The Big Date

May 08, 2015:

Betsy Braddock and Flash Thompson finally have their Big Date.

Delposto Ristorante

A classy, high-end restaurant in New York

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Even though it's only been a scant twenty four hours, the time had been spent in a flurry of activity for the young man known as Flash Thompson. Sure a good chunk of it was once again dropping into character in Mutant Town, trying to subvert some of the efforts of the Purifiers. But when he had a spare moment he carried with him a small list of restaurants and their phone numbers that some of his SHIELD compatriots recommended to him.
So once clear of his duties, Agent Venom was perched on the side of the GE Building, his feet somehow holding him up as he held the datapad against his ear with a shoulder, then the note and a pen in his hand. "Hello. I was wondering if you had any reservations this week between 6 and 8 in the evening? No? Not for this month. Ok, thank you." A frown as he leans over and swipes the pen across the name 'Roberto' and then calls up the next.
For the next half hour it's much like that for him, calling up places as his list of restaurant suggestions gets shorter and shorter. Until eventually his phone buzzes and he answers it.
"Hello, Thompson."
"Oh? Oh really? That sounds great. How much?" There's a pause and Flash's eyebrows lift upwards, but then he gives a slight shrug of his shoulders and he says, "Well it'd just be the two of us. But yah I don't mind reserving it. Short notice though don't you…" There's a pause, "Well…" Another pause, "Alright, tonight. Sure I'll put in the reservation, you have my info? Ok then. See you tonight. Thanks so much."
And as quickly as that the phone's closed and the pad of paper is tucked into the combat harness, pen squirreled away. A few moments later and an Elizabeth Braddock will be getting a text message.
'So. I have some good news and some bad news.'

An hour and a half away, Betsy is sitting on the floor in her room at the Institute. Jean's off… doing Jean things, and while Betsy knows all too well the demands of leadership, there's part of her that bitterly resent her friend's lack of availability. She /needs/ to talk to Jean, her mobile, external conscience/drinking buddy.

"Face it, Betsy. You only want to talk to Jean because you want her to be the one to tell you not to do it," she says, muttering at herself dourly. Like a pouty child, she kicks out her legs, then groans and stuffs her face into a pillow. It's still therapeutic.

She almost hear her cell go off. But she manages to catch the end of the *bbzzrt* and reaches for it, dragging herself a little on her hands to reach it. She brings up the text messages and reads the note from Flash. Her eyes narrow dangerously.

'Let me guess. Duty calls?'

The return text comes rather quickly, 'Nope. Good news. We have a reservation at Del Posto at 6:15. Bad news. It's tonight.'

Betsy smiles immediately reading the message, making a little fist-pump gesture. "Yesss…." she hisses, under her breath. She composes herself, glancing at the clock again, then texts Flash back.

'Not much notice. I need to check my schedule'. She sends the message and then turns her cell phone sideways, bringing up YouTube and turning on a video.

The response comes from him with a small bzzzt. 'Decide quick or I'll take one of my other many many girlfriends.'

Flash's smile broadens and he even goes so far to snicker to himself as he leans over the datapad and types in his reply. The response comes from him with a small bzzzt. 'Decide quick or I'll take one of my other many many girlfriends.'

Bzzt. 'Keep pushing your luck, CADET.'

A small snort comes from him but his smile doesn't break. He types in, 'So if you do deign to go with me. Where should I pick you up?' With a light tap he clicks send.

Betsy lets Flash stew for a few minutes before she picks up her phone again, eyeing the screen. "Damnit. I /should/ look at a place in the city," she mutters. Wearing her comfortable white gym shorts and a short tank top, she reaches into the closet to start shuffling through her outfits, coming up with something red and slinky. She quirks her lips and then shakes her head.

'I live in Westchester. Easiest for me to take a cab to the restaurant.'

'Are you sure? I wouldn't mind finagling something. Though it is… an hour travel time?'

Betsy reads the message, pulling out a violet gown with long sleeves and no back. She tilts her head, considering, and hangs it on the closet door. She frowns at her phone, fingers tapping.

'More like ninety minutes each way. I'll just meet you there. See you soon'.

