in the city we're ourselves and electric [emma]

tuesday 23rd december 2003 | midtown manhattan

Noah held the door open for Emma--and then, subsequently, the elderly couple behind her--as they left the theater. He caught up to her in a few long strides, plucking the gigantic popcorn box back to scoff another handful of what was left -- not that he really needed any more. Something he realised belatedly and palmed the container off again before he made himself sick. “We should’ve gotten a large,” he told her as he watched her deposit it in the bin, still almost a quarter full -- nevermind that he had insisted on getting a family-size bucket.

They reached the next set of doors--the ones that led out to the street--and he repeated the process, this time getting held up by a family. Emma had tucked herself around the corner to wait. Evidently, it had been snowing while they were in the movie, as there was a fresh layer covering almost every stationary surface -- with the road and sidewalks more of a slushy grey. It was blustery too; Noah shoved his hands in his pockets and huddled closer to Emma as they walked down the street.

“But I don’t get it,” he said, as though they’d been having this conversation the entire time (they hadn’t), “why didn’t Gandalf just take the ring right in the beginning and fly on his eagle homies to Mount Doom? It would have saved like, everyone’s time.”


@Emma Hennings

Emma sighed wistfully as she followed the slow-moving, excitedly-chattering throng of people towards the exit; it had been an excellent end to the series, and a brilliantly-done film in general. It had premiered this past Wednesday, the seventeenth, but between their limited schedules (chiefly the conclusion of the Four Nations tournament three days ago for her, and extended holiday hours for Noah) and scheduling a Portkey to travel across the pond, this was the earliest they could reasonably manage. Not that Emma was complaining, by any means – they’d managed to get tickets for within a week of the U.S. release, which was no small feat for the final (and much-anticipated) installment of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. She was primarily sad that it was over, and that seemed to be the overall vibe from the crowd exiting along with them. Some people were actually crying. Emma wasn’t sure she’d go quite that far, but she might tear up with joy if she got to see Aragorn in all his glory again (never mind that Viggo Mortensen was twenty years her senior…). She certainly couldn’t blame Éowyn for wanting what she couldn’t have – lucky Arwen.

Their arrival at the exit doors pulled her away from her fangirl daydreaming, a single popcorn piece halfway to her mouth.
“Ooh, thanks!” she chirped as Noah so chivalrously held it open for her. He caught up with her, briefly plucked the popcorn box away, then returned it, at which point Emma peered sadly into its seemingly-endless depths; she hated to waste food, but she’d eaten so much popcorn that the smell was actually beginning to nauseate her. With a dramatic sigh, she dropped the remainder into the bin and ducked through the second set of doors, promptly letting out a muffled squeak of displeasure as the Midtown December air greeted her a little too enthusiastically. She really should have slipped into the bathroom on her way out and re-applied a warming charm…

In the meantime she tucked herself into a relatively sheltered alcove, waiting for Noah to catch up. She grinned at his question, glancing sideways. Emma loved quoting movies, and he’d just set himself up for a very fitting one. Mustering her best emulation of Boromir, she lifted her hand dramatically to her forehead and replied: “One does not simply… fly in on one’s eagle homies.”
Before she could elaborate further on why it couldn’t possibly be as simple as he proposed, however, they rounded a corner and lost their wind protection. Emma shuddered, wrapping her coat around her more firmly and plunging her hands deeper into her pockets.

“Every single time I come back here,” she hissed through her clenched teeth, “I always forget how bloody cold it— OOF!” she yelped as a gust of wind – amplified to the force of a minor wind-tunnel by the close proximity of the buildings around them – whipped past: not quite so powerful as to bowl her over, but enough to get her slightly off-balance (combined with the infernal slush) and gently careen her sideways off of Noah.

“Ugh, sorry,” she muttered, struggling to regain her balance without the use of her arms.

Noah had carried on a couple more steps before realising Emma had slowed. He turned back in time to see her Oscar-worthy imitation and laughed dorkily. “But you totally could!” he argued after a moment of continuing down the sidewalk. “Just swoop on in and—” he mimicked dropping the ring over the edge of his imaginary eagle, “—vwah-la!”

The New Yorker grinned as Emma was sideswiped by a gust of wind, wrapping a long arm around her protectively to pull her back on course. “You’d think with those miserable English winters you woulda brought a better jacket,” he told her. London was much more drizzly and grey, from what he had seen, though he had been told the coldest of the weather tended to be in January and sometimes February -- he couldn’t say last winter had stuck out any to him, but he had spent a lot of time indoors at the beginning of the year avoiding the world following his breakup, and he was also used to New York winters. He had brought a proper jacket.

