1974/Bailar en La Rosaleda

Bailar en La Rosaleda
Date of Scene:	05 June 2020
Location:	Madrid, Spain
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Steve Rogers, Janet van Dyne

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Steve Rogers has posed:
In a sprawling modern city-space of steel and glass, the rare pockets of greenery are gem -- and no place in Madrid gleams with as many precious natural stones as La Rosaleda. Within the sprawl of Parque del Oeste, loyal garnders have nourished a collection of over six-hundred species of roses, not to mention many other floral species of great reknown and scent. It is the end of May and now, in the burgeoning heat of late spring, the location is a riot of color.

Steve had spoken with the local parks and recreational personnel about being present in the park after dark in that subtle, innocent way of his (probably while Janet was either out of the room or enamored with some local attraction), and evening has fallen. A car has dropped both of them off at the park's front gates and, after being let in, the Captain in his suit -- black on black, Mandarin of collar and crimson of tie -- glances down at the woman on his arm.

"Figure we could take a walk after dinner. Nice way to settle the stomach...'nd we can, y'know, stop 'nd smell the roses."

He's so not sorry for that line.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Mmm, puns," Janet says, with a wax smile and a lift and settle of her brows. She keeps up with Steve's unhurried pace quiet easily, meandering along in no great hurry. One arm's looped over his elbow, and her right hand crosses over towards his forearm. The fashionista looks up at him, expands her Perfectly Polite smile, and nods back towards the wending rose hedges. "Everyone says, 'What's the sexiest thing about Steve?' I get asked by Cosmo, I get interviewed by Vanity Fair-- People Magazine won't stop hounding me for details-- and I tell you, their eyes just ... light up," she says, with an expressive flick of fingers, "when I talk about how he makes dad jokes that'd make Mister Rogers cringe." She glances up at him. "The *senior* Mister Rogers."

Their outfits match; it might be more accurate to say, Steve's two-color suit nicely complements Janet's flamenco-style attire. Janet's design sense lives in motion; her aesthetic is about framing bodies rather than merely propping up garments. Under the evening lights the sanguine fabric shifts to take on richer dimension and deeper tones, like rubies hewn from the earth and spun into cloth. One might think it a flamenco dancer's, but the bateau neckline competes with the close fit long sleeves, held tight by dark fingerloops; the lower bounds of the dress wrap too close to her hips before cascading into ruffles of black and red, pulled back and twisted up on itself into a complex rosette near her left hip. Elegant D'orsay sandals are a dead giveaway; no professional dancer would risk their bare toes or balance in them, despite their sleek look.

A soft humming lilts from Janet's throat through their stroll, her eyes flickering to the buzzing of yellowed streetlights. She's pale among the natives of Spain-- that Dutch ancestry from her father can only tan so much under the sun. But there's a subtle browning to her skin in this light, under the Iberian moon; the red in her dress teases out some near-invisible walnut in her hair, close to her scalp. For jewelry, she wears little; stud earrings with rubies, a ring on her right hand, and a patriotic pendant in the hollow of her throat. "Are we going somewhere in particular, or is this where you spring your secret aspirations to become a florculturist?"

Steve Rogers has posed:
"Puns," echoes the Captain with a sage lack of contrition. Her report, whether true or false as to making the //other// Mister Rogers wince, merely makes those dimples appear more in the ambient park lights. The space is open, the better for the ample sun to fall upon the roses and their blooming relatives, and the pathways wind about through their growths. There are a few bowers, these lovingly and cleverly encouraged with climbing species in wreathings of green and color, and it's towards one of these that Steve steers them.

An idle reach up to Steve's throat loosens the knot of his tie a touch, the better to breathe in the night air just a touch warm for the number of layers he sports currently. "Y'know, it's funny, but 've always thought puns were the highest form of literature. Your question's a good one though." Again, the man's true-blues, more jewel-tone in the lower lighting, land on the Wasp as he glances over. "Been tending a blooming interest in floraculture. Just...blossomed in me one day. Sprouted up 'nd couldn't shake it."

He's still not sorry.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Scarlet-wrapped arms go limp beneath the subtle texture woven into them; a pattern of fine and intricate floral arrangements that'd be lost on anyone not in the modelling industry. Her eyes roll up towards the sky in mute appeal to the heavens and she pivots smoothly on her right foot to divert a path towards the boulevard a few dozen yards away, where idling vehicles create a staccato of flickering light as cars hum past them over old cobble-stone roads.

Janet rolls her lips up and emits a sharp whistle. "Taxi!" she calls, raising a hand to hail the distant vehicles. It might be done smoothly enough that even Steve can't miss the fondly exasperated smile on her fine-boned features.

Steve Rogers has posed:
Paused at the entrance to a long passage shadowed by a bower of plants trained to the trellis extending its length, Steve simply stands there and watches her go. His hands slip into the pockets of his pants, a wry little smile on his face.