It really wasn't much warning. And sure it catches Elizabeth off balance somewhat, though she'll assuredly recover easily enough. But once that's done Flash hadn't given a huge amount of thought to the next steps. Since really he does need to get ready. Oh and a tie. Also need to call Jensen and get him to cover that surveillance lecture.
As quickly as that he stows the datapad and drops right off the side of the building, falling and falling, the skyline of New York rushing upwards as he falls… only to save himself at the last moment with a webline and a smooth swinging arc. It's off he goes to tend to the tasks at hand.
So when the time rolls around with the sun still somewhat in the sky and casting long shadows over the streets of the city, it finds Flash Thompson standing outside Del Posto's quadruple doors as the steady Manhattan traffic drifts by. He's taken up a place beside one of the fir trees that bracket the entrance, staying out of the way of the doorman as he occasionally helps someone inside or steps up to a taxi to pull the door open for someone to get out.
It's clear from the crisply pressed black suit that he wears that he's taken his time, got himself all gussied up as he can. Dress pants, a black leather belt, grey dress shirt with a sharp but subdued collar, and a black jacket that is held together by two buttons. Yet what completes the look is that patterned burgundy tie that he purchased just hours before, perhaps spending entirely too much on it. Add to that that he's actually clean shaven and took a comb to his hair and there is an image of today's modern male.
The final point that completes him is the single purple rose held loose by its stem in his hands. A thing he fidgets with now and again as he tries to look non-chalant waiting there.

A cab pulls up. It's not like the yellow cabs that come and go from around the city- it's a dark, almost unmarked vehicle, a luxury SUV with roomy back seats. The driver, wearing a dark suit and crisp white gloves, fairly vaults from the driver's side door and runs around to the passenger side, facing Flash.

The door opens and Betsy steps down from the SUV, letting the driver offer a hand for balance. Taller than even Flash in her designer heels, she wears a sleek black evening gown. Though sleeveless and strapless, she sports a choker that runs up her back from the herringbone corset subtly built into the gown. She gathers her dress up in her left hand to step up onto the sidewalk, putting her lower legs and designer heels on display for a few steps. Her hair is worn in a high, loose burn that unfurls down the side of her neck.

Dark cherry lips quirk at Flash and she stops, holding her clutch in front of her with both hands and adjusting the loose wrap hooked around her elbows. "Well well. You clean up nicely, Age- Flash," she compliments the man. She reaches up to adjust his tie, not that it particularly needs it, and offers a flickering smile at him. "I like your tie. …what's this?" she says, arching an eyebrow at the rose in his hands. She smells vaguely of jasmine and cinnamon, a careful and light application of perfume lingering around her.

As for the Agent of SHIELD, he sort of stands there for the time when she's disembarking from the vehicle. He meets her eyes and holds them while the smile grows upon his features. Once she's clear of car and driver, he steps forward to offer her his hand, greeting her with a small kiss to the cheek. His own scent is rather subtle. There's mainly the smell of his soap or shampoo that he uses, but an underlying touch of what is most likely steel or metal.
When she adjusts his tie he chuckles faintly, "Thanks, it sorta caught my eye." But then she looks down at the rose in his hand and he seemingly remembers its existence in that moment. "Oh!" He lifts it up between them and offers it to her. "This, I've always liked these. I suppose you can have it if you like." His smile grows as if he were begrudgingly giving the flower to her.
"Shall we?" He gestures towards the door that leads them inside, the door man already holding it open for them.

Betsy accepts the rose with a primly mysterious smile, rolling it between thumb and forefinger and holding it to her nose. She walks alongside Flash with an easy step, effortlessly graceful in a way no woman in those heels has any right to be. They click along with each step, and a fair number of the custom there turn to goggle at the two of them. Flash is certainly good looking enough, but Betsy is a categorical head-turner, even in a high-end restaurant, and particularly when wearing an evening gown. She doesn't seem to be aware of any of the looks, walking alongside Flash with her head high in a regal bearing and hips shifting easily under the glittering material of her elegantly draped gown.

