(no subject)
WHO: Byrons Watts & Hale (SWINDLERS 1 & 2)
WHAT: It's a surprise faux-mugging party, and Hale's invited! Fake guns, foul language, and french fries.
WHEN: 9:30 some night this week
WHERE: Flatiron district bus shelter, greasy-spoon diner
RATING: R for language; Hale does not respond gracefully to surprise.
Watts: The night was uncommonly cold for March in Manhattan. It was a claim Byron made every year, lacking the fortitude and banality to recall anything as mundane as a year worth of weather. Whether the claim held any validity in this particular incarnation could not be accurately judged, due to the fact that he was flattened against a brick wall and wearing a bathtub full of ice water. Or a close approximation, as his clothes were never substantial enough to absorb more than a good bucket worth. Byron was not put off by this hindrance, by this blatant defiance of nature, for as was the way with all of his ingenious plans, the ruination did not last. The deluge had lightened into a drizzle, which turned the ambiance to his favour.
The manhole covers were cinematically steaming, shop lights glowed eerily against the grey of the gloaming, and the mouth of the alley in which he was so cleverly concealed was cast into a veritable film noir shoot. Across the street, Hale's coat cut a dark swath out of the bus shelter backdrop of a Crest Whitening Strips ad, leaving him looking stark and imposing amongst the plexiglass and sopping clumps of discarded newspaper.
It was important, Byron felt, to preface that he was not a stalker. Stalking required a crass sort of madness that he was simply not unfashionably gauche or, frankly, ambitious enough to possess. Watts was a sleuth. A modern day Dick Tracy. A distinguished gumshoe tailing his target through the hard-knock, rain-slicked streets of lower Manhattan. That he was perfectly aware of where his target was both going and had been was irrelevant. He was a man on a mission, a mission derived from the worst sort of circumstances: crippling boredom.
Tugging the soaked hood of his sweatshirt farther over his head, he pulled away from the wall and cut up the street half a block in the loping gait. The red hand of imminent death began flashing as he reached the corner, and he dashed across the street just shy of the crosswalk, grazing the curb as a wall of headlights descended upon him. Approaching the smudged, florescent beacon of the bus shelter unnoticed was not a difficult task, though he was forced to skulk stealthily behind the Crest ad until Hale was considerate enough to look the opposite way. The Spiderman sense of another Tale was never subtle, so he moved quickly as he slunk in behind Hale, silently pressing two fingers sharply against his lower back.
"Don't move," he commanded, tone low and muddled enough to obscure his accent, or at least turn it into the sallow slur of a proper urban junkie. "Give me your wallet. Slowly."
Hale: In Hale's approximation it was a dismal sort of evening, and though he didn't judge it any more or less dismal than the winters-to-springs that had come before it, he was most concerned with the dismalness now. He would be in the library for hours, but nothing would ever dry, and people would give him pitying looks like he'd stumbled in from a Dickens novel. Hale shrugged the collar of his overcoat so that it made some attempt at drying his neck--the dripping of his hair, now slick with rain, made that effort a failed one. As soon as he made it under the cover of the bus shelter he gave his head a good shake and draw his damp hand against his damped face. The volume of raindrops off the tip of his nose was not at all reduced by this motion, and was probably increased. All it had done was inspire him to momentarily close his eyes.
"Jesus fucking fuck," he spat to himself, shoulders drooping, and lifted his neck to give an tense, bewildered sigh. Byron Hale's next thought was, at least I don't have my laptop, and then he was just so disgusted with himself that he could hardly rouse up proper terror. The barrel of a gun pressed into his spine was a good reminder of why he should have terror, proper or otherwise. It was a reminder that he was being mugged--again. He wasn't attached to the $70 in smug presidents that nestled, dryly, in his pocket, but he'd be damned if licenses and ID cards didn't take the better part of two weeks to replace.
Swindler incarnations took twenty-four years to replace. He'd cooperate. Despite not having been asked, Hale lifted his hands to waist-level, palms forward, to show that he wasn't going for anything--for he'd been mugged on enough occasions that the protocol followed a reflexive pattern--then to show that he was going for something, the wallet buried deep in the pocket of his substantial black coat. "Okay, okay," he breathed in wary concession, "It's in my pocket."
