A mile long and a third of Manhattan Isle's width, Central Park is a swath of rich green nature in the middle of the urban jungle of New York City. From cultured gardens, to lakes and ice rinks, to zoos, museums, and forests, this park almost has it all. +view and +local are available. When you live a very literal nomadic lifestyle where the currency of where you're at changes just as much as the world does from place to place, you learn to live frugally. Food trucks, America Chavez has learned, is one of the best places to go when one wants to get some good meals on the go for relatively cheap, especially in the bigger cities like New York. It's part of why she's here today, at least, in the Bronx — a cold front coming through, the bitter chill nips at her cheeks, but she barely even notices. Dressed in a thick gray sweater with the American flag taking up the entire front, a pair of denim cutoff shorts and sneakers, she hardly seems dressed for winter. It's a fact she also seems wholly unconcerned with as she stands out at the Tacos El Bronco II food truck parked near Wave Hill. Hands shoved into the pockets of her sweater, she seems content to wait for now, curly brown hair rustling behind her with the wind as dark eyes look this way and that with an ever-present calm. She doesn't order — not yet. No. The food is only part of the reason why she's here, this early, as the sun begins to crest over the horizon. After all… she promised someone breakfast. A relatively short distance away, but out of sight, another figure quickly descends, landing in an alley nearby, then idly dusts herself off. She's wearing a leather jacket over a white cable-knit sweater over jeans, with biker style boots with rings on the sides of the ankles as she strides out, turning, then making her way towards the truck where she promised she'd be meeting America. There's an odd sense of getting away with something, sneaking out like this…it makes her feel…good in a strange way. More alive? She's not sure if it's that she's breaking a rule, or meeting America secretly. Probably a bit of both. She peers through her shades as she rounds the corner, her short dark hair comfortably mussed but still managing to look good on her, if a bit tomboyish. She holds up a hand and waves as she sees the familiar young woman in the colors of the flag up ahead. "America!" On cue, those strikingly intense, chocolate brown eyes roll in the direction of the approaching, raven-haired woman as she shouts out that name. Everything about America Chavez seems ineffably relaxed, right down to the way she casually lifts her right hand to tilt it at a simple, sharp angle like in a half-a-wave as her expected company arrives with impeccable timing. "Yo," greets America, voice layered with a simple, lax tone as she turns to face Divine entirely. Her head tilts faintly to the right, a brow hefting as she takes in the sweater-clad woman approaching her. A second passes, before she decides with a simple matter-of-factness, "Looking good, chica. Way to rock the cable knit." With that compliment, however, America beckons; and when Divine is close enough, she'll take the other woman by the wrist, to draw her towards that food truck. "Best breakfast burritos in the city. C'mon, Karen. Gonna love it." Divine is a bit surprised by how good it feels to see America again. Just seeing her, those beautiful brown eyes, that casual attitude…there's something about her that's just…not relaxing, but soothing? She feels some of he stress draining away as she smiles. "Thanks.." she says simply. And she does fill that sweater out quite well. She shifts as you grab her wrist, her skin surprisingly warm under your fingers for the cool temperatures….but then you've been out here longer than she has been. She grins a bit at that. "I'm looking forward to them…" she says honestly. "My treat this time too, so as many as you want.." What else is she going to spend what salary she gets anyway, if not on burritos? Beneath sweater and the coolness of her own hand, Divine's skin feels so much warmer in sharp comparison. America hardly seems to mind anymore than she seems to mind that blistering cold — in fact, if anything, it's the opposite, considering how securely those tanned fingers wrap themselves around the short-haired woman's wrist, a brow lifting at the other woman's offer. "Yeah? Might live to regret that." teases Chavez in that wry way of hers as they make their way through the line. Luckily, it's still early enough yet that there aren't many people; it's not that long before they're at the front, ready to make their orders. As they approach, America's fingers wrap around Divine's hand, giving it a brief, firm squeeze before she releases to place her order on what ends up being a very generous portion of breakfast burritos. To put it nicely. "Whatcha want, chica?" she asks as she finishes, turning around to lean against the food truck counter as she looks Karen's way with a single, arched brow. As your fingers curl over and take her hand, Karen almost cutely stiffens a little, her expression saying 'whatdoIdowhatdoIdo omg' for a moment, before