With her on his arm, Flash seems to feel much less trepidation than he normally would upon approaching the podium of the maitre'd, a young woman with a brilliant smile. Flash meets her gaze and gives a nod, "Thompson, party of two."
"Oh yes, please right this way." And with that they're moved off through the golden dining room amongst the dinner patrons of the restaurant.
They walk past the rising staircase, and beyond towards the back of the room where there are the two somewhat separated alcoves that serve as function areas for larger groups of guests. They're brought to a table that normally could seat about a dozen customers, but in this case is for but the two of them.
"Your server will be Diana, and she will be with you in a moment. Can I get either of you something to drink?"
"I'll have the tea with lemon. You, Elizabeth?" Flash responds as he moves around the table towards the benchseat that's against the wall and inclines an eyebrow towards Elizabeth, silently asking if that's acceptable.

Betsy moves to the bench Flash indicates, settling in and scooting so there's room for both of them. "Vodka martini, straight up with a twist, stirred," she tells the waitress, hooking one ankle behind the other. She puts her clutch on her lap, turning slightly on the bench so she can speak more comfortably with Flash. "Flash," she says, pursing her lips. "I'd take it as a favor if you'd call me Betsy. Only my family calls me Elizabeth anymore," she says, her tone a bit wry. She wraps a kidskin glove around her water and takes a few cautious sips, sitting perfectly poised and upright in the confines of the booth. "Elizabeth is someone who isn't with us anymore," she reminds him.

Settling into the booth in that overly spacious alcove area in the restaurant, Flash is smiling sidelong at her as he answers easily enough. "Betsy, alright. Or Bets?" He seems to mull that over, considering, even as he's unfolding his napkin and lightly shaking it loose to rest it over his lap. The cutlery is fiddled with, a few of them most likely serving a role that the young agent isn't entirely sure about, but the evening will tell.
It's at that moment that the hostess comes back with their drink order, setting them down before them as she says, "Wow, looks like you guys have all this space to yourselves, it's gonna be fuuun." She says in a perhaps too sing-songy voice. But Flash answers with a nod and a faint smile, "Looks like. Thanks." He accepts his tea and looks towards Elizabeth, "Any ideas for a toast?" He finally murmurs once the hostess is gone.

Betsy reaches for her cocktail and plucks it up in her elegantly manicured fingers, considering Flash thoughtfully. "I like to drink to absent friends," she says, regarding the man next to her. "Perhaps a bit maudlin, but I try to keep perspective on what I've lost- and what I have."

She drops the glass down where Flash can chime against her martini and then takes a long sip, before setting it aside. Her own napkin is draped elegantly over one crossed thigh, though she leaves the laid-out silverware alone. "I think I'd like to learn a little about you. You mentioned you were in the Army, and of course you've been with SHIELD for a while, but you've said very little about your life." She rolls a wrist languidly, inviting Flash to speak about himself, and rests her elbow on the table so she can face him more comfortably.

At that suggestion his eyes widen slightly as the microscope of examination is targeted square at him. He, of course, expected something similar but when the moment comes to be put on the spot… well it still can feel like a surprise.
"See, sometimes things are easier in SHIELD. If someone is interested in your past they just dig up your file and go browsing." But having said that he smiles and settles back into the crook of the seat, looking askance towards her. "But let's see. I had a pretty normal lower middle class upbringing. Born and raised in Queens. Went to school, played football…"
He looks to the side, "I have a sister, Jesse. She moved to Austin a few years back. My parents have passed on." That smile turns a touch rueful. "All terribly mundane compared to the life of am X-Person, m'sure." He lifts his free hand, eyes lowering to his glass as he gently jostles it, causing the ice cubes to swirl. "I started school. Empire State. But I felt a bit… stifled. Like the world needed another business major. So I joined up and did my bit. A few tours…"
But then it's like his narrative hits a brick wall. His brow furrows as he looks at his glass and she can perhaps feel the subtle storm clouds overshadowing him. "I should kind of tell you something, Bets. Before we go far and all. And I want you to know that I understand any reaction you might have. For some people I know.it's a showstopper."

"I know about your legs, Flash," Betsy says, wide, amethyst eyes on his face. "I'm sure it's an issue you're working through, but it's not really a surprise or issue to me and it'll just make you feel depressed to discuss it." She sips her martini again, easing a bit closer to Flash with a flickering, self-conscious glance around the room. It's just an inch, but it's an attempt at inviting confidence.