Watts: So far as muggings went, and admittedly Watts was no expert, it was all rather anticlimactic. His own muggings had always been filled with excitable fear, and on one occasion, a very intriguing debate about modern day highwaymen that he'd not actually minded paying forty dollars for. It was a good thing, he supposed, that Hale did not haggle with armed robbers, even if it was lacking in fanfare from a criminal standpoint. Nevertheless, he snatched the wallet out of Hale's hand as soon as it was withdrawn from his pocket.
"Put your hands down," he ordered exasperatedly, for all he needed was the police coming by and arresting him for holding his boyfriend at hand-point. He'd probably be killed by a drunkard and framed in some mutiny coverup at precinct five, or some other arbitrary number. Flipping open the wallet with his thumb, he peered at the familiar contents. Business cards, credit cards, a secretly stashed condom. Watts cuffed his shoulder with the wallet. "Pre-marital abstinence is the only true path to God," he advised wisely, then silently stifled a snicker against the back of Hale's coat collar. It was the height of professionalism, he was sure.
"Actually, I'd like those slacks, too." He paused significantly. In fact, it was less a pause and more a full-bore halt of several seconds that eventually ended with his chin on Hale's shoulder. "I'm very fond of the tangerine insignia."
Hale: Every muscle in Hale's body tensed as he recognized that satisfied drawl, and he unwound himself from his captor's embrace in an indignant swirl of a ballroom dance. He had been instructed to put up his hands, yet nonetheless, both of his hands were up again now. They were pointing at Watts' head, as this was the direction which Hale intended to send words, but words were not immediately forthcoming. When they did, his relief at not being mugged manifested itself in a way that wouldn't normally suggest 'relief':
"You evil fuck, I'm going to fucking murder you." Though newcomers might not assume it of a mild-mannered art history TA, art salesman, and compulsive purchaser of antique chairs, when words failed Hale, Tarentino-caliber strings of expletives were quick to patch up the seam. "Bitch," he added, in a scandalized whine. Hale adjusted every button and buckle on that coat, rolling it on his shoulders, shaking off more jitters than rain, now. He shoved his hands into his pockets (restoring the wallet only by accident), and took to stomping and raving and seething, tossing about a series of curt nods that were meant to prove sanity. His face was too uneven for any real anger, but he was put-upon and injured and sulking, also shot through with adrenaline. "Won't be any trouble abstaining until marriage, that's for damned sure. What are you even doing here?"
As Kübler-Ross had pioneered the stages of grief, Hale was pioneering the stages of faux-mugging. He passed from rage to indignation to sheer bewilderment in record time.
Watts: Though there was a shining moment of terrible mirth, Watts' reaction was automatic, and radically tempered into an expression of wide-eyed innocence. It clearly bespoke that his was the most innocuous face ever seen. His hands twisted palm up at his sides as his shoulders lifted in a shrug of perplexity, as if to say he had no idea how he'd even come to be there, let alone what terrible misdeeds could have earned such a foul threat. "I was just going for a walk," he explained winsomely, and blinked with meaningful virtue. However, the fact that Hale had just called him a bitch was too overwhelming to ignore, and his expression faltered, lips quirking up recklessly until his chest jerked twice with valiantly suppressed laughter.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," he offered, trying very hard to look contrite through his amusement. His lips twitched impossibly as he tried to straighten them into something vaguely penitent, and he reached out to pat Hale's chest consolingly. "I was bored." Somehow that angle didn't seem quite right, and he hastened to add, "And concerned. Concerned that you might be mugged by ruffians." He experimented with a wholesome smile, and there was an edge of guilt, because really, redundant use of profanities was always clear indication that Hale was genuinely rattled. Watts patted him again optimistically, then straightened his sopping collar. "Because you look quite striking when you're drenched in rain, very Heathcliff on the moors, which attracts terrible cads and miscreants of the worst nature. So you see, it was for your protection. But you needn't thank me, honestly, your safety is reward enough."
Hale: "Oh-don't-even," he warned, embarking on an apparent quest to be the stiffest, least responsive recipient of pats and adjustments ever, without making any effort at pulling away from them. He was haughty indeed for a damp bus-commuter coming off a near death experience. "You're lucky I didn't quite striking you in the eye, you scared the shit out of me." As though that had not been apparent. He was not swayed by protests of boredom, or that he was being looked out for; the way he filled his shoulders with static air, Hale might just have resolved to never be swayed by anything again ever, lest the facade be pulled away to reveal a smirking lover making jokes at his expense. He bristled visibly but conscientiously and stared hard at the plastic sheeting that marked the bus shelter's perimeter. He tugged at his rain-soaked coat cuff.
