ladyfirestarter | (no subject)

The man-shaped figure unwraps his arms from around his stomach and wipes at a tear streaming down his face.

"I'm not entirely sure that man's career will ever recover from that observation," Prometheus wheezes. "You're not supposed to tell people that to their faces, even in the spirit of healthy criticism and Wildean witticisms, are you?"

"I didn't know he was the artist!" Charlie protests vainly, still laughing.

One hand is pressed to her cheek, which has faded somewhat from the flaming red of earlier, but is still nicely flushed with a mixture of mortification and hilarity.

"It's an easy mistake to make. There's no telling who's the most important in a room when everyone's got capital-O Opinions."

His grin turns a little wicked. Conspiratorial. "The tattoos weren't a giveaway?"

She stares at him for a second, and then lets him have a fist in the ribs.

"You knew!"

Oh, but she's still laughing.

"You knew the whole time, didn't you --"

He crows with laughter all over again. "It was too late to tell you by the time you got going! Anyway, I'm sure they're still talking about it back there -- they probably thought it was performance art! Charlie, you've made your mark on the scene."

Both hands to her face, now.

"And everybody's going to be asking 'who was that woman?' and -- oh god, Prometheus, his face --"

Charlie lowers her hands to wrap her arms around her ribs again, in fresh laughter.

"Oh god. No more. I need to breathe."

"I think you did create a work of art," he says solemnly. "You're right about his face. I wish I'd had a camera on me. Where are we?"

In the excitement of making a quick getaway, they seem to have hit out on a northerly route, completely the opposite direction of Prometheus's apartment. The night is brisk, but not cutting. He finds he doesn't quite mind. The lake is a stone's-throw away, through an underpass, and the beach is empty under a clear sky.

She pauses in between deep breaths to say a little shakily, "I don't know, weren't you paying attention either?"

An elaborate look around, and she adds "If I had to guess, though, I'd say ... um ... Chicago."

"Great Scot!" He grabs his forehead and spins around to stare at Michigan Avenue and the looming Hancock Tower, lit pink around its top. "So much is explained!"

It's only natural to sort of accidentally on purpose start drifting down the paved path toward the beach and the water.

"Glad I could help."

She breaks into a short trot to catch up with him, and links her arm through his.

"You've helped a lot of people tonight."

Yep, that face means he's threatening to laugh again.

Charlie makes a face at him.

"Maybe I should quit while I'm ahead."

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself. I thought you made a valuable contribution to the discourse. Especially given that I had no idea what that thing made of old sneakers and bendy straws was supposed to look like."

Another little whee of laughter escapes her lips.

"They were pipe cleaners, I think."

"I didn't think they were anything I'd want to drink out of." He crooks a smile. "Then again, I am spoiled when it comes to beverage accessories."

"That's true -- it's been most of the night and we haven't found a single outrageous plastic ornament in any of our drinks."

Charlie frowns, then looks thoughtful and slips her free hand into her jacket pocket.

And smiles, coming out with a tiny bright-purple paper umbrella.

"Heh." He carefully plucks the umbrella from between her fingers and threads the toothpick behind her ear. It's very fetching on her.

"I don't have one for you," she says mournfully.

"It looks better on you," he replies, equally solemn. "I'm definitely getting the better end of this deal."

"If I had a second one, you could wear it in your buttonhole."

"Now that would be dashing. Take that, Sinatra!"

And, while it's completely incongruous to the conversation, he takes her by the waist, wraps one hand around hers, and begins leading her in a dance across the sand.

Charlie muffles a laugh, and follows along with him the best she can.

(Which isn't very well. She's not an accomplished dancer.)

If she can laugh like that, she doesn't have to be.

"In 1911, this would have been the height of scandalous, you know," he mentions absently.

"What, dancing on a public beach?"

The sand's just shifty enough underfoot to make dancing a dicey proposition. Charlie takes a moment to be thankful she's not wearing high heels.

"Something like that. Mostly it's the unsupervised bit that'd have the upright citizens' panties in a twist." The phantom tune in his head speeds up a touch, and he swings her out, to get a good look at her against the water and the skyline. He's a sly fox like that.