"Tell me about Jesse. I have two brothers- one twin, one older, but they both live abroad. Frankly, we'd kill each other if we lived in the same hemisphere. Do you and Jesse still get one well?" she inquires, pushing the spill of hair back from her collarbone to drape down her back. She balances the martini glass on her kidskin gloves and takes another sip, not looking away from Flash.

And as easily as that she just sort of brushes past this hurdle he'd set up for himself and for anyone involved with him. His reaction to her revelation is his eyes meeting hers and his smile turned a touch surprised even as he gives a small laugh that drifts into a chuckle. He shakes his head and looks aside, smiling to himself. "You know, I should have figured you would have known. Or figured it out… or something." He shakes his head and looks back at her and she can probably sense the faint incredulity… bit also the way she just impressed him. Oh she was impressive before. Beautiful in manner and in motion. But that… all of that pales before that simple acceptance.
Taking a breath he smiles and looks back to her, "Jessie and I got along pretty well. She's only a year and some younger than me. We each had our own stuff to deal with from our family and she chose to sort of transplant. She's doing well, works in computers I think. Has a girlfriend that takes good care of her. Naturally she has no idea what I do."
He shakes his head, still smiling as he looks down. "Feels strange to talk about myself so much." He looks over, "Tell me about your brothers."

Betsy finishes her drink and waves down the waitress for a refill, though her attention doesn't leave Flash as he shares his story with her. "I have two," she says again, eyes thoughtful. "Jaime's the oldest. He's always been terribly snooty and elitist, which, given our upbringing, is something of an excessive statement," she says with an eloquent eyeroll.

"Brian's my twin. He was skinny and quite introverted as a boy, but he's filled out now. He serves in the Royal Marines. You'd like him," she says, a corner of her mouth lifting. "Though he and I can't stand being in the same room for more than a few hours at a time. Still, he's my brother. I love him," she says, shrugging at the statement.

The whole part where her brother is Captain Britain goes unsaid, of course. Or her history wearing that particular uniform.

Flash listens as she speaks and his head turns just so and to the side, giving the faint impression of a curious canine. But as she speaks of her twin he says, "Probably, but I imagine he's fairly protective of his twin sister. I've received my fair share of stern talking tos from concerned family members when I've met them." He shakes his head and smiles with a wry half-smile, almost lupine in its self-amusement. "You'd imagine I had an untrustworthy face."
Turning back to her he then asks, "So what was it like growing up in the Braddock household? Downton Abbey or more Upstairs Downstairs?" At that he tries to stifle a teasing grin. Fails.

Betsy gives Flash a primly level look. "It was very regimented. Mummy and Daddy wanted the three of us to be brought up properly. There's a grand tradition in Britain's aristocracy of developing well rounded families. Fox hunting, horsemanship, and so on. Brian was quite a bit more inclined to tinkering with toys when he was younger." She picks up her new martini when the waitress brings it by.

"So we had lessons in etiquette, history, and management, on top of swimming, horsemanship, archery, marksmanship.." she rolls a wrist in a 'and so on' gesture. "It's all intended to train all the children of the family to take on responsibility in the event that the mantle passes to them someday. Daddy was the person who got me into flying when I was fourteen- he bought me a Piper Cub as a present." She clears her throat, eyes dimming. "They passed a few years later. We were well off enough, but my brothers and I agreed that we didn't want to be spoiled trust fund children. Jaime found gainful employment and I took up work as an aviator while Brian went to university. We've drifted apart a bit since then with individual goals and so on, but we try to meet a few times a year to catch up and remind ourselves that we all hate one another in a loving way."

It's such a different world than the one he was accustomed to, so hard in some ways for him to wrap his mind around it. But there's no judgement in his thoughts or his gaze. More it's just a… curiosity, the acceptance and curiosity that's typical of so many Americans when meeting a member of the British upper class. "It sounds like it was a success then. The lessons, the time invested. Created some well-rounded individuals, complete people in their own right." His thoughts drift a touch as if he were pondering different social tenets.
But then he's brought back to the here and now, "Are you ready to order?" The waitress asks as she steps back to their hidden table in that alcove.
"I'm set, how about you, Betsy?" And if she signals the affirmative then he'll tell the young server, "I'll have the one hundred layer lasagna. Did you want an appetizer?"