she tentatively squeezes back, her fingers curling over your hand in turn. For the first time since you've met her, Karen actually removes those sunglasses. Her eyes underneath are a jade green (contacts, not that America would know that), and peruse the menu as her pink lips curve in a thoughtful frown. "Hmm….chorizo, potato, and cheese with Christmas chili, 'macho' size, I think?" she suggests after a moment. "Sounds tasty. And appropriate for the season." she adds, bemusedly as her eyes flick over to the Latina next to her. "And it's fine, I can manage a big meal." she adds, tilting her head. Elbows resting on the food truck's counter top, a small, subtle hint of a smile lingers on America's lips from Karen's nervous reciprocation of her gesture. Her shoulders roll back, brows lifting a faint fraction of an inch upwards as the other woman lists off all that food at once, lips pursing together mildly in response. "Big appetite, huh?" she wonders, looking back over her shoulder to give the man at the front a simple nod as if to say 'and that's all.' "Well, you make it work," America decides not a moment later, head tilting back Karen's way before she gives a single, approving nod. "Nice choices, chica." The corner of her lips quirks upward, just a bit. "You got good taste." "I trust your recommendations." Karen says with a faint smile, glancing back over to the girl next to her. "Besides, probably won't be grabbing much for lunch or dinner to make up for it. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, right?" she says, tugging out a wallet from her jacket, the inside pocket, then handing over several bills to cover the cost, then takes the change back. "So, this is a truck you to go regularly?" she asks curiously. "Or do you have others you like?" Yes, it's not exactly the most fascinating small talk, but it's a start! She's hyper aware of the hand she's holding, though she's relaxing as she gets used to the idea. And, well…the swirl of confusing feelings about doing it. It's a little scary, but also so very nice to have that sense of connection. Brown eyes dip down, watching the exchange of that money with a mild, curious stare as it changes hands. "Heard some people say that, every now and then," is what she says as she watches in response to Karen's words, her words jokingly dry before she turns her gaze up towards the sky. "Generous of you, paying for both of us." That brown gaze falls back towards Karen, thoughtful for a moment. Her thumb brushes the back of the other woman's hand. "Gracias. Gonna pay you back for it, though. Believe me." Still, as they wait for their food, America is an almost nonchalant contrast to Karen's sharp, gradually relaxing nervousness. The latina seems entirely comfortable with the whole situation as if it were just second nature to her, her thumb tracing down to the inside of the other woman's wrist to quietly feel her pulse as she makes small talk. "Got a few. Still figuring out where everything is. But this is my favorite here, anyway." 'Here' being a vague enough term to mean just about anything, really. Her brown eyes shift, peering at Karen curiously. "How about you?" That pulse is a bit quicker, perhaps, the soft throb of the way America makes her heart beat a little faster evident. "Oh, well…" Karen says, idly rubbing the back of her neck with her free hand as she smiles sheepishly. "I usually just grab cafeteria food, or ready meals or stuff like that. Something that's quick. I'm not much of a cook, and can't always eat out." She tilts her head, her (currently) green eyes meeting that chocolate gaze. "Food's kinda just for refueling for me most times, I guess. I don't think about it much." She squeezes lightly, maybe experimentally. "And…so there will be a next time?" There's a faint teasing, yet slightly happy tone to her voice too. She's trying hard to hold it in as best she can at the moment, because, well…she doesn't want to make America think she's…whatever. "Yeah, didn't really strike me as the food truck kinda person," America admits, feeling that slightly speedier pulse against the brush of her thumb. "I get you. Gotta do the work, yeah?" Her head tilts, intent stare focused on those vibrantly jade green eyes, like she was searching them. "S'fine. Just means I've got plenty of places to take you, then." And as she utters those words, Karen's experimental little squeeze is met with and further rewarded by one of America's own, a prelude to the smooth, effortless slide of her fingers between the raven-haired woman's until they are intimately threaded together. That food comes in a pair of not-inconsiderable bags, and America offers her thanks, swiping her own to leave Karen to grab hers. That question doesn't receive a direct answer, though. Not yet. Instead? Instead, once Karen gets her food, America straightens and tilts herself the other woman's way, pressing her cooled lips against the warmth of Karen's cheek. "Yep," she says, finally. Like it was the most natural, most obvious conclusion in all the world. Karen's lips part, her breath catching just a little as she feels those fingers sliding