for the pain," he says with a wry grin.
He reaches into his pocket and gets their card. It reads 'Gloomflower' in a stylized font, with a picture of what looks like a haunted plantation printed on the bottom, drawn by Red's own sure hand. Well, the original was, anyway.
"Any of your friends need some work done of our sort, tell 'em to swing by. We don't discriminate. Everybody's welcome under my needle," he smiles. "You might think about sellin' that air condition'in' thing. Gotta be a market for that kinda thing."
"Oh to be certain, there's great diversity just in this conversation, let alone the park, or the city around it, or the state about the City and so on. People, life…there's beauty there, it is enough to make one truly believe in magic, in the divine." Hank shrugs then, rubbing at the back of his neck as he waxes a bit flowery. A wry smile, one of his fangs just over the lower lip as he does. No, he has no idea. "I thank you for the kind words, and for the most part I think you have the right of it."
Still keeping Red between him and Beauie, Hank admires the painting as she so deftly adds the finishing touches. And there's definite approval to his expression when she proves to be fastidious about the clean up.
"Well, perhaps if ever you and Mister Chastain here are ever out my way we'll make a day of it, ma'am." He takes out a proper billfold from his inside breast pocket of that by necessity tailored jacket he wears. Out of it he takes a business card and offers it to Red in exchange for the one Red offers him of theirs. "Stick-n-pokes? As per the Maori style of Ta Moko? Using a stick and combs? Interesting indeed."
A soft laugh. "I would…unfortunately the design and materials are rather too pricey, I suppose I could work on a different design." He offers Red his hand to shake. "I will certainly mention your shop to my friends, well, if tattooing comes up of course." It is a subtle thing, he looks for permission first from Red to move around him, and then to Beauie to approach her. "My thanks for a diverting conversation and a rare chance to see art crafted on the fly." Should she permit, he'll bow over her hand, but not quite kiss it, and then he clasps his hands behind his back. "I do hope we meet again, sometime, Red Chastain, Beauie Chastain."
Hank's card? Simply 'Hank McCoy', his mobile number, and an email address. "And who knows, I might just drop by to bother you both if I'm ever in the neighborhood, if that's okay."
Beauie helps finish closing up the folding chairs and getting everything in order for Red to carry the lion's share of the load, though she'll try to carry more than she should, and they always bicker lightly over it. She smiles at Hank as Red hands him their card, and he exchanges his at the same time. "It's a shame it's so expensive. Despite growin' up in th' South, I never did acquire a fondness for prickly heat. Goodness knows I'd enjoy something that would keep me at ideal temperature, no matter the weather. A pendant or something like that. But, it'd take an awful lot of savin' up and sellin' of art to afford somethin' like that, I reckon," she grins. "If y' ever come up with somethin' more affordable, let me know, Mr. McCoy," she says.
"To answer your question, though, I doubt I do it the way the Maori do it, as I don't recognize the term 'Ta Moko,' and I definitely don't use a comb. If you ever get curious, maybe I can show you, some time," Beauie offers, pulling her art bag's strap over her head and situating it at her side. Then, Hank's bowing over her hand and she smiles, unsure of how to respond aside from curtseying, and that doesn't seem right in this situation. "Have a real nice evenin', Mr. McCoy," she says and grasps the back of her painting canvas' handle, carrying it so the painted part faces away from her as she begins walking after Red, who's loaded for bear with the umbrella, the chair, and the cooler. She casts a backwards wave to Hank and heads on out of the park.
"And you as well, Miss Chastain, and to you sir, Mister Chastain…and please, no need for the formality, Hank is more than sufficient." He'll grin then, and return the wave and watch the brother and sister depart.