Hale persisted, "And you know how often I get held up." Anger had long failed him, but the conviction that he'd been cruelly wronged lived on. They wouldn't even have even befriended each other in London if it was not for this tendency, and Hale's practice afterwards of being dodgy and irrational. Locking his elbows tight against his own waist, he searched for even more wrongs to protest. The conviction began to taper. "You're not allowed to swindle me about death." Also, "And you look stupid."
Watts: “It wasn’t about death!” Watts protested, aghast. “It was a joke. About money.” His dismay at the accusation was eclipsed by a frown of great displeasure, and he carefully applied his hands to his sweatshirt pockets. They were very wet and offered no comfort whatsoever. He twisted his head to the side to stare irritably at the traffic, and to bugger all this for a lark. Woefully inadequate sense of humour, dodgy jokes, bloody rain. It was clearly not his fault that it was all turning out so poorly.
He sniffed delicately, and with a measure of regret, giving Hale a scrutinizing sideways glance that turned speculatively frontal. Perhaps, in retrospect, he might have known Hale's habit of falling into peril in the streets rendered this scheme thoughtlessly ill-advised. Amusing, yes, but ill-advised nonetheless. He sidled sideways and, without preamble, gave Hale’s side a light elbow-jab of query. “You didn’t seem scared,” he finally said, somewhat petulantly, though he looked properly chagrined. “You were admirably calm for someone being robbed of his pants. I was very impressed.”
Hale: "Well as long as my conduct satisfied you," he scowled. Try as he might, his resentment of Watts and Watts' scheme was running dry by this point. A Hale who was being plied with compliments and elbow-prods was not a Hale that could produce effective insults; one might as well try to pan for gold in the shower as extract hatred from an ego-stroked swindler. Settling from one foot to another, he clung to the last vestiges of indignation, brushing rain from his coat. He sniffed, now critical of Watts' plot despite its obvious success. "Your accent slipped after the first bit, I knew it wasn't some random stranger. And as I recall, you've stolen these pants before."
Hale completely failed to realize how this might have verged on innuendo, given their literal situation: Watts actually had stolen those pants before, for a very accurate Byron Hale costume, that last Halloween.
Watts: For a shining moment Watts appeared affected by Hale's scowling displeasure. This was clearly a subtle ploy, which was summarily revealed in the impropriety of his smirk and subsequent drawl. "Your conduct often satisfies me." It was the sniff that suggested the possibility of parlay, and he pressed his palm to Hale's back with the most flattering intent. His smile boasted wild sincerity.
"I did steal them, though you can hardly blame me when you've such impeccable taste in slacks. However, I'm shocked and most disheartened that you caught on so quickly." His feigned disappointment at the tragic news was staggering, and obviously heavy-handed in dramatics. Oh please, as if his mugging skills could ever possibly be that sub par. Hale hadn't resorted to calling him a bitch since they were pretentious twenty-year-olds getting in ridiculously heated, drunken fights over the ethics of Volterra. Slipped the accent after the first bit his arse. "Your acting skills under duress are far greater than I estimated. I am humbled, Byron Hale. Humbled and awed."
Hale: No gesture, no human gesture ever, had been more diplomatic than allowing that hand on his back. He chose to disregard how very much he liked having Watts' hand on his back, and believe instead that this was a gesture of peace and tolerance by which his moral fortitude was proven. He leaned lightly against the friendly palm, looking over at Watts with an expression of skepticism, coaxed into acceptance. Oh yes, Hale was being appeased, and he knew it. Doting was a quick path into Hale's good graces, and in that steady rain, all the paths anywhere--to graces or otherwise--were blurry and diluted.
"Now you're just being an ass," he informed Watts, but a fond smile crept in when the words stopped. Humbled and awed. Those words were given a visible examination in his eyes. It wasn't true to generalize that Hale never minded being patronized, but there were times he enjoyed it, and this was evidently one of those times.
Watts: "A satisfying ass?" Watts inquired slyly, sliding his hand across Hale's back and tucking his fingers in the edge of his coat pocket. The move provided little warmth, but did grant him the ability to fit Hale against his side, which he did subtly and with great purpose. His hood slid back into a damp heap at his neck, which was just as well, as lascivious hobo was not quite the look he was going for.
