ladyfirestarter | (no subject)

There's no city for being anonymous in like New York.

He could be anybody, in his scuffed boots and leather jacket. Starving artist, startup executive, magazine editor, drug dealer, rock star incognito. It didn't matter. In New York, people are conditioned not to pay attention. Only tourists look in this town.

Prometheus has been thinking, hard. Even for him, his mind has been racing. He came to New York to clear his head some, to be left alone. (Charlie had mentioned she'd be there, right about this time. Most of his thinking, though not all of it, had been related to her.)

There were problems to be addressed. And some of them, he's concluded, could be addressed. Prometheus sets his jaw, and keeps walking down 14th Street.

At some point, he comes to a decision. Something in his face flickers; the casual observer would see his brow knit, but little else.

In Charlie McGee's pocket, in another New York altogether, a small terracotta statuette flushes with warmth.

Warmth in an irregular patch against her hip, and she smiles involuntarily and puts a hand in her pocket.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." He crooks a smile. "What's up? The Big Apple's treating you well?"

"Pretty well. I just got in this morning."

She slows down a little, drifts to the inner edge of the sidewalk to let faster pedestrians by.

"It's a gorgeous day."

"You too?" He looks up; the sky is clear between the shapes of buildings. "Yeah, same here."

He sidesteps a man playing arrangements of Radiohead tunes on a glockenspiel. "Listen, am I catching you at a good time? I wanted to talk about something."

A half-beat's pause, and then "Sure -- I'm not doing anything in particular right now. What kind of something?"

"I've been thinking about what happened, the last time you were in Chicago. And what we both said."

He hesitates. "That kind of something."

"Ah."

The smile's back in her voice, but it's quieter.

"For that kind of something I might want to find someplace to sit down, pretty soon."

"If you'd like." He glances over both shoulders.

Ideas make him restless. (Fire wants to burn.) He walks on.

"So," he begins, "that night's been on my mind. I think there are some options to have out on the table, as to the future of things."

"Yeah?"

She's maybe one long block and two short ones from Herald Square; there are benches there, if she recalls correctly. Her walk changes direction as she goes on speaking.

"Okay, let's hear them."

"Well," he says, certainly not smiling, "the first and most low-tech is that we continue trying to get in each other's pants and work on control along the way. I recommend we pursue this line of inquiry no matter what we figure out, but that's just my professional opinion."

A split second of silence, and then Charlie's laughing, hard enough to make at least one passerby turn to stare at her.

"Option A, duly noted," she finally manages to say, still giggling. "You are awful."

"Shame was never exactly in my job description," he grins.

His stride gains a little more swagger, if only for a few steps.

"Now," he continues, serious again. "Less fun, but possibly more effective, Option B. We go in and provoke you, somewhere lonely where no one else can get hurt. This is the one I like least of all."

That has a somewhat sobering effect.

"Mm."

Her fingers play restlessly along the side of the statuette.

"I've kept it together under provocation before. Not exactly like that's new."

It's distracting. Not in an unpleasant way.

"You have, and you do. It's just Option A amped up and without the fun prelude. Like I said, not my favorite option, but if you think it would help, I'll work with it."

She nods, half forgetting he can't see her.

"And is there an Option C?"

"Yeah. It's the one I'm least sure of, but only 'cause I've never done it before. It would take some traveling. You'd have to take time off and come with me somewhere."

A pause.

"Yeah?" That's mostly curious; if there's suspicion in there, it's good-natured.

"What kind of somewhere?"

"Somewhere hot and dirty." A young woman pushing a grocery cart looks up, alarmed, and hurries past. Prometheus allows himself a chuckle.

"Boetia somewhere. The Old Country, assuming it's not all on fire."

"And what's there? Aside from fire?"

Something of Prometheus's restlessness has communicated itself through the link. Charlie studies the chairs and tables in Herald Square, looks up briefly at the statue of Athena and the bell-ringers, and shakes her head and walks on.

He looks out over the throng of people around him.

"Clay," he murmurs. "Good clay at that."

She wouldn't know what to make of that, except -- he's said some things.

Quietly: "The kind of clay you make people out of?"

He takes a breath. "That... was the original purpose, yeah. I've come back to it from time to time, though. It's -- potent stuff, in its own right. With a little guidance, it can be anything."

He scrubs one hand through his hair, and looks over each shoulder, just to be sure. New York is full of things other than just people, and you never know who could be listening in.

"It doesn't do anything to me, but to a human being, it can... change things, in significant ways."

That gets a long, long pause.

Charlie's standing motionless on the corner of 32nd and Broadway.

"Change things," she repeats finally.

"Yes."

He wishes he could see her now, to gauge that silence.

"I was thinking it that night, but I didn't bring it up, because I wasn't sure. And the more I think about it, I'm convinced it could -- Charlie." He lowers his voice. "I don't know if it could put out the firething, or even if you'd want that, but I think it might stop it from hurting you."