between hers. She spreads her fingers out to make it easier when she feels you do it, then curls them back, clasping hands with you now directly. Internally…Karen experiences that actual 'flutter' in her chest area she's read about here and again that she always thought was just a metaphor. Huh. She's barely gotten accustomed to the new experience when the kiss on her cheek totally blows her thoughts out of kilter, her eyes widening in surprise as she blinks, looking to America, before a slow flush crosses her cheeks. "…cool." she responds softly, trying to play it off as such, but likely failing. She's not THAT good at hiding her emotions. And she doesn't really want to as much around America anyway. With a gentle tug, she pulls you over to a nearby bench to sit and eat, setting her own tinfoil wrapped burrito down on the table. That soft response comes, and to her credit, for as obvious as Karen's attempt at playing it cool is, America never really calls attention to it. She just lingers close to the corner of Karen's lip for a moment, uttering a soft, "Yeah," before she straightens, bag of food in hand. "Damn cool." With that, she feels the tug upon her hand and follows along shortly thereafter; the Latina provides no resistance to Karen's guiding efforts, as if content to let the black-haired woman carry her where she may. When they reach that bench, she settles down into it close beside her companion, one long leg crossing over the other as she sets that bag in her lap. And though she grabs a burrito, she doesn't see fit to start eating yet, instead watching for Karen to take her first bite with the faintest look of interested appreciation. "Good, yeah?" It's perhaps a more tentative bite at first..mostly because she doesn't want to pig out in front of America, so to speak. It's not a delicate bite, however….a good mouthful, and as she chews, Karen's lips curve up a bit, chewing, then swallowing. "Mm, it's good and hot….tasty, yeah…" she agrees, smiling over at the girl sitting next to her as she takes another bite. She doesn't cross her legs, seemingly content just to lean back against the table behind her, though she does cross her ankles, stretching out her legs a bit as she balances on an elbow. "So…you live around here?" she says curiously. "I mean, in the neighborhood, or is this just where you like to grab lunch?" She chews again, with the air of someone forcing herself to slow down whose used to just wolfing down food primarily as fuel more than food. "Good," says America, and for all that effortless ambivalence she seems to perpetually carry herself with, she still looks genuinely pleased by Karen's assessment of her food; a fact more seen in her eyes and the subtleties of her body language than anything else. She watches Karen for a moment, before returning to her own meal, unwrapping that burrito to tear off a sizable chunk between her teeth. It's far from dainty and ladylike, how she eats; as if, in her own subtle way, indicating to Karen that she's, at the very least, in good company when it comes to her eating habits. "Just where I grab lunch," she answers after her second bite, wiping away little bites of cheese and grease from her lips as her shoulders lift in the slow roll of a shrug. "Got a few places I like to go, all over the place." 'All over the place' likely qualifying for a bigger area than just 'New York.' "Kinda between living situations right now. Not too fussed about it, though. I manage." Chocolate eyes slide Karen's way. "How about you? Got some big fancy loft you gotta pay out your cute butt for?" Karen crinkles her nose a bit at the question. "Government housing with lots of roommates, mostly. They're kind of a pain sometimes, really picky about who visits, but it's…home, I guess." There's a slight shrug of her shoulders, a faint hint of…annoyance? Or at least, that she doesn't want to offer more on it, from the finality of the statement. "You're crashing on couches?" she says, frowning faintly. "No job or anything right now?" She's not exactly up on the whole civilian living situation, but from what she knows…you pretty much need one to get along, after all. Unless you're a student or something. Reassured by America's gusto in eating her foot, she takes a larger bite out of her own burrito, mmphs as some of the grease drips down her chin, then wipes at it with her thumb, pausing to swallow, then licking her thumb to get rid of the worst of it. Annoyance. It's an expression that America knows well, which means it doesn't take much for her to cotton on to that subtle expression of irritation as it hefts Karen's shoulders upward. Her brow lifts mildly — but perhaps tellingly, the Latina does not pursue after the obvious questions, as if content to leave Karen to her privacy despite how alluring the decisively close-ended nature of that answer is. "Huh," is all she says, instead, with an easy weight of acceptance — acceptance, at least, that this is as far as Karen is willing to discuss about it. "Gotcha." The second question comes, but the answer that follows isn't immediate. Instead, as grease from the meat and sauce