ladyfirestarter | (no subject)

(no subject)

Every so often, Charlie's called to the home office in New York. She tries to arrange a day or two extra before and after the scheduled meeting, just to walk around and see the city.

The desert has become her heart's home, but ... once or twice a year she starts to sicken for the sight of skyscrapers and yellow cabs, the way some people sicken for mountains or the sea.

It's a brisk day in early September, cool and breezy, ideal for walking.

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One hand comes to rest on her elbow. "There's a lot of particulars. Ask me what you want to know."

"I don't really..."

Her free hand spreads in a questioning gesture.

"How would it work?"

It's a few moments before he speaks.

"The clay is old, and untouched. It remembers its purpose is to shape and be a shape; that's why it worked so well when my brother and I were using it, the first time. When you put purpose in it through the work and intent of your hands, it learns it, and learns but good. You infuse it with your will and give it life of its own.

"That's how you build a new being. We would be after something different, though: we would want to teach your body not to take harm from the fire. Give it armor, in effect. The clay, when it touches a mortal, it alters them. That's what I meant by potent: it's will turned into reality."

She's quiet for a moment, considering that.

"And that's the only thing it would alter?"

"If I said so, yes."

He's looking straight ahead.

"We'd cover you and let it dry. It wouldn't hurt, as far as I can guess, and I know the stuff pretty well." A pause; he doesn't alter the quiet in his voice. "You'd have to trust me enough to let me be the one putting it on."

A quick glance at him, and then forward again.

"I'm going to need to think about it." Swiftly: "Not about the trusting you part. About the whole idea. It's ... I don't know."

A small tug at the corners of his lips. "You don't have to know. I dropped it on you half an hour ago. Don't rush in to anything this big, okay?"

He should know; it's what he's named for.

"Definitely not," she says fervently.

And then gives him a sidelong glance, and bumps the back of his hand gently with hers.

"And in the meantime there's always Option A."

His hand needs no further persuading: it snakes around Charlie's waist while he smiles into her hair. "I could Option A you right here and now for bringing that up."

Her arm goes around his waist, reciprocally; she gives a small breathless laugh. "Good lord, we've coined a euphemism."

"Then the day hasn't been entirely wasted." A beat, while he savors just how comfortable this is. "Where're you staying, by the way?"

"At the Dolphin Hotel, up in the sixties." Beat. "I may have mentioned that place to you before?"

He looks at her, startled. "Not the place with the beastie you charbroiled?"

Startled, and also somewhat pleased.

"That's the one. I could show you the place, later, if you like." A beat. "I can't show you the room where we fought it, though."

"I think I'd like, yeah." He tilts his head. "Why's that?"

Her smile edges toward the impish.

"It's not there anymore."

"As in, you left a smoldering hole in the building, or...?"

"More or less."

She probably shouldn't be grinning outright at this.

"There wasn't much damage to the surrounding rooms and hallways, but they're doing reconstruction of the whole area anyway."

Oh, but she should be!

Prometheus appears to weigh and digest this. "Ah. Well. I suppose a gaping swath of carnage and destruction is preferable to a monster squatting in your hotel when you're trying to run a business establishment."

She sobers a little at that. "Believe me, it is. Would have been even if we'd burned out the whole floor instead of just the one room." A slight shudder. "It was spreading."

"And you stopped it. You and Bev and Fire." He gives her hand a squeeze. "I hope there was at least a ticker-tape parade. Or a free ticket for the buffet."

Charlie smiles again. "They did give us complimentary room service. And waived the room fee."

"Is that what it takes? I'll have to keep that in mind!" He grins, and glances around. "Are we close? Note that I'm being very good about not getting nosy and asking where we're going."

Though it seems to be suspiciously in the direction of Times Square.

"So noted." She grins up at him.

"And we're going crosstown, as soon as we hit 42nd Street."

This presents a new problem. Does he break out into "Crosstown Traffic" or just plain "42nd Street"?

He decides to restrain himself. They might, after all, run into people she knows.

What's there? He runs down the list, but nothing that he knows seems a likely candidate. "Do they still use tokens on the buses here?" he asks, idly.