"I understand the calamari is good," Betsy invites Flesh, nodding at the suggestion of the appetizer. "I'll have the papardelle bolognase, please," she tells the waitress, reaching for her martini for a second long sip.

She turns and looks at Flash with those wide amethyst eyes again, her face utterly inscrutable. Being a Brit is bad enough, but the Asian predilection for mystery is just doubling down on it. She touches the stem of her martini glass absently and looks across the restaurant at a couple chatting in a corner.

"Listening to their thoughts?" Flash asks with a small yet curious half-smile as his own attention is drawn towards the couple that Betsy considers. His own glance drifts over that older couple that seem to be so lost in each other, speaking with that casual aplomb that only comes from years of familiarity and love.
The young SHIELD operative turns away so as to not stare at them, but those blue eyes drift to rest on their reflection in Elizabeth's glass. "Let me take a stab at it." His gaze meets hers, playful as he murmurs. "It's their anniversary." He looks back at the reflection in her glass. "He's telling her about how he knew he loved her when they first met. And despite all her evil tendencies, that he'd marry her all over again."
The older woman reaches across the table to take her husband's hand in hers, "And now she's telling him about how even though her father couldn't stand him, she knew he was great and awesome." His lip twitches, clearly amusing himself on some level.

Betsy smiles gratefully at Flash when he moves the conversation forward. "I try not to be in the habit of trawling for people's thoughts," she tells him, looking at the older couple obliquely. "It's… well, it's rude. I listen passively for … loud thoughts- violent or angry ones," she explains, looking back at Flash and meeting his blue eyes with her amethyst ones.

"That said… it's something to that effect, yes," Betsy says, looking back at the couple with a fond and then, slightly sad expression, though that disappears in a blinking moment. "That sort of conversation that you'd quail to hear unless you could read the emotions behind it. Love," she explains, lifting a bare shoulder in a minute suggestion of a shrug. "Sometimes it has some peculiar… forms."

"I am… far from a connoisseur." And he can't help but remember the people he'd given his heart to. Naturally a shorter list than those he'd dated. But the memories are fond ones. He looks back to her, "But each time it's always been different, so hard to relate. I figure if things work out in a particular way that's great. If not then hey, always good to have memories."
Flash reaches forward and casually picks up a piece of bread from the basket on the table, tearing it in quarters and then casually taking a bite of one. Again his eyes drift towards the couple. "What those people have is nice. But I think also their lives are probably different than ours. Fewer people trying to kill them I imagine." He looks back, then rolls his eyes a bit at himself. "Sorry, I tend to ramble."

Always on her diet, Betsy demurs on the bread, fingers folded neatly on her partially bare thigh under the table. She listens attentively to him, despite her vaguely disconnected features- not quite making persistent eye contact, chin up, lacking in all the little subtleties and nuances most women have around a man they're interested in. But then again, Betsy's the sort to just walk away from conversations she finds boring.

"You do talk too much," she agrees when Flash puts himself down. She blinks, then does turn to look at him. "I… didn't mean it that way," she says, trying to cover her flustered tone with some equilibrium. "I-I meant that you… speculate. Too much." She blinks at Flash, her face about as expressive as a Maori stature.

The young man's grin shifts a touch sardonic as if to tell her, 'gee thanks'. But he shakes his head and presses on by murmuring back to her, "Well for some reason it's kinda liberating being around someone that can glimpse your thoughts. It advocates a policy of honesty."
He takes another bite of deadly deadly carbs, then opens a hand towards her as if asking something of her, "So if we do end up going out again, I would appreciate some tips on what you like to do for fun. I mean we could always go to a Jets game… but I somehow don't think that's your speed."

"Barring you making a positively catastrophic mistake in the next hour or so, yes, there will be another date," Betsy assures Flash, looking vaguely embarassed by her gaffe in insulting him. She looks at his hand and then with an odd timidity, puts her kidskin-clad fingers into his hand and squeezes it.

"There's… there's a classic car show next week," she says, straining- very hard- to maintain a prim and proper decorum. "I was thinking about going with a girlfriend, but if that's… your speed," she says, looking for the proper slang, "I'd enjoy going with you," she suggests, her poised stiffness a good mask for some uncertain vulnerability.

