2727/You owe me.

You owe me.
Date of Scene:	01 August 2020
Location:	Chinatown
Synopsis:	May cultivates a contact! Arthur gets good eats.
Cast of Characters:	Melinda May, Arthur Curry

---

Melinda May has posed:
It's a warm Saturday afternoon in Chinatown. The sidewalks are packed with people, the open air markets are in full swing -- and have been since before sun-up. Melinda May, Agent of SHIELD, is... off-duty, actually. Shocking, but true.

She's been slammed the last few days running evals for the agents assigned to her roster by the Powers That Be, which means she hasn't been out of the Trisk very often... aside from an occasional trip back to her apartment for a few hours of shut-eye so she can do it all again the next day. And that's only on those days when she's not working so late it's more expedient to crash on a cot somewhere at headquarters.

As a result, however, she's been craving real dim sum in the worst way. The authentic stuff, like might be found in Hong Kong or Shanghai, not the usual tourist fare a lot of her colleagues think passes for the real stuff. The only place to get anything approaching that is Chinatown... more specifically, a small back alley market where there's a collection of traditional street food vendors, each of whom has perfected their specific family recipe for one specific dish.

Thus, she is currently moving from vendor to vendor, selecting small orders of the dishes she loves most, and collecting them in a small wicker picnic basket she saves for just such occasions. This is a very private moment, actually, in the life of Melinda May. It's not one she's willingly shared with anyone she knows at work and... well, let's face it, she doesn't really have any friends outside of work. So...

Yeah. A far as she knows, no one she knows has even an inkling this little epicurial gem even exists on American soil, never mind in the virtual backyard of SHIELD HQ.

This is her guilty pleasure and the one time she lets her hair down, so to speak. She converses casually in both Mandarin and Cantonese with the vendors she knows, checks up on their families, and wishes them well (with a smile, even!) as they hurry to serve other patrons while she absconds with her hard won treasures.

May. On her day off. Wonder of Wonders.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    The big city is home to so many people, their lives pushed together by the proximity of the great sweep of neighborhoods and buildings. So many people, but with such a proximity there is a penchant for overlap. For the culture draws people to the touchstones shared. The places where life is the most vibrant and experiences the most rich. The bridge in Central park is one such place. Washington Square Park with its lively fountain. And Chinatown.
    It is a neighborhood that draws tourists and locals alike, for it is a focal point of talent and cuisine that is indisputable in many ways. That is, once one gets past the initial layer of merchants selling their wares on the edge of the neighborhood. For many that's the extent of their experience in Chinatown.
    For Arthur Curry, he's been drawn into the neighborhood before, and in some ways embraced it. Even though his visit is often met with some tumult as the tall man leaves an impression wherever he goes.
    "I think you'll like it, Mr. Xiang." The words are given in front of a vendor's stall that is settled just in front of a subdued house of noodles. They're accompanied by the faint thump and rustle of paper as a large wrapped fish is set upon the table with a faint thump, even as several of the customers look on with curiousity.
    "Excellent, Mr. Curry. This will make a fine stew." Xiang is already lifting the wrapped fish which is as long as his arm, unwrapping the front of it to peer at the vacant eyes of his newly found bounty.
    "So long as I get the first bowl." The Atlantean grins a bit as he steps back and says over his shoulder. "I'll be back in about an hour?" Which gets him a few nods and smiles.
    He definitely stands out, tall in most crowds, seemingly moreso in this one. His hair is pulled back in a pony tail and he's wearing an olive green over-shirt that looks like it might have been bought at an army surplus store. It goes well with the black jeans though and the black work boots. All sort of complements one another for a certain indigent hitch-hiker chic, complete with the chain that connects his wallet to his belt.

Melinda May has posed:
A man like Arthur Curry does, indeed, cut an imposing presence in the mixed sea of faces -- especially since many of them are small and Asian. The giant, mountain-man-bearded Hawai'ian looking dude seriously stands out.