dribbles down Karen's chin, the Utopian girl casually leans towards the other woman, her hand pressing to her cheek as the pad of her thumb glides over the corner of her mouth, picking up the remnants that Karen didn't manage to catch with her first little swipe. "Yep," finally comes her answer as she draws that hand away, cleaning the rest of that sauce from her tongue. "But I got a job. Doesn't really pay, but I don't need the money. I get by just fine." And this, too, seems definitive — as if her certainty about that was beyond reproach. "Don't really stay in one place long enough to settle, anyway. Y'know?" Karen freezes in surprise at the touch, her eyes widening slightly as she holds still. "…um…thanks…" She tilts her head, watching the other woman curiously. "…what….kind of job? Do you have to travel around for a lot of it, so you can't settle, or is it something else?" Most people might be a bit less blunt about things. Karen really isn't good at that sort of thing. "I mean, nothing wrong if you…can't settle somewhere, just…curious." she admits after a moment. Something about the idea of America just…disappearing one day is unexpectedly very distressing to think about. Oh, she's seen people come and go at Cadmus, but…she's never been THAT attached to them. It's not allowed. That's part of the thrill of this clandestine meeting, after all…sneaking out in a little act of rebellion to meet with America. Someone she's quickly coming to…really want to stay around. And to know more about. All sorts of things, not just "actionable intel," as her minders would call it, but just…what is she LIKE? What does she like? …does she like Karen? All of them worthwhile questions to ask. And yet America never seems to give out more information than necessary, like someone to whom keeping things close to the vest is a second nature. No — how she feels might be better summed up in how she acts. The relatively calm ease with which she conducts herself around Karen; the way she doesn't seem to cast aspersions or pry when it's clear the dark-haired woman doesn't want it. The fact that she still stays relatively close by to the other woman, even when that dollop of sauce and grease has been taken care of. "Anytime," comes her relaxed response. And just like that, she eases herself back against the bench, closer now to Karen than she was before. Taking a large bite from her burrito, her other hand tucks into the front pocket of her sweater as she considers Karen's question. "Yeah, more or less," comes her first answer, as vague as ever, to the question of travel. "Not really a question of whether I want to or not. Just what I gotta do, because I'm the one who can do it." A cocky proclamation, maybe, but it rolls off her lips as naturally as the white puff of breath that surrounds every easy syllable. But what is the job, exactly? "Helping people," is her only answer. At first. "Making shit better. For everyone. Everywhere I can. No matter who's ass I've gotta push in to do it." To the point, at least. She's so close now…the nearness makes Karen nervous, but excited at the same time. She's read about this sort of thing happening, but always wondered if it was literary metaphor. But now, she finds herself hyper-aware of just how close the Latina girl next to her is sitting. She covers it by taking another big bite of her burrito, chewing as America explains, before she slowly leans back too…angling a bit closer , until her shoulder is lightly brushing America's. "Just…help people? But…who tells you who needs help? Or how do you know when you should intervene and when it's not a good idea to get in the middle of it?" she says slowly, glancing over curiously, her eyes meeting the heroine's. For her…she gets her marching (or flying) orders fro her superiors. She goes where they tell her she needs to go, does what she's ordered to do. The idea of just…doing it because you think it needs doing is..different. Not bad, just strange and a bit unnerving, to go with the feelings already running rampant in her chest and belly somewhere. Butterflies…that's what they call it, isn't it? The touch of shoulders, warm through those layers of clothes. It prompts the fleeting downward cast of America's chocolate-brown eyes for a brief, pensive moment before she finishes off her burrito, depositing the wrapper into her bag and fishing around for a new one even as those myriad questions come. Her head tilts. Her dark eyebrow hefts inquisitively, her lips a pursed line of comfortably neutral thought as she scrutinizes her companion anew. But ultimately? "No one tells me. I decide, chica." That answer comes so effortlessly from her, as if it were the only possibility. "My choice, my responsibility to see through, no matter what comes. I've fucked up plenty." And despite that overwhelming self-assurance, America is apparently not too prideful to admit that fact. "Everyone makes mistakes. But you gotta make these decisions on your own. You see something you think needs changing, you do it. Every day you don't? That's on you." She produces another burrito. Pauses, in the middle of unwrapping it. "I see something