2020sight | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

There's a nice little park on 57th Street -- fountain in the middle, baseball diamond nearby. It's busy in the summers, with students and tourists and kids on the playground.

It's November now, though, and getting chilly, and the only person in the park is a figure on a bench feeding the pigeons, long legs stretched in front of him.

He's not exactly covered in birds, but he's definitely surrounded.

No Hitchcock jokes, please.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"India?" he repeats, warming into a grin again. It twists into a wry quirk. "Oh man, anything I say won't be nearly as gobsmacking as whatever it really was."

"Yaks."

"Excuse me?"

"Yaks. Up in the mountains."

"I know what they are. What is there to hunt? Don't they just stand there and stare at you?"

"Basically, yeah!"

He rolls his eyes. "Totally inoffensive. She said she wanted a pelt."

He snorts. "Girl is losing her touch." He contemplates this in silence as they pass a noxious orange dormitory and a small art museum. "A pelt. You made those beasties really stinky, didn't you?"

"Fairly pungent, yep."

A shrug. "Anyhow, I chewed her out and she agreed to go after something else. Crocodiles in Australia, I think she said."

"She saw that on TV!" he exclaims, full of indignation.

Epimetheus snorts. "Hey, there's an opening. Too bad, really. I liked that guy."

Prometheus is forced to concede that yeah, all things told, that Steve Irwin had been a good guy, and entertaining.

"Our family is weird," he observes, defaulting to wry platitude.

Steve Irwin got it. Reason enough for Epimetheus to like him.

"What was your first clue?"

"I don't like to reveal my sources, but my sprat of a baby brother was certainly the final straw." They push through the double doors of the Lucky Strike, the bar on one hand, the bowling alley on the other. "Whither first, o Great Lanemaster?"

Which earns him a punch in the shoulder. More of a love-tap, really. Really!

"Bar, thank you very much. You haven't told me yet what you've been up to, besides skulking around the Windy city."

How convenient, on his bowling arm! Jackass. Thought affectionately, of course.

The 'tender looks a little startled to see them take up seats. "Whiskey," Prometheus says, without preamble. "Whatever you've got that'll make his game worse than mine."

He leans on one elbow, shrugging. "Probably not too different from you. Tooling around, traveling. Fewer farm implements, though. More just plain making trouble." An entirely innocent look comes over him. "You've come on me in a time of distraction, actually."

Epimetheus can be cunning too.

He gives the 'tender a grin. "Ain't gonna happen, but you can try."

As the bartender moves off, Epimetheus turns to his brother, eyebrows raised. "Distraction? Do tell."

"For that? Maker's Mark. Give us the whole bottle, we'll take care of it all."

"I don't know if I can quite do that, man--"

"Just keep it handy, all right?" Prometheus cocks one challenging eyebrow at Epimetheus. It is, as always, an impressive sight, given those eyebrows. "I've--"

--been protecting our family--

"--been entertaining." The barkeep pours their shots and slides them into their hands. "You should see my apartment, it's barely recognizable anymore."

Laughing -- "Oh, bring it on."

He salutes his brother with the glass before tossing the shot back.

"Mm. Entertaining? Really?"

He toasts back. "Pay attention to the underside of that table, I want to hear all about it in the morning."

He plants his chin in the palm of his hand, mouth curled in a wry smile as he taps the empty glasses for a refill. "Really really. I'm being trained to keep food in the place again."

"Wait wait wait. A stocked larder? A I-am-assuming clean apartment?" Airquotes. "'Distraction'?"

A sidelong look. "Either you're cleverly disguised as my brother or -- nooo."

Too amused to be injured: "Is it so beyond the realm of possibility?"

This bit is fun.

Promptly -- "Yes."

There's an implied duh.

He leans back and threads his fingers behind his head. "You live in dangerous times, my friend."

Epimetheus snorts and holds out a hand. "Hi, Pot. I'm Kettle."

Prometheus swats it away, chortling. "Accept no imitations. I love that that was your first instinct, by the way! Many have tried, none have succeeded."

Were Greek gods supposed to be good with that humility thing, or did they just miss that train altogether?