And a trained agent like May, even on her day off, is always alert to things that look out of place, both subtle and... really not.

Thus, as she emerges from the alley, intending to have her lunch in Columbus Park, her steps slow as she passes by Xiang's noodle house. Oh, hey, look. It's Cujo.

The smile on her face fades and the rare moment of unguarded happiness she had been enjoying is stifled in favour of her more usual game-face -- that neutral, I-can-take-all-comers, ice queen expression she's oh-so-good at.

"You're a long way from Metropolis, Mr. Curry," she observes mildly. "And Boston."

Arthur Curry has posed:
    He'd been stopped for a moment, streeeetching his arms and while she may have dropped her smile, taken on that aspect of control and distance...
    For a moment, a brief moment, she might have a peek at the own man's lack of a game face. Just a moment where he's smiling at the ebb and flow of humanity. The voices raised and the occasional bit of laughter. The smell of all the food. And the just life of the city. He may be a New England fan, but there's something about the Big Apple.
    And then she steps up near him and lifts her voice, and as quick as that it comes crashing down. She'll see that twist of a controlled snarl, that inherent 'get the hell away from me' look that he wears when she normally sees him out and about. But curiously enough when his amber eyes light on hers, when recognition dawns, there's a slight twist upwards of his lip.
    Then it's gone.
    "May." He says as if that was a sufficient greeting. But then his attention slips to her more fully, the way she's dressed, the basket she's holding and she might well realize he's getting a glimpse at the agent beyond the agent as well. Then his greeting shifts a little.
    "How are you holding up?" Informality offered.

Melinda May has posed:
May is holding a picnic basket, yes. It's too much to hope anyone will take her all that seriously when she looks like almost any other upper middle class Asian woman in the market. Albeit maybe a little less of the harried-mother-of-2-honours-students vibe. But, hell. She's even dressed casually today -- blue jeans instead of black, a stylish pair of sandals, and a red-and-white patterned blouse that actually flatters her figure and complexion.

Chalk it up to trying to blend in? Or is there a human underneath all that ice, after all?

"Well enough," she says, giving him an oblique nod that's about as friendly as she gets away from her friends the food vendors. Which is to say neutral and polite. A beat. She offers a polite overture, gesturing lightly with one hand up the street. "I was just headed to the park." Again. Picnic basket. She's not giving away any state secrets here.

"Care for a walk?"

Arthur Curry has posed:
    Arthur hasn't known her as along as some of her co-workers, or her friends, or the street vendors. Only that brief encounter, but it was enough for him to create an inner idea of who this woman is, and what the world is to her. But this... this causes him to reevaluate those perceptions.
    She'll likely sense the subtle wariness. Not a fear based one, more one pondering what her angle might be. Yet as quick as that he seems to bull past that hint of trepidation. Whatever internal monologue or argument held unknown, yet it's ended on the note of him saying, "Sure."
    A glance to the side, then back. "I was heading that way anyways."
    And with that he'll start to walk along with her. An unlikely pair that might draw some glances, though his bearing is the same as she saw him before. That casual stalking forward like something on the hunt.
    Yet his words might give some other insight, "I'm trying not to be a suspicious asshole, so bear with me." His hands slide into his pockets and then with a slight tilt of his head he asks, "What's in the basket?"

Melinda May has posed:
May lifts one dark brow at the question. And then chuckles softly. Wordlessly, she lifts the basket and folds back one half of the lid. The scent of dim sum comes wafting out, the dishes in their paper and foil containers nestled tightly in together beneath the wicker shade.

She continues walking, however, watching his reaction. When she thinks he's satisfied, she closes the basket again and lowers it down to a more comfortable height for walking.

"I am off-duty, today," she says simply. A beat. "At least, I am for now."