His hand is warm, perhaps a touch warmer than would be normal for someone. He gives a small squeeze but holds her gaze with his own and his smile is a touch wry as he murmurs, "That could be rather fun, but I wouldn't want you to break plans you've already made." There's something about her that puts him at ease in some ways. There's no hint of trepidation anymore, as if when she stole Flash's revelation about his handicap that it stole away his hangups as well. So there's that steady confidence there that he displays on the field.
"To be fair I wouldn't mind just spending some time with you, no excuses or events needed really."

Blessedly, the food arrives to save Betsy from the awkward silence that would precipitate her trying to say something to Flash that was equally thoughtful and kind. She makes a small task of arranging her plate, just so, reaching for (of course) the correct utensils and digging in with a restrained will.

After a few minutes of companionable eating, she emits a small but satiated sigh, finally setting her fork down. "Is yours as good as you expected?" she asks Flash, looking towards his dish. "I've yet to have a bad meal here."

You can take a young man out of Queens, but you can't take the Queens out of the kid. To answer her at first he sort of stops in midgulp with some of the lasagna on the end of his fork. He sort of stifles a grin and gives her a thumbs up as if that was a good enough answer. But then he realizes what he's doing in one of the fanciest restaurants in New York with one of the most beautiful women in the world. And his face _flushes_ with embarassment.
He grins and looks away, shaking his head and then swallowing… then dabbing at his mouth with the end of his napkin. "Ahem, I mean it's pretty good." He lifts a hand to rub at the back of his neck, "It's actually like… well better than sex." He grins and shakes his head.

"Not the way I do it," the kunoichi mutters into her food, the words almost inaudible. Betsy coughs politely into her napkin and clears her throat, looking at something extremely interesting across the restaurant for a moment, then reaches for her drink and knocks it back, flagging down the waitress with a flicker of her wrist.

"My agent used to do dining parties here after shoots," she explains to Flash, pushing around the pasta to sop up stray blobs of bolognase and sauce. "We'd rent out the back room and have ten or twenty girls all throwing their diets to the wind for an evening. They enjoyed having us here, I think- it raised their profile substantially."

Perhaps Flash heard her perhaps not. But the way he pushes around the lasagna seems to show he's amused about something at least. He looks across the way at her, "My coach would just take us to the local pizza place." He shakes his head and looks sidelong at her. "I don't know Betsy, we're so different." He attempts a mock serious tone. "What hope is there for us? I mean have you ever even had pizza?"
He shakes his head sadly and then leans forwards and perhaps ever so wickedly he takes a stab at her meal with his own fork, stealing some without even so much as a 'by your leave'.

Betsy flicks her wrist and jams the tines of her fork into the sensitive skin between Flash's knuckles, hard enough to dimple the skin, standing off his jabbing fork a few inches from her plate. She stares at him with those hard amethyst eyes, face implacable, and the slowly backs the fork off. With a careful, measured motion, she cuts apart a small bite, scoops it onto the tines, and sits up a few inches to reach across the table and wave the bite of bolognase in front of his lips, a smile curving up the corner of her lips.

"If you want something, Flash, just ask," she says in a low murmur, staring at his face.

Their eyes meet over the sharp tines of her fork and his own hood somewhat as if pondering the terrible danger of his situation. "Oh I don't know." Flash leans forward and then ever so slowly catches the bite of food, pulling it from the fork with a slight curl of his lips and tongue. He grins, then chews slowly before swallowing, "I seem to want a lot of things."
He then takes his own fork and stabs it into the meat sauce of his lasagna, catching a wonderful portion of a seasoned tomato and beef, then lifts the fork towards her, as if offering her a taste of her own.

Betsy cranes her neck forward, staring at Flash, and catches the tip of the fork on her tongue, lips parting and pressing tight. Slowly she scrapes her teeth along the utensil until it slips away, settling primly back into her chair once again with a sultry look in her eyes that belies the perfectly poised composition of her face.

