2020sight | (no subject)

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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.

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"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?

"Don't pull anything patting yourself on the back there. Anyway!"

He picks up his whiskey, eying Prometheus over the glass. "Well, I been done seen about everything when I see you tamed by romance. So who's the unfortunate soul?"

"Her name is Charlie McGee, and let me tell you something. I imagine circumstances will be such that she'll be unfortunate enough to meet you, and when that day comes, I want you fully aware of the fact that she's a firestarter before you go telling any lies about me."

The joking disappears in a blink, replaced by interest.

"She's a what now?"

"Pyrokinetic." A small half-smile. His voice has dropped, and neither the bartender nor anyone else listening will hear them. "She was born that way. It's complicated, as you might imagine."

Epimetheus gives him a look. "They usually are. A pyrokinetic. Huh."

He drains the whiskey and adds, casual, "You two must get on like a house on--"

"Don't!" But he can't stop the laugh himself, even as he points warningly with his own glass. "Don't you even think it loud. Those jokes are private property."

He's just gonna snicker into his dregs, over here.

Score one -- which, combined with the bread throwing, puts him ahead, he thinks.

Epimetheus has always had creative math skills. Prometheus knows this better than anybody. Doesn't damp down that grin any, though.

"So, yeah. The whole thing sort of happened by accident. It's been pretty nice, though." A beat. "Really nice, actually." A tentative glance at his brother's face. "You forget things."

Epimetheus smiles slightly -- a little wistful.

"Yeah. I know."

Leaning back -- "You been needing to forget anything lately?"

It's still conversational, casual, but he's watching carefully.

Prometheus looks at him.
We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when
Kind Mrs. Rowlands.
Here in November
The House was a sign it was--
You son of a bitch.
(Mercer.)
Don't! Don't touch that.
His smile is easy. "I was talking about how good it is to remember. Unless, of course, you were referring to the last time you decided it'd be a good idea to paint the town together."

"Nah, I figured you didn't remember most of that night anyway."

His smile widens a little. "Good for you, though. I promise not to tell any lies if I meet her."

Surely there's plenty of truth he could tell her instead.

Solemn: "I remember table-dancing. And that you do not have the legs for can-can, I'm sorry."

Aw shucks, he's glad enough to see his little brother that the proposition's making him... reckless, perhaps?

"Well, you know..." He drums his fingers on the counter. "The place where we met, it's a little out of the way, but there's a chance she'd be there. We'd miss out on the lanes, but maybe I just haven't found them there yet."