"Gonna miss out on something nice," he notes to her back. On the ebbing lift of the evening breeze, the scent of sun-warmed roses brushes by.

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet doesn't turn until Steve hails her; she stops and pivots more smoothly than a drum majorette, landing in a lazily contrapposto slouch with one hand resting on the back of her trailing hip. "Mm. Better than puns? That's not exactly a hard sell, Captain Rogers," she reminds him. A few beats pass; Steve's given a flickering up and down, her eyes narrow, and she shifts her weight forward with a lazily indifferent pace towards him, hips swaying and hands clasped loosely behind her back.

The route takes her right up next to him; she pauses in his personal space, eyes him once more, and shrugs a shoulder with a negligent sort of curiousity. "But I cancelled my other evenings plans already, so if you're going to pull me into a pun-based hostage situation, I guess I can't do much about it." She turns with a twist of her hips that flares the hem of her dress and starts walking towards the original destination, humming with a pleased contentment and letting her feet meander more than take her with a purposeful pace.

It /is/ a lovely night, after all.

Steve Rogers has posed:
"You like it," the man lazily murmurs with little ire as he stands there, turning his face to watch her walk into the shadows of the rose-layered bowers. Gravel can be heard to crunch under his shoes as he turns, his lengthier strides catching up easily and then lingering alongside her. Each lift of the wind brings up the multi-layered scents of the flowers above the sharper, earthy green of grass breathing into the night. Steve glances up beneath one of the arcing trellises above and then glances around.

A quick stoop and leap up off the path allows him to snatch one of the blooms with a pluck. He lands with practiced care and then moves to pause Janet, the better for him to try and work the bloom into her hair by her ear. There comes the musing, "Proper subject for a painting at this point."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
Janet beams up at Steve and tilts her head obligingly to the side; the slender lines of muscle in her neck stand out as she holds still so he can work it into the curling, short-cut hair over her ear. "Mm, if that's your way of asking me to be a model study, I could be persuaded," she informs the soldier. "I won't even charge you an appearance fee."

Her smile spreads into an insoucient grin, and then she rises to her tip toes and kisses the point of Steve's chin. A hand rests against his sternum for balance and then she turns to face his direction of travel once more with hands and arms wrapping around his bicep. "Y'know, that could be a fun little side hobby for you. Teaching art classes," she nudges him. "You should spend more time drawing, maybe play with some other styles."

Steve Rogers has posed:
Once the flower is settled, Steve lets his hand drift down to brush at the rounding of the fashionista's shoulder and along the back of her arm before he crooks his own. A good point of anchoring for her own arms as they continue on. He makes a thoughtful sound at her suggestion.

"'s'possible. Maybe a weekend hobby or something. Never considered myself good enough to teach since I wasn't formally taught," he admits with a lack of sheepishness in the matter. "Dunno about other styles, but if I did..." His eyes pensively wander about, not alighting upon anything in particular as they continue under the yards-long arch of the rose-bowers. "Probably be painting, yes. See what I can do with oils."

Janet van Dyne has posed:
"Mmm, I do love what you do with oils." The sotto voce is almost inaudible, and Janet checks a sideward glance with one of her irritatingly plastic smiles. But at least there's some sincere fondness in those brown eyes as she chivvies Steve playfully.

"You only get better by teaching, honey," Janet reminds him. "That's why I spend so much time with my junior designers. Sometimes they do something clever and surprise me. Sometimes they just need someone screaming at them and throwing things around. But it makes you stop and think about -how- and -why- you do things, because if you can't explain why to do something a certain why, you probably don't understand how to do it properly to begin with. Edie was always on us to explain 'why' we did something. She hated those uber-trendy fashion shows where it was just a bunch of artists having a mutual admiration society with complex, unapproachable artwork instead of clothing."

Steve Rogers has posed:
While Steve doesn't reply to the tease, he does glance over with a knowing little smile on his face. It speaks well enough to his agreement in matters. Indeed, oils.

As to teaching itself: "Makes sense. Just a matter of putting words to what you already know. That'd be easy enough, find a few books 'nd read up on the process of it all. There'll be some time in the week for it, 'm sure." A nightbird breaks the softened sounds of the city beyond the boundaries of the garden itself, its song flute-like and bubbling from a nearby tree. Striations of light move over both as they near the end of the stretch of trellis-arches. Now a fountain can be seen, its design ornate and evincing classical art. Water flows lively in it, splashing silvery down into the pool below. Around the pool, more roses, carefully tended, and the path itself in a perfect circle about the central font. Gravel is hedged on the outer edge as well with more bushes and only broken where the path continues on; benches are tucked to the green leaves, not quite private, but out of the way of potential walkers.