I gotta do, and I do it." And as she says that, America casually leans in, shoulder pressed firmly to shoulder as she quietly presses her lips to Karen's in a bold if brief kiss. "… That's just how I roll, chica." And just as easily as she delivers it, America parts away soon after, peeling open that burrito the rest of the way. "You got a job where someone tells you what to do then?" Karen would completely deny it if someone asked…but there's an undeniably squeak from her as she suddenly finds soft lips pressed to hers. For a moment her brain just fuzzed, even as quick as it is. That's…different than times before…of course, those were all VR scenarios…and she knew it, and that it was just 1s and 0s in a program. This is very much flesh and blood, much like the blood rushing through her veins and pinking her cheeks in a hot flush. She's off balance, and answers without really thinking this time. "Yes. Always. There needs to be a hierarchy. Parts moving together. An authority to make the judgements you can't in the field." She parrots her Cadmus training, then hesitates as her brain finishes rebooting a bit after the surprise peck. And suddenly, she feels like she has to defend it. "It's…it's chaos if you don't. There needs to be someone in charge. Rules to uphold and follow. There are so many dangerous…people out there, that can do what they want otherwise, without someone to rein them in." She's not sure why she feels this…weird defensiveness, trying to explain it to someone like America. Her minders would say she's part of the problem. A metahuman who does as she sees fit, who uses her power with nothing but her own moral and ethical judgement behind it. But she…helps? There must be times where not having someone in your ear, barking orders, telling you want to do is needed, when you can make that judgement in the field…right? It can, sometimes, be surprising what people say in the heat of the moment. When introduced to something they didn't expect and riding high on feelings they're unacquainted with. Surprising, and just as often telling. So as America pulls away from Karen, the other woman's cheeks a blushing rose, those words that follow… make her pause. Make her blink, for a sublime, rare instant, in surprise. It doesn't last. Maybe a flicker of a scrutinizing second before Karen begins to recover and defend her own words. To her credit? America listens in silence, as if legitimately taking the other woman's points into consideration as she takes another bite of her new burrito. Brows furrow, one long leg crossing nimbly over the other as her dark eyes shift to gaze out over the rest of the winter-chilled sights beyond them. But in the end… "Nah, can't really get behind that," America decides simply as if that was just the way it was, curls of dark brown hair bobbing as she shakes her head. "Just takes the choice away from you. Ties you up when you gotta make the tough decision. I do what I do and I don't ask anyone else to own up for it, just me. I rein people in when they gotta be reined. I expect others to do the same for me. But there's not one decision I regret making, because I made it." She pauses, and looks Karen's way. A faint, wry smile crosses her lips before she offers, as if subtly offering the other woman an out of her own, "Guess I'm just not built for normal work, huh?" Karen pauses, watching as you consider, taking another bite of her burrito…she's nearly devoured it by this point, obviously enjoying it even as she's distracted by the conversation at hand. Dark brows raise in suprise at the answer, her lips pursing in a frown as she considers that. She's not…surprised by the answer, per se. Really, she should have expected it. "…work like yours is never normal." she say slowly. "You can fly. You can do things most people can't. You have the power to change things as you think best. And most people can't stop you from doing it, either." she says slowly. "But if everyone is doing that…doing what they think is best, fighting people they think are doing the wrong thing, then isn't it worse? There's collateral damage. Citizens get hurt." An odd word choice, perhaps, but her verbiage rebounds back to her training again. Or brainwashing, depending how you look at it. "There needs to be someone where people can point at and say: "They're most likely to be right." The…the consensus of it. The law givers." She hesitates, looking at the woman next to her, her green eyes finding America's brown for a moment. "It's…it's got to be done. Enforcing law, or there's no law sooner or later. You…if you just…keep doing things like that, without asking anyone…what if you accidentally break a law, or…or do something that gets people in charge mad at you?" Isn't it worse? "Can be." The answer comes without hesitation, the unflinching nature of America Chavez's tone only matched by her terminal bluntness. It might be a surprising concession, all things considered — but America doesn't seem particularly interested in passionately debating her side of an eternal argument of order and freedom. She just says it like she sees it as she casually wolfs down another