"An ass you'd like to take you out for greasy fries and inordinately bad coffee?" The corner of his mouth twisted in a smile that, while faintly victorious, suggested following Hale across Flatiron in the rain was not an impulsive act of boredom, nor was lavishing praise a hardship. "Most importantly, an ass you aren't going to shove fatally in front of a bus?"
Hale: If he'd had plans to shove Watts in front of a bus, this would have been the time to prepare for it, as the bus for which he'd come (early enough for an interim mugging!) had turned upon the street and was bathing distant crosswalks in bleary white light. He had no such plans, but offered only a mirthful "--Maybe." At this point in their conversation, with his hip tugged neatly against Watts' side and offers for greasy fries and bleak coffee attractively in play, he saw Watts with no more irritation than he would have if the man had strolled up in plain view and without fake guns. Though he remembered belatedly that there was some cause for a grudge, all he was resenting now was the smile that kept creeping into the corners of his lips, and he simply wouldn't abide it, so he made a great show of pursing his lips and looking out into the street, wrestling with that boyish smirk.
"There's coffee and fries at the other end of the bus route too. I could get on the bus, ride a while, and get off the bus, and still have greasy fries. I mean," he drawled, tugging on the toggle of Watts' hood, "Just weighing my options."
Watts: "Weighing...options?" he inquired with caution, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. It was not unlike the reaction found when he unwittingly stumbled across Country Music Television. "Hale, you are speaking in tongues. I fear I have no choice but to remove you to the safety of a dining facility lest you take leave of your senses and begin raving." The way in which he grabbed Hale's wrist and kindly pull him toward the edge of the bus shelter suggested this posed a very real threat. A threat that was only slightly marred by the irrepressible twitch of his lips. The bus came to a halt with an impressive arc of gutter water, and Watts waved an apologetic hand at the driver as the door swooshed open. "No, no, madam, I fear this one has suffered a terrible shock of the nerves and is unfit to travel. Have a lovely evening."
Hale: His 'decision', if getting on the bus had ever really been an option, was much simplified by the removal of free will. Hale was strung forward by a firm hand on the wrist, and caught his torso up to his arm only with an awkward shuffle of feet, waving a hand behind him for balance. It wasn't a battle of hands on wrists, or muscles, or bodies even; this was a battle of wills. He was dragged forward by Watts' intentions, and then when Watts stopped at the edge of the bus shelter, Hale protruded slightly into the rain-spattering open air. He snickered in a way that communicated amusement and surprise in equal measures, but rallied. "Thank you ma'am," Hale called helpfully, leaning in the direction of the bus, so he was visible--framed by the closing door--for a second longer than he would have been otherwise.
His businesslike smile remained a smile once the bus pulled away, but it shifted away from certainty and into mystified appreciation, the face he'd make in response to a remarkable coincidence. He took Watts' hand with no more room for dissent than the wrist-dragging had allowed. It was less warm than a pocket but infinitely more satisfying, and constituted a very specific sort of forgiveness. Hale made an unattractive face at the prospect of heading out into the rain again and rubbed his nose with the knuckle of his free hand. In its wake the bus left rain, which was everywhere. "You picked a very... thematic night to mug me."
Watts: There was great ceremony surrounding the departure of the bus, primarily involving scant amounts of pleased preening, interspersed with increasingly disarming and possibly slightly menacing smiles. Watts, appeased with the clemency of Hale's hand, felt it most appropriate to take everything thereafter as a clear sign of approval. He gestured with his free hand in a haughty flourish of pride, selflessly ushering Hale out into the rain ahead of him. "Yes," he agreed with great modesty, "I have a preternatural talent for scene setting that is difficult to rival." Perhaps he had not made it rain, but no one could prove that, and he slanted a knowing grin at Hale.
Slinking through the rain pretending to be a criminal mastermind had done nothing for his propriety, so when the light switched to the Walk symbol as they reached the intersection, he took credit for that as well. "You see, I'm very important," he explained, with an indicative nod toward the sign. "I will the universe to bend to my whims. It's what evil fucks do." His pause was so immediate it very nearly reversed over the top of his words. "Very charming evil fucks," he amended, blinking against the rain as he ducked in conspiratorially and tightened his grasp on Hale's fingers. "By the end of the night, you will have divulged all of your most guarded American secrets."