“Did you still wanna go to the rink?” he asked, wondering if she might be too cold. Noah’s attention was drawn away by a familiar smell wafting to his nostrils. “Ugh,” he moaned, a little too enthusiastically. “Can we get a hot dog first?” he asked, forgetting how full he’d supposedly been only a few minutes earlier. “I’ll get it,” he offered, as if Emma was about to say no to real food -- none of that bland British stuff.

His arm snaked around her just in time to steady her, but before she could say anything further he was criticizing her clothing choice.
“Oi, don’t rag on my jacket,” she grumbled, squinting up at him in mock-offense. “Our winters rarely have a bloody gale like this.”

“Did you still wanna go to the rink?”

“You takin’ the piss? ‘Course I do,” she grinned. “S’long as I can nip in somewhere to re-apply a warming charm, I’ll be set.”
It had been years since she’d last gone ice-skating, and she was excited for it; she’d had a bad experience on a frozen pond as a child, but had no such qualms about a man-made rink that was several inches in depth. She was looking forward to spending more time with her friend, too – despite living in the same city as of late, they were both so busy with their respective jobs that it was sometimes difficult to sync up. Getting out of London for a bit was a nice change of scenery, and it was always nice to see their respective (and each other’s) families.

Emma snorted at the dramatic (and borderline-erotic-sounding) noise he made; a few people immediately nearby looked around, suspicious and perplexed by the outburst, which made her giggle even harder.
“Mmm yep, definitely,” she agreed, bobbing her head enthusiastically as she herself caught the tempting hot dog scent. She was so full of popcorn that she wasn’t entirely sure there was room for one, but she wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity. Plus whatever she didn’t eat, Noah probably would.

They followed their noses to the closest stand and got in line; by the looks of it, probably wouldn’t be more than five minutes. As they waited, Emma extracted her strawberry ChapStick from her pocket (she kept one in every jacket), applied it liberally, and – with an emphatic smack of her lips – offered it wordlessly to Noah.

Noah laughed. “I’m not ragging on your jacket,” he said, mimicking her in an awful cockney accent instead of her native west country. “Right, right,” he waved his hand dismissively, grinning; he’d seen some pretty awful weather in London — and, ironically, very good weather in Scotland. He shoved his free hand deeper in the pocket of his puffer jacket and hunched his shoulders a little to bring the collar up his neck.

The New Yorker grinned as his friend giggled. “What?” he asked innocently, both of her and the people around them who were giving him perturbed looks. But she would share a hot dog. “Nice, nice, nice,” he said quickly in succession, leading them to join the line.

He dropped the arm that had still been draped loosely around her and rummaged in his other pocket for some No-Maj dollars. He paused what he was doing as Emma held her chapstick up for him; he took it, rubbed it over his mouth, and handed it back, rolling his lips inwards. “Mm,” he hummed, “Is that strawberry?” he asked, licking his bottom lip again.

“Shall we just get a classic?” he suggested, looking at the little ‘menu’ hanging off the cart. “You want sauerkraut or onions, or both?”

They shuffled forwards in the line and he glanced sidelong at Emma. “So who do you think you’d be? In Lord of the Rings?” He figured she looked the most like Arwen—tall and brunette and pretty—but he thought she probably had more in common with Éowyn.

He mocked her (poorly), and she squinted threateningly at him. But when he’d dropped his arm from around her shoulders, she’d wriggled briefly in protest – she’d been using the close proximity to him as a space-heater.

“Sure is,” Emma replied with a grin, accepting the ChapStick from him and re-pocketing it. Once she’d realized what he’d been up to immediately before, though, she delved back into her jacket pocket for her own wallet, extracting a $5 bill and stuffing it into his jacket pocket.

“Mmm…” – she hummed, deliberating – “sauerkraut. Unless it’ll break your heart to skip out on the onions.”

“So who do you think you’d be? In Lord of the Rings?”

“Well, if we’re gender-conforming, that leaves me with exactly… three options,” she replied dryly. “Four if we count Sam’s wife at the end.”
She shuffled forward beside him, the tantalizing smell making her hungrier than she rightfully should have been after that enormous tub of popcorn.
“Right, so. Conforming… probably Éowyn, but with a little more common sense and/or tact. Not… maybe Gandalf?” Her inflection crept up at the end, reconsidering her decision. She liked to think she gave decent counsel, liked to think she was a decent leader (alas, perhaps not quite as good as Aragorn)… and it didn’t hurt that Shadowfax was an absolutely stunning horse.

Emma shrugged, shifting her gaze from the cart to Noah’s profile. His sense of humor’s spirit animal was probably Gimli… though his stomach (and career) probably aligned more closely with Merry and Pippin.
“What about you?”