of her burritos, arms stretching over her head once she's finished yet another of those breakfast foods off. "Can be worse, sometimes. Can be a whole hell of a lot better. And sometimes people who just wanna do good and bring law fuck the world over and strip people of everything that makes 'em people. Not really a science to it, chica." Hands rest on the top of her head. Dark brown eyes roll Karen's way. Consider her for a moment. "Yeah, okay. And who tells them they're right? Who watches them?" Shoulders lift. A shrug takes her shoulders, before she looks back over the park, huffing out a vaporous white breath. "Never really been much for trying to keep the people in charge happy," she admits, after a moment. "Not really much for rules and regulations, either. Maybe that makes me bad. Dunno. But I'd rather be helping the people who need it than kissing the asses of the people who shoulda been helping them in the first place. And between being human and fucking up and letting someone take away the things that make me that so I can play nice… I'm always gonna pick the first option. Every time." Brown eyes slide, back to Karen. Brow lifted. "I just gotta be me. No point in trying otherwise." Karen watches as the younger woman next to her explains. The idea is…so…counter to everything she's been told. But some part of her stirs at that. Some idea of self-worth outside of her perceived duty. In some ways it's very simple, just pure admiration for how easily, how forthright American is when she says it. And with admiration comes a desire to be like her…to impress her, maybe. And a strange tightness and fluttering in her belly that Karen can't quite decide what it is when she looks at her. "..I…that's…that's really…really cool." she says finally, stumbling over the words, then flushing a bit as she turns her attention back to finishing off her own burrito, taking a large bite of what's left to chew it down, then swallowing, before she dares looking at the other girl again. "Do you feel like it's your duty?" she asks slowly, her fingers shifting where they hold America's hand, squeezing so very carefully, gently. Out of habit mostly. A mild snort issues from America Chavez, nostrils flaring just a bit at Karen's stumbling words. Of course, her answer is a simple, "Damn right it is," as if humility is a concept she just doesn't have the time to waste on. When she feels those fingers shift and squeeze, though, she responds effortlessly, her own rough, strong digits lacing themselves more firmly between Karen's own and tilting her hand just enough to tickle her wrist with the pad of her thumb. "Dunno if I'd use a fancy word like that," America says, after a moment, as she looks back Karen's way. She shifts, the slight tug of her hand urging the older woman a bit closer. "But sure. It's just what I do. There's a whole lot more people hurting than you know." She says this like it's just simple fact, leaning her head against the back of the bench as she speaks. "I'm just not the type that can sit around waiting for someone to tell me what I know I oughta be doing anyway." Karen doesn't resist, leaning a bit closer, until her shoulder rests against America's, warmth mixing with America's against her skin through their shirts. "That seems better than duty…" she admits thoughfully. "More like a…a calling." She considers that. "I haven't though of it like that before…" she admits. "It seems less constrained but more…I dunno. Pure?" She squeezes the hand she holds gently, then leans in slowly, less uncertain now. "I want to know lots more about you…." she says, fairly blunt herself. "You're….you're interesting. Special…." A calling. "I like the sound of that," admits America as she feels that shoulder bump against her own. She considers it for a moment, before dark eyes lift towards Karen, leaning towards her, offering those smoother, more certain words. "Yeah?" she asks, leaning in gradually. "Me, too." And with that, she just looks to casually close that distance and press her lips to the other woman's, squeezing her hand as she kisses her — slowly, to let her react. Slowly, to let her respond. Slowly — so they can both take their time to enjoy it. Her free hand slides up at that, so she can cup Meri's cheek gently as their lips meet, her own parting, silken softness pressing together as their mouths meet. There's a soft sound that escapes Karen's lips for just a moment, muffled against Meri's lips, before her eyes slip closed, shutting out the world so she can focus on that wonderful, electric meeting. This time, she's less uncertain…less suprised. Less unsure what to do or what it means. This time, it's just the pure joy of the kiss, the knowledge that the woman she kisses is as interested in her as she's finding herself interested in America. This time, there's a heat behind it, as she lets herself fall into that, her fingers tightening, then shifting to interlace with the Latina's fingers, drawing close to her until her full chest presses to America's. And for a moment…the first time she can remember…the world is just… Perfect. Back to: Logs Page. |
Forbidden Burritos