Hale: "Oh yes," Hale chuckled, "Although I think I prefer your work creating sunsets." Rain gathered through the triangular channel of his bangs, further dampening his field of vision and punishing him with a cold shower every time he threatened to look up. He assumed that Watts was leading them in the right direction, but it was not as though the other man's bangs could be faring any better. The Swindlers were not optimally shorn for poor weather, but they never had been, and stumbling through rainstorms was as warm and familiar as their socks were cold. He straightened once they'd stopped inside, his eyes adjusting to yellow light, white walls, green booths.
"I think that depends on how much coffee you're willing to buy me," he replied, but just for sport. "Though I guess you're entitled to half of our state secrets, now." At this point there was not much danger of his keeping anything secret. Part of Hale was relieved that he was no longer obligated to do research, even if the assignments lingered and the work was only postponed; it had not felt like a work night, even before the brutal attack upon his person had steered him towards puddles rather than footnotes. It was a night for philosophical debates chiefly ignoring ethics, entire baskets of greasy french fries, and volumes of caffeine to not be proud of.
WHAT: It's a surprise faux-mugging party, and Hale's invited! Fake guns, foul language, and french fries.
WHEN: 9:30 some night this week
WHERE: Flatiron district bus shelter, greasy-spoon diner
RATING: R for language; Hale does not respond gracefully to surprise.
Watts: The night was uncommonly cold for March in Manhattan. It was a claim Byron made every year, lacking the fortitude and banality to recall anything as mundane as a year worth of weather. Whether the claim held any validity in this particular incarnation could not be accurately judged, due to the fact that he was flattened against a brick wall and wearing a bathtub full of ice water. Or a close approximation, as his clothes were never substantial enough to absorb more than a good bucket worth. Byron was not put off by this hindrance, by this blatant defiance of nature, for as was the way with all of his ingenious plans, the ruination did not last. The deluge had lightened into a drizzle, which turned the ambiance to his favour.
The manhole covers were cinematically steaming, shop lights glowed eerily against the grey of the gloaming, and the mouth of the alley in which he was so cleverly concealed was cast into a veritable film noir shoot. Across the street, Hale's coat cut a dark swath out of the bus shelter backdrop of a Crest Whitening Strips ad, leaving him looking stark and imposing amongst the plexiglass and sopping clumps of discarded newspaper.
It was important, Byron felt, to preface that he was not a stalker. Stalking required a crass sort of madness that he was simply not unfashionably gauche or, frankly, ambitious enough to possess. Watts was a sleuth. A modern day Dick Tracy. A distinguished gumshoe tailing his target through the hard-knock, rain-slicked streets of lower Manhattan. That he was perfectly aware of where his target was both going and had been was irrelevant. He was a man on a mission, a mission derived from the worst sort of circumstances: crippling boredom.
Tugging the soaked hood of his sweatshirt farther over his head, he pulled away from the wall and cut up the street half a block in the loping gait. The red hand of imminent death began flashing as he reached the corner, and he dashed across the street just shy of the crosswalk, grazing the curb as a wall of headlights descended upon him. Approaching the smudged, florescent beacon of the bus shelter unnoticed was not a difficult task, though he was forced to skulk stealthily behind the Crest ad until Hale was considerate enough to look the opposite way. The Spiderman sense of another Tale was never subtle, so he moved quickly as he slunk in behind Hale, silently pressing two fingers sharply against his lower back.
"Don't move," he commanded, tone low and muddled enough to obscure his accent, or at least turn it into the sallow slur of a proper urban junkie. "Give me your wallet. Slowly."
Hale: In Hale's approximation it was a dismal sort of evening, and though he didn't judge it any more or less dismal than the winters-to-springs that had come before it, he was most concerned with the dismalness now. He would be in the library for hours, but nothing would ever dry, and people would give him pitying looks like he'd stumbled in from a Dickens novel. Hale shrugged the collar of his overcoat so that it made some attempt at drying his neck--the dripping of his hair, now slick with rain, made that effort a failed one. As soon as he made it under the cover of the bus shelter he gave his head a good shake and draw his damp hand against his damped face. The volume of raindrops off the tip of his nose was not at all reduced by this motion, and was probably increased. All it had done was inspire him to momentarily close his eyes.
"Jesus fucking fuck," he spat to himself, shoulders drooping, and lifted his neck to give an tense, bewildered sigh. Byron Hale's next thought was, at least I don't have my laptop, and then he was just so disgusted with himself that he could hardly rouse up proper terror. The barrel of a gun pressed into his spine was a good reminder of why he should have terror, proper or otherwise. It was a reminder that he was being mugged--again. He wasn't attached to the $70 in smug presidents that nestled, dryly, in his pocket, but he'd be damned if licenses and ID cards didn't take the better part of two weeks to replace.
