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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

"No, it's strictly cash or the yellow card." She cocks her head at him. "What about the New York you came from?"

He rolls his shoulders. "I usually walk. Heh. Or ride free." A quirk of the mouth. "A long time ago, I did a guy a favor. The turnstiles seem to remember. I suppose that's a one New York-only deal, though."

"Probably. I can cover the bus, don't worry about it."

They're nearly to Times Square by now, and Charlie is cheerfully gazing around like any tourist.

And why not? The place, it seems, is a spectacle no matter where it lives. Which is comforting.

Charlie gets them on a bus and swipes them through. They find two seats together at the front, along the window.

Prometheus people-watches.

Charlie idly reads the ads.

And pauses, after a minute or two, to touch Prometheus's elbow and point at one in particular.

He squints at it, smiles after a moment.

"That's good. I think he'd like that. If you could ever get him out of the forge to see it." Beat. "That's not true -- he shows up at the bar from time to time. You met him yet, by any chance? He's a good guy."

"I haven't yet, no. I think the only ones I've met out of your pantheon are Lethe and Mercer."

"The few, the proud, the nice ones. Past those -- few, you start getting into slim pickings." His face darkens as he stumbles over the word three, refusing to say it. "Not that they're not capable of bollocksing up just as well."

That gets a searching look, but a mild one.

He looks away before closing his eyes and shaking his head. "I shouldn't get into it. Mercer and I are having -- let's just call it a strident disagreement and leave it at that. It'll get sorted out soon enough."

The twist of his mouth means to close the matter.

"Anyway, you should say hi to Hephaestos if you see him around."

"I will, then."

She cranes her neck to look out the bus window.

"Oh - almost there."

"Yeah?" And just like that, he's as restless as an eager toddler, taking in the sights as though he'll know what he's looking for.

"Yeah." She stands up, reaching to press the stop signal, swaying slightly with the acceleration.

They step off the bus, and Charlie promptly points uptown again. "About four or five blocks, and we're there."

He peers after her hand. "You do well with the mysterious thing, you know that?"

"Doing my best," she says cheerfully, and links her arm through his again.

He grins, and migrates closer. "You're very alluring."

"Is that just the mysterious thing? Because I don't know how long I can keep it up."

(A few blocks ahead, there's a tall black glass building just coming into sight.)

"Until the big reveal is all you need, isn't it?"

(Something is rippling just beyond hearing. No; the water ripples at their ankles, and the moon draws them along. There is a tune he couldn't quite hum yet if you asked him to. The jest is a touch distracted.)

"True. So not much longer now."

She glances at him, and smiles.

Very quietly: "Can you hear it?"

He doesn't meet her look, but twists his head, (reaches) for the (almost).

(It) pours through him; his eyes shoot open. When he faces Charlie, the expression is startled -- though without fear. "What is that?"

"That," she says with quiet pride, "is what I work for."

Her fingers twine through his.

"Come on."

For once, he has nothing to say. He just listens.

She leads him to the foot of a glittering tower. He pauses at the bottom to stare up the length of it. (For reasons he cannot clarify, it reminds him of his brother. A pillar of the world.)

They pass through a door, into the building itself. (Prometheus finds himself (thrumming) along with it.)

Pink marble tiling covers the lobby floor, except at the middle of the room, where a square is cordoned off by red velvet ropes. The floor there is plain dark earth, tilled and cultivated, bearing ferns and a few dwarf palms.

And in the center, by itself, the rose.

Prometheus holds reverence for very few things. Power on its own, he does not respect, nor riches nor unconditional goodness.

He slows down as they approach the rose. One hand migrates over his heart, the fingers folded in, an old, old gesture. The song shimmers, the words all decipherable at once.

There is a plaque set before them. He drops his eyes to read.

LIGHT OVER DARKNESS: THUS WILLS THE BUILDER.

His chest rises and falls, his smile unfettered. "Hello."