Crap happens. Agents get called-in.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    "That," Arthur says as he walks along. "Smells pretty damn good."
    Strolling along with the man might be a different experience than she's used to. Chinatown normally you have to wend your way through, turn and slip past people, offer an excuse me here or there for the people and the tourists and the vendors. But walking with Arthur... and she'll realize that people just get out of his way. The tall man with his looming shadow that walks ahead barely ever has to pause as he moves, and when someone in those rare times when they don't notice his approach, all it takes is a light touch to the shoulder and suddenly the pathway is clear. He makes no real effort for it, it just happens.
    "What horrible and wicked missions must I take part in to get an angle on having some of that?" His lip twists a little, playing on the idea that she'd call on him down the line for tasks at hand. But he does look back the way they came, as if hoping to see where she got that food from.

Melinda May has posed:
Hey, if he wants some of her food, then, yeah... he'll be trading for it. May's brow arches again. She eyes him almost speculatively. "Oh, I'm sure I can come up with at least half a dozen," she tells him drily. "Though, first, I need to get you out to the Bronx."

She rather enjoys having the walking wall beside her clearing the way. Generally, at the Trisk, people get out of her way automatically simply through force of reputation. In Chinatown, however, she's... incognito.

Well. Mostly. Doubtlessly, those few that do know her will want to know all about the stranger she went to the park with.

*le sigh* That's going to be a pain.

But, never mind. She's working, here. Cultivating a contact!

Arthur Curry has posed:
    They stroll past that great gate that marks the start of Chinatown, the sidewalk still abustle around them on the weekend. It's an equal mix of locals and tourists, one easily picked out from the others. And, to be fair, Arthur does emit some of those tourist vibes. What with how his eyes lift up and track the skyscrapers at times, smiling to himself. The way he half-smirks when tThey stroll past a vendor selling memorabilia.
    Yet it's unlikely anyone is going to use his momentary distraction now and again to try and steal his wallet. The man has a /chain/ on it after all. Perfect prevention.
    "See, for one second I think you might be being playful, and then you tell me the Bronx and I'm thinkin' you may actually have something in mind." Those words are sharp, a little growly in their delivery, but the half-smirk that stays there on his lips might take some of the edge off.
    "We'll see." He offers though, at least as they make their way down the sidewalk toward the park so near.
    "But what's out in the Bronx?" He tilts his head, "Or should I not ask since this doesn't seem to be work time for either of us."

Melinda May has posed:
"The Ice Palace I told you about," May tells him. "I'm still negotiating logistics." Which is actually code for: 'I'm trying to get through enough trainee evals to get the time to take you there.' But you know, she's not going to say *that*.

May's eyes are also constantly on the environment, but less as a tourist and more as an agent-cum-local. Frankly, she doesn't find Chinatown vastly different than Hong Kong... except there's less people.

There's a little more space in the park, however, than there is on the streets, and -- eventually -- she finds a decent spot beneath a tree to settle down.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    The stroll didn't take too terribly long, and gave enough time for him to say, "Yeah, I think I heard about that peripherally." Though he doesn't elaborate sources. He continues along with that same steady gait, until they reach the park itself. And, to be fair, there are a good amount of people there as well. Though spread out more, more room for the idea of privacy if not the fact of it entirely.
    Yet Arthur doesn't seem to mind as he settles on the spot under the tree, his back to it and the small rise in earth it provides so when he extends his legs with knees bent, arms resting casually on them, it looks entirely comfortable for him. Tilting his head to the side he considers their surroundings, smirks a little, then looks back at her. "Maybe it's that I sort of grew up on the surface, but in a lot of ways I enjoy aspects of these places more than aspects of below."
    Another look around the way as he catches sight of the paddle boats on the lake, the people playing at fishing, some doing what he did with the koi and feeding bread to a few lucky fish. He chews the inside of his cheek and then looks sidelong at her.
    "Tell me something about yourself, May. Something humanizing." No reason why he tells her this. He just does.