Swindler incarnations took twenty-four years to replace. He'd cooperate. Despite not having been asked, Hale lifted his hands to waist-level, palms forward, to show that he wasn't going for anything--for he'd been mugged on enough occasions that the protocol followed a reflexive pattern--then to show that he was going for something, the wallet buried deep in the pocket of his substantial black coat. "Okay, okay," he breathed in wary concession, "It's in my pocket."
Watts: So far as muggings went, and admittedly Watts was no expert, it was all rather anticlimactic. His own muggings had always been filled with excitable fear, and on one occasion, a very intriguing debate about modern day highwaymen that he'd not actually minded paying forty dollars for. It was a good thing, he supposed, that Hale did not haggle with armed robbers, even if it was lacking in fanfare from a criminal standpoint. Nevertheless, he snatched the wallet out of Hale's hand as soon as it was withdrawn from his pocket.
"Put your hands down," he ordered exasperatedly, for all he needed was the police coming by and arresting him for holding his boyfriend at hand-point. He'd probably be killed by a drunkard and framed in some mutiny coverup at precinct five, or some other arbitrary number. Flipping open the wallet with his thumb, he peered at the familiar contents. Business cards, credit cards, a secretly stashed condom. Watts cuffed his shoulder with the wallet. "Pre-marital abstinence is the only true path to God," he advised wisely, then silently stifled a snicker against the back of Hale's coat collar. It was the height of professionalism, he was sure.
"Actually, I'd like those slacks, too." He paused significantly. In fact, it was less a pause and more a full-bore halt of several seconds that eventually ended with his chin on Hale's shoulder. "I'm very fond of the tangerine insignia."
Hale: Every muscle in Hale's body tensed as he recognized that satisfied drawl, and he unwound himself from his captor's embrace in an indignant swirl of a ballroom dance. He had been instructed to put up his hands, yet nonetheless, both of his hands were up again now. They were pointing at Watts' head, as this was the direction which Hale intended to send words, but words were not immediately forthcoming. When they did, his relief at not being mugged manifested itself in a way that wouldn't normally suggest 'relief':
"You evil fuck, I'm going to fucking murder you." Though newcomers might not assume it of a mild-mannered art history TA, art salesman, and compulsive purchaser of antique chairs, when words failed Hale, Tarentino-caliber strings of expletives were quick to patch up the seam. "Bitch," he added, in a scandalized whine. Hale adjusted every button and buckle on that coat, rolling it on his shoulders, shaking off more jitters than rain, now. He shoved his hands into his pockets (restoring the wallet only by accident), and took to stomping and raving and seething, tossing about a series of curt nods that were meant to prove sanity. His face was too uneven for any real anger, but he was put-upon and injured and sulking, also shot through with adrenaline. "Won't be any trouble abstaining until marriage, that's for damned sure. What are you even doing here?"
As Kübler-Ross had pioneered the stages of grief, Hale was pioneering the stages of faux-mugging. He passed from rage to indignation to sheer bewilderment in record time.
Watts: Though there was a shining moment of terrible mirth, Watts' reaction was automatic, and radically tempered into an expression of wide-eyed innocence. It clearly bespoke that his was the most innocuous face ever seen. His hands twisted palm up at his sides as his shoulders lifted in a shrug of perplexity, as if to say he had no idea how he'd even come to be there, let alone what terrible misdeeds could have earned such a foul threat. "I was just going for a walk," he explained winsomely, and blinked with meaningful virtue. However, the fact that Hale had just called him a bitch was too overwhelming to ignore, and his expression faltered, lips quirking up recklessly until his chest jerked twice with valiantly suppressed laughter.
"Sorry. I'm sorry," he offered, trying very hard to look contrite through his amusement. His lips twitched impossibly as he tried to straighten them into something vaguely penitent, and he reached out to pat Hale's chest consolingly. "I was bored." Somehow that angle didn't seem quite right, and he hastened to add, "And concerned. Concerned that you might be mugged by ruffians." He experimented with a wholesome smile, and there was an edge of guilt, because really, redundant use of profanities was always clear indication that Hale was genuinely rattled. Watts patted him again optimistically, then straightened his sopping collar. "Because you look quite striking when you're drenched in rain, very Heathcliff on the moors, which attracts terrible cads and miscreants of the worst nature. So you see, it was for your protection. But you needn't thank me, honestly, your safety is reward enough."