"That's very good," she tells Flash. Resting her fork upside-down on her plate, she places an elbow on the table and rests her chin lightly on the back of her kidskin knuckles. "So do you think there's no hope, then?" she asks Flash, a vaguely teasing note in her cultured tones. "Different parts of the world, different backstories, irreconciliable families- I understand if you just want to call it a wash and we can just go our seperate ways," she suggests.

"It is pretty great." He eyes the lasagna and then mmms to himself as he takes another bite. Flash then sets the fork now and leans to the side, mirroring her posture if only to be that little bit closer to her. "Oh we may be doomed, but there is something to be said about enjoying the journey. To rage against the forces arrayed against us if only to be able to enjoy the time we have together."
He cocks his head to the side curiously, watching the interplay of shadow upon her features and the way her smile seems to speak volumes more than her words. "Then again perhaps I just can't stop remembering that kiss and how amazing it was and will do what I can to have another. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I don't see any Purifiers about," Betsy says, eyes flickering from his eyes to his mouth, then back again, meeting his gaze with a dangerous, smouldering look, a bit of the fire she keeps tamped down flickering through those unusually hued eyes.

"It seems that you like to attract yourself to high-risk situations, Agent Thompson. I've got a feeling you're headed into one now. What's your gut telling you?" she murmurs, sitting as still as a statue except for the motion of her shoulders and the blinking of those wide eyes.

"That some things are worth any risk." And as easily as that he makes his decision. Sure they're from two different worlds, and certainly they have only a handful of things in common. But one thing that they both find themselves drawn toward is each other. There's no hesitation, no trepidation. He turns his head to the side, eyes hooding and then slipping shut as he closes the distance. First there's the faint brush of his breath over her lips, then the warmth of the kiss when flesh lights upon flesh. He takes in her scent, nostrils flaring subtly as they share breath.
The moment grows as he gives of himself, fingertips lightly finding the side of her thigh and lighting there just slightly as he enjoys the nearness, the warmth. And then his lips part, a bare moment when he perhaps surprises her with the sensation of teeth upon her lower lip, daring to nip at her flesh. Oh it is risky, terribly so, and there are no less than seven ways she could take his life in that instant of vulnerability. And yet, it is worth it to him.

Betsy turns to meet his lips at the kiss, smelling of jasmine and something exotic and hard to put a finger on. At first she returns the kiss, slowly, letting the moment build, eyes lidding shut. At the caress to her leg, though, she coils like a snake, her body tensing even more when he goes so far as to dare to bite her lip. Still she does not break away, one hand clamping atop the fingers on her leg to ensure it wanders no futhur and her other rising, fingers touching his cheek for a moment.

They break, finally, and she leans back, eyes narrowed dangerously but lips curling despite herself. "Audacious, Flash," she says, pointedly twisting his fingers a little without actually hurting them. "I suppose you'll survive this evening, at least- no blade in the night for you."

Tilting his head to the side he smiles back at her, drawing back slightly and giving her grasping hand a small squeeze as he leans back from the moment of intimacy. "Thank heaven for small favors." He shifts to the side, resting his arm upon the back of the alcove as he looks at her askance. "But if you ever get the inclination to get stabbity, do me the favor of at least giving me a running start."
That having been said he reaches for his tea and tilts it back to take a sip, trying to cool off from that rush of blood and attraction.

"That would be very sporting," Betsy agrees, nodding at the waitress when the check arrives. She picks up her knife and balances it point-first on her finger, tosses it in the air in a glittering arc, and catches it deftly by the blade. "Unfortunately, I tend to fight dirty. You won't know I'm coming until you're dead already." She sets the knife down politely and reaches for her clutch. It takes a moment to produce her cell phone and she fires a text off to the cabby, then looks at Flash. "Shall we, then?" she asks the Agent of SHIELD.

"Yes, let's." Flash grins wryly as he sets his napkin onto the seat next to him, then starts to gain his feet. "I'll take care of this and meet you outside."

Betsy collects her coat at the check and shrugs into the shawl, waiting near the valet at the door for Flash to join her. A few words are exchanged- thank yous and affirmations that she had, indeed, enjoyed herself. And perhaps surprising both of them, she'd smiled and kissed his cheek, warmly, and then moved to the private SUV taxi, climbed in the backseat, and pulled off into the New York evening.

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