Like the days of stomping at the Savoy

[iphigeneia]

Date & Time: Winter 1979
Location: Manhattan
Characters: Felicity & Enjolras
Summary: The most out of place duo ever visit the late 1970's to get supplies and eventually wander into a disco.
Warnings: DISCO.

Felicity longed for adventure and excitement. She longed for freedom and choice. And almost above all of that, she longed to see Paris. But Paris was not on their itinerary that day. Instead, after carefully putting their minds together, it was decided that New York would be a suitable place to go searching for supplies. According to what she'd gathered from reading and conversing, the economy in the 1970's was in a bit of slump, and if her calculations were correct, their valuables could be pawned for more money than they were really worth. Then, upon returning to a time when inflation wasn't so rampant, they'd have extra funds to spend on much needed supplies.

When she'd presented the plan to Enjolras, he hadn't rejected it outright, which was good enough for her. Honestly, though, she was surprised that he'd agreed to any of it, since she got the distinct impression that he found her trying. That all went to show that her cleverness was not to be ignored, she figured. Even the haughty and proud Enjolras had to admit it was a smart idea.

She put everything she could stand to part with in a large bag; her heavy dress and corset, her hat, petticoats, broach. She wore her earrings still, along with the pantsuit she'd obtained upon her arrival. Felicity was ready to go. Without waiting for Enjolras, she set about preparing for their departure.

Comments

[orestes]

As a point of fact, he did find her trying. Modern women, he could deal with. Modern women were hardly so keen to impress anyone that one could almost forget they were women at all. Felicity, on the other hand, struck him as something not quite so self-sufficient. She was a child playing at independence and one who seemed determined to attach herself to him for some unknowable reason.

Still, it was a clever plan. They had done similar things in Paris when they'd needed money for more expensive supplies. It was a practical and solid plan. Actually the more he considered it, the more he was confused that she had been the one to originate it. Perhaps she merited further consideration.

His iridescent suit has been replaced by something similar in style, but less ornate in fabrication. He still looks the proper gentleman making a consorted effort to seem nonchalant, and the terrible monstrosities the Capitol had forced upon him are shoved in a small, unobtrusive tote bag. There's something incredibly freeing about being able to shove them away and sell them to the highest bidder, but he isn't willing to address that feeling in the moment.

"You are early." It's not quite a polite greeting, but then, he does find her trying and he's never been one for pretense. "Have you ever visited America, Mademoiselle Worthington?"

[iphigeneia]

She barely looks up to greet him, slinging her bag over her shoulders as if to prove that she is strong, that she doesn't need any assistance whatsoever. No matter that the bag is monstrously heavy.

"No, I haven't." She'd never had any real interest in America either. It existed, but it had never had a hold on her the way France had. It was the young upstart. It wasn't established in it's culture and beauty the way England and Europe were. "I would ask you if you have, but I know what your answer will be."

Not wishing to clarify, she simply gestures that he should hurry up and join her. "Come now, monsieur. We mustn't be late."

[orestes]

It bothers him when she does that because he knows it's a reference to her insistence that he is some fictional entity, but he's content to let it pass quickly this time. "We make our own schedule, mademoiselle. We cannot, strictly speaking, be late."

It would be polite to offer to help with her bag, or even, perhaps to switch bags with her. His own is not so heavy and the fluffy petticoats sticking out oddly from the top of her tote can't be easy to control. She's tall, but not particularly stocky. Still, there's something oddly, and more or less harmlessly, satisfying about watching her struggle to move through the halls of the base. He will help her when she grows noticeably tired, but until then it seems a petty revenge for dragging him along with her in the first place. "I have wanted to see New York. It was a place of much excitement, particularly in your time."

[iphigeneia]

"It is a shame we are not going to my time," she says, somehow managing to keep her stare level. It's a difficult task, between the bulk of her bag, his sour personality, and the butterflies in her stomach at the prospect of traveling to an era one hundred years after her own birth. It's almost frightening, but in a thrilling way.

At last, they reach the transport room, and without anymore ceremony, she hustles to begin their departure. "Here goes nothing, I suppose."

[orestes]

"Your confidence is overwhelming, mademoiselle." Yet he still followed her into the transport room with no further or more substantial objection. In truth, he should also probably have been nervous. After all, he knew relatively little about the world into which they were literally teleporting. His own (chronologically conducted research) had only brought him to the very early 20th Century, and, if he were being entirely honest, was fixated on Europe. America, and the long-term of the great Democratic experiment were complete mysteries to him.

Without allotting time for such thoughts to fester and brew however, he steps onto the platform, waiting patiently for her to lug the massive bag and join him. Perhaps if he were to concentrate on how ridiculous she looked in her man's suit and earrings, he could ignore the way his stomach dropped as the strange device began to work its terrible technological magic.

[iphigeneia]

Putting on her most determined expression, she shortly joins him, and before she has the chance for a second thought or to consider backing out, away they go. It twists at her insides, makes her feel like she's going to collapse, but she wills herself to stand tall and firm. She's English, she can survive anything. That doesn't prevent her from taking hold of his arm to steady herself once they've made their destined time safely, however. As a gentleman, he'll surely have no objection to aiding a lady.

Her stomach isn't the only thing spinning now. Her head is in a daze now too, whirling from the journey and from the sudden stop. The spot where they've landed is a strange one, too. It's an alley, obscured from a noisy street by dumpsters and mountains of garbage. Bright graffiti mars the massive buildings on all other sides save the one that leads outward to the street where strange yellow carriages speed by.

"I think I shall be ill."