Hale: "Oh-don't-even," he warned, embarking on an apparent quest to be the stiffest, least responsive recipient of pats and adjustments ever, without making any effort at pulling away from them. He was haughty indeed for a damp bus-commuter coming off a near death experience. "You're lucky I didn't quite striking you in the eye, you scared the shit out of me." As though that had not been apparent. He was not swayed by protests of boredom, or that he was being looked out for; the way he filled his shoulders with static air, Hale might just have resolved to never be swayed by anything again ever, lest the facade be pulled away to reveal a smirking lover making jokes at his expense. He bristled visibly but conscientiously and stared hard at the plastic sheeting that marked the bus shelter's perimeter. He tugged at his rain-soaked coat cuff.
Hale persisted, "And you know how often I get held up." Anger had long failed him, but the conviction that he'd been cruelly wronged lived on. They wouldn't even have even befriended each other in London if it was not for this tendency, and Hale's practice afterwards of being dodgy and irrational. Locking his elbows tight against his own waist, he searched for even more wrongs to protest. The conviction began to taper. "You're not allowed to swindle me about death." Also, "And you look stupid."
Watts: “It wasn’t about death!” Watts protested, aghast. “It was a joke. About money.” His dismay at the accusation was eclipsed by a frown of great displeasure, and he carefully applied his hands to his sweatshirt pockets. They were very wet and offered no comfort whatsoever. He twisted his head to the side to stare irritably at the traffic, and to bugger all this for a lark. Woefully inadequate sense of humour, dodgy jokes, bloody rain. It was clearly not his fault that it was all turning out so poorly.
He sniffed delicately, and with a measure of regret, giving Hale a scrutinizing sideways glance that turned speculatively frontal. Perhaps, in retrospect, he might have known Hale's habit of falling into peril in the streets rendered this scheme thoughtlessly ill-advised. Amusing, yes, but ill-advised nonetheless. He sidled sideways and, without preamble, gave Hale’s side a light elbow-jab of query. “You didn’t seem scared,” he finally said, somewhat petulantly, though he looked properly chagrined. “You were admirably calm for someone being robbed of his pants. I was very impressed.”
Hale: "Well as long as my conduct satisfied you," he scowled. Try as he might, his resentment of Watts and Watts' scheme was running dry by this point. A Hale who was being plied with compliments and elbow-prods was not a Hale that could produce effective insults; one might as well try to pan for gold in the shower as extract hatred from an ego-stroked swindler. Settling from one foot to another, he clung to the last vestiges of indignation, brushing rain from his coat. He sniffed, now critical of Watts' plot despite its obvious success. "Your accent slipped after the first bit, I knew it wasn't some random stranger. And as I recall, you've stolen these pants before."
Hale completely failed to realize how this might have verged on innuendo, given their literal situation: Watts actually had stolen those pants before, for a very accurate Byron Hale costume, that last Halloween.
Watts: For a shining moment Watts appeared affected by Hale's scowling displeasure. This was clearly a subtle ploy, which was summarily revealed in the impropriety of his smirk and subsequent drawl. "Your conduct often satisfies me." It was the sniff that suggested the possibility of parlay, and he pressed his palm to Hale's back with the most flattering intent. His smile boasted wild sincerity.
"I did steal them, though you can hardly blame me when you've such impeccable taste in slacks. However, I'm shocked and most disheartened that you caught on so quickly." His feigned disappointment at the tragic news was staggering, and obviously heavy-handed in dramatics. Oh please, as if his mugging skills could ever possibly be that sub par. Hale hadn't resorted to calling him a bitch since they were pretentious twenty-year-olds getting in ridiculously heated, drunken fights over the ethics of Volterra. Slipped the accent after the first bit his arse. "Your acting skills under duress are far greater than I estimated. I am humbled, Byron Hale. Humbled and awed."
Hale: No gesture, no human gesture ever, had been more diplomatic than allowing that hand on his back. He chose to disregard how very much he liked having Watts' hand on his back, and believe instead that this was a gesture of peace and tolerance by which his moral fortitude was proven. He leaned lightly against the friendly palm, looking over at Watts with an expression of skepticism, coaxed into acceptance. Oh yes, Hale was being appeased, and he knew it. Doting was a quick path into Hale's good graces, and in that steady rain, all the paths anywhere--to graces or otherwise--were blurry and diluted.