Melinda May has posed:
Humanizing? Again, there's that arched brow. "You do know pull my pants on one leg at a time just like everyone else, right? I don't judo kick my way into them, or anything."

How's that? No? Well.

She gives a mild shrug, ultimately, however, pulling out a few of her dim sum treasures and setting them on a small cloth that was tucked into the side of the basket. She points to them. "This is some of my favourite food in the whole world," she tells him. "It's better in Hong Kong and Shanghai, but this stuff right here? It can compete."

That's very generous praise from her.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    A small snort comes from him as she tells him the tale of how she pulls her pants on, just a snort that could well be a laugh if he had the gumption to give it a bit more effort. But instead it leaves him half-smirking as he looks away, then back and tells her. "Lame,"
    Then he elaborates, "In Atlantis I have an entire school of magical fish tasked with pulling my pants on. But, to be fair, it's still one leg at a time."
    He looks away to hide that smirk growing, sort of an attempt at pokerface by misdirection.
    But then she offers her dim sum as exhibit A into the trail of Melinda May's humanity and he tilts his head to the side, "Those..."
    A beat.
    "Look damn good."
    Then he quirks his scarred eyebrow at her and asks, "May I?" He gestures with a nod.

Melinda May has posed:
Yeah, May really doesn't buy the fish tale. And the skeptical look on her face perhaps telegraphs that lack of belief. Nevertheles, she gestures lightly with a set of chopsticks she has produced, lifting a second set out of the side of the basket. "Oh, why not?"

Cultivating a contact! Remember that.

Thus offered, she now fishes out pair of small wooden bowls and uses one of them for holding beneath the pieces of food she extracts from the various containers in the basket so their drippings don't land on her clothes as she lifts them to her mouth.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    A half-smile lights his features and for a moment that foreboding grim man is transformed to a mirthful... grim... looking man. Yet it's more a shift from growly and toward devillish as he lifts his chin, meets her eyes as she produces the chopsticks and if she doesn't object...
    He'll totally indulge in a free meal on May's dime.
    "Thanks," It's said at first briefly as he takes those chopsticks and checks the grain then lightly strokes them against each other as if getting a feel, then adopts the proper grip and bowl use as he draws his legs up underneath him, sitting cross-legged now.
    There's a moment taken as he considers the dim sum from several angles. A single moment when he looks at her askance as if pondering about what SHIELD transmitter might be hidden inside, but then he takes a bite...
    And she'll see his eyes widen as he chews, a small dribble at the corner of his mouth is addressed with the brush of his hand with the chopsticks, but he continues on chewing and then swallows. Then promptly suppresses that wide-eyed pleased look with a more dour one as he murmurs, "It's... not bad." Liar.

Melinda May has posed:
The worst part about sharing her treasures is that she'll be out leftovers later. Leftovers are the best!

"I know." She actually manages to look both smug and unimpressed at the same time as he lies about just how good the food is. She knows damned well it's fabulous. And she doesn't need to say so to make it so. Instead, she simply takes another bite of another morsel, enjoying her lunch.

"So, if you were raised on the surface," she asks curiously, now, "how'd you find out you were a prince of Atlantis?"

Arthur Curry has posed:
    "Mmm," Arthur says, perhaps about the food, perhaps about the question. But for a time she doesn't get an answer as he indulges in a few more bites. He handles the chopsticks pretty well, as if born to them culturally but she might pick up on some small idiosyncrasies such as when he tries to manipulate them to catch the descent of a piece of food that slips from his grip.
    "How does any kid?" He asks as he chews for a time, brow furrowing as he looks toward the lake, then back to her. "Family, making noises. Weird events. Mom disappearing when you're young. Magical tridents hidden around the house." His lip twists then he tilts his head to the side.
    "Had a trainer, a historian... teacher I guess you'd say. Came to find me when I was fourteen, taught me a lot of things."
    He takes another bite and keeps looking across the way. Then he tilts his head toward her, "And you? How'd you figure out this whole..." He waves a hand, but doesn't name her job, perhaps mindful that they're not entirely guaranteed their privacy. "Shebang was going to be your life's work?"

Melinda May has posed:
Again, May offers a mild shrug. "I was recruited out of college. They needed a pilot, I liked to fly. The rest of it? Life goes on, you know?" She eyes him speculatively. He's what? 30? She's got a lifetime of experience on him. "I woke up one day and this is just what I was. What I am."

Given she's tried to retire at least a couple of times and is still here... still in the field and not piloting a desk somewhere?

Yeah. Some people are born to the watery purple. Others the gunmetal black.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    For a time there's quiet between them, but it's a curious comfortable quiet. The kind that is indulged in when two people have good food that deserves appreciation. So they sit there, the sounds of the city around them. The distant hum of traffic, the occasional honk of a horn albeit distant, the laughter of kids playing down the way in the playground. A bell as two bicyclists ride by.
    Then she'll hear his voice again as he asks with a tilt of his head, "You ever consider doing something else?"
    His yellowish golden eyes slip towards her and he murmurs, "I mean. I can't exactly resign from being Water Guy. That junk will dog me til I die." His lip twists a little.
    But then he tilts his head, "But you ever think about... just something else."

Melinda May has posed:
"Thought about it, sure," May says, swallowing one of the dwindling morsels of food. "But... there comes a point in every agent's career when they realize -- just like you being Water Guy -- being an agent will dog you till you die. That saying 'old agents never die, they just fade away?' Only partially true. If you don't die... you just kind of fade away."

She's not sure which fate she'd prefer.

But she's quite sure she doesn't want to deal it right now. Thus, she starts cleaning up the boxes and foil containers that have already been empty, piling them together in a corner of her box. "I'd be a pilot, regardless," she tells him eventually. "That's where freedom is for me. In the air."

Arthur Curry has posed:
    "See," Arthur says as he finishes up the one morsel, and starts on the other. But that leaves him two others that are by gift rights are his. Yet as he finishes that second he sets the bowl down near her and gives a nod, "You can have the rest back if you tell me where you got this stuff." His lip twists a little, since clearly he's at some point going back to Chinatown to liberate some more dim sum.
    But now he draws a knee back up, resting an arm on it as he looks at her. "Maybe you'd be happier doing that." He offers, not knowing her well enough to decide either way.
    But then he diverts a bit by telling her, "I sometimes think if I had my druthers," He tilts his head to the side and ponders, scritching at his beard with a fingernail as he looks thoughtful. "I'd just want to tend to the lighthouse, keep my world small. Just that island and the occasional trip to shore."
    His lip twists a little as he looks at her and tells her, "Then the world got big."

Melinda May has posed:
"The world *is* big," May tells him, eyeing the bowl he holds hostage. "It's just our view of it that stays small. And that rarely lasts."

She shakes her head. "I've tried retiring," she tells him, scooping up the last of the empties. "It's not in me. I'll always go back into the fray when people need me." That's why she's called 'The Cavalry', after all. Not that she has any intention of revealing that.

"I've made my peace with it." But that doesn't mean she has any intention of lightening up. The mission that earned her that despised callsign is the same shitstorm that took away her easy laughter. And its scars remain.

She sits back and studies his young face, beneath that grizzled, mountain-man beard. "There's an alley between the Chinese supermarket and the pawn shop with the white lucky cat figure in the window. It leads to a smaller market where the best street vendors in the city hide."

Arthur Curry has posed:
    He listens. She can see it clearly in those eyes as he follows her, whatever counsel he might have is kept for the moment as he just listens. Not waiting simply for the moment she finishes speaking and thinking about when it's his turn to talk. She can likely see the way he ponders not just what she's telling him. But what she isn't, and those subtle changes to her features as she speaks.
    She tells him she's made her peace with it. And the only answer that's given back to her is the faint quirk of an eyebrow asking a silent question. Though whether it's asking her if she's finished, if there's more, or if she believes that herself... it's not clear.
    Then she speaks to the location of the vendor where she got this damnably good food. So with those words she secures the freedom of those leftovers to be had for later as he nudges that bowl closer to her.
    "Thanks." For the words, or for the insight. Either one.
    But then he gets a small crooked smile as he brushes his thumb over the side of his mustache and tells her. "You've uh, got a lil. Schmootz."
    He'll try to show her where this schmootz might well be, real or imaginary. But then if she doesn't have much success he'll lean in and gently lift a hand. And unless she objects he'll just gently brush his hand aginst the curve of her cheek. A small caress, perhaps taking liberty.
    Then again perhaps it's a good thing he doesn't know of her reputation, otherwise he might never have dared.

Melinda May has posed:
May blinks, taken aback for the first time in a long time because of his forwardness. She's not accustomed to anyone taking such liberties with her. Not any more.

Thus, she's quick to retrieve a napkin from within the basket and wipe the lower half of her face. "Thanks," she says crisply. "I've got it."

Whatever 'moment' that might have just been there, it evaporates quickly. She's not quite up for the touchy-feely. So the mask she may have partially dropped slips back into place fairly quickly.

That said, she doesn't slip back into ice queen. Just... reserved.

"In any case," she continues fairly brusquely, "you're welcome." She's totally expensing this meal.

Cultivating a contact, damn it!

She'll argue the meaning of the words "day off" with Hill, later.

She lets that smugness from earlier return to her expression. "Best food in the city."

Arthur Curry has posed:
    His eyes narrow a little, but not quite the smile. Some reason he nods and gives her that berth needed, hand lifting slightly in silent apology though it might not carry much weight with the way that smile remains. "S'alright. No worries."
    "Hey," She tells him he's welcome, and then that that's the best food in the city. And she'll see his eyebrows lift as he gives that some thought. "The /best/ food in the city. Now that's... that's saying something." And perhaps she means it.
    He bites his lower lip and turns his head to the side, "I mean there's that Bar-Be-Cue place down on 34th. Poppa Neil's? I mean that stuff is tasty."
    The tall man rests his hands on his knee and turns this quandary over in his mind. "Federico's pizza I've heard is the best pizza on the island. They even have a sign." Which causes his smirk to grow, since well... a /lot/ of places in Manhattan claim to be the best slice on the island.
    "You ever try Ruth's Chris?" Now that is a place that she probably heard of, best steak out there for a lot of people's money.

Melinda May has posed:
May snirks lightly. "Sure. All good stuff. But I stand by my assessment. Best. Food. In the city." Comfort food, in her world, you see. Better than Mama used to make. (Don't tell her that.)

She now tucks the remaining litter, utensils, and dishes away. The former, she'll ditch at a receptacle on her way out of the park. The rest she'll take care of later, at home. She takes a few moments to do another brief visual assessment of the park. Her lips twitch faintly as a dog runs by, a bright yellow frisbee in its mouth.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    A small chuff comes from him, another one of those almost laughs as he shakes his head. Another glance is spared in her direction as he squints sidelong at her, as if pondering what exactly she might be thinking behind that sphinx-like manner she has, though that facade breaks with the mad dash of a golden retriever rushing by with that frisbee, then tossing his head as he jogs back all proud.
    "Would you want to?"
    He then asks her that sidelong and when she meets his gaze, perhaps waiting to see her reaction.
    But then his lip twists up as he elaborates since she might not be following along. "Try Ruth's Chris. With me."
    Did he just...

Melinda May has posed:
May's brows rise at that question. Then her eyes narrow, as if she, too, is gauging his intentions and reactions. "You're paying," she says crisply. "You owe me." She's still going to expense this dinner, damn it.

Cultivating a contact!

Fight or flight? Well, fight, of course. That's just how she rolls.