"Now you're just being an ass," he informed Watts, but a fond smile crept in when the words stopped. Humbled and awed. Those words were given a visible examination in his eyes. It wasn't true to generalize that Hale never minded being patronized, but there were times he enjoyed it, and this was evidently one of those times.
Watts: "A satisfying ass?" Watts inquired slyly, sliding his hand across Hale's back and tucking his fingers in the edge of his coat pocket. The move provided little warmth, but did grant him the ability to fit Hale against his side, which he did subtly and with great purpose. His hood slid back into a damp heap at his neck, which was just as well, as lascivious hobo was not quite the look he was going for.
"An ass you'd like to take you out for greasy fries and inordinately bad coffee?" The corner of his mouth twisted in a smile that, while faintly victorious, suggested following Hale across Flatiron in the rain was not an impulsive act of boredom, nor was lavishing praise a hardship. "Most importantly, an ass you aren't going to shove fatally in front of a bus?"
Hale: If he'd had plans to shove Watts in front of a bus, this would have been the time to prepare for it, as the bus for which he'd come (early enough for an interim mugging!) had turned upon the street and was bathing distant crosswalks in bleary white light. He had no such plans, but offered only a mirthful "--Maybe." At this point in their conversation, with his hip tugged neatly against Watts' side and offers for greasy fries and bleak coffee attractively in play, he saw Watts with no more irritation than he would have if the man had strolled up in plain view and without fake guns. Though he remembered belatedly that there was some cause for a grudge, all he was resenting now was the smile that kept creeping into the corners of his lips, and he simply wouldn't abide it, so he made a great show of pursing his lips and looking out into the street, wrestling with that boyish smirk.
"There's coffee and fries at the other end of the bus route too. I could get on the bus, ride a while, and get off the bus, and still have greasy fries. I mean," he drawled, tugging on the toggle of Watts' hood, "Just weighing my options."
Watts: "Weighing...options?" he inquired with caution, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. It was not unlike the reaction found when he unwittingly stumbled across Country Music Television. "Hale, you are speaking in tongues. I fear I have no choice but to remove you to the safety of a dining facility lest you take leave of your senses and begin raving." The way in which he grabbed Hale's wrist and kindly pull him toward the edge of the bus shelter suggested this posed a very real threat. A threat that was only slightly marred by the irrepressible twitch of his lips. The bus came to a halt with an impressive arc of gutter water, and Watts waved an apologetic hand at the driver as the door swooshed open. "No, no, madam, I fear this one has suffered a terrible shock of the nerves and is unfit to travel. Have a lovely evening."
Hale: His 'decision', if getting on the bus had ever really been an option, was much simplified by the removal of free will. Hale was strung forward by a firm hand on the wrist, and caught his torso up to his arm only with an awkward shuffle of feet, waving a hand behind him for balance. It wasn't a battle of hands on wrists, or muscles, or bodies even; this was a battle of wills. He was dragged forward by Watts' intentions, and then when Watts stopped at the edge of the bus shelter, Hale protruded slightly into the rain-spattering open air. He snickered in a way that communicated amusement and surprise in equal measures, but rallied. "Thank you ma'am," Hale called helpfully, leaning in the direction of the bus, so he was visible--framed by the closing door--for a second longer than he would have been otherwise.
His businesslike smile remained a smile once the bus pulled away, but it shifted away from certainty and into mystified appreciation, the face he'd make in response to a remarkable coincidence. He took Watts' hand with no more room for dissent than the wrist-dragging had allowed. It was less warm than a pocket but infinitely more satisfying, and constituted a very specific sort of forgiveness. Hale made an unattractive face at the prospect of heading out into the rain again and rubbed his nose with the knuckle of his free hand. In its wake the bus left rain, which was everywhere. "You picked a very... thematic night to mug me."
Watts: There was great ceremony surrounding the departure of the bus, primarily involving scant amounts of pleased preening, interspersed with increasingly disarming and possibly slightly menacing smiles. Watts, appeased with the clemency of Hale's hand, felt it most appropriate to take everything thereafter as a clear sign of approval. He gestured with his free hand in a haughty flourish of pride, selflessly ushering Hale out into the rain ahead of him. "Yes," he agreed with great modesty, "I have a preternatural talent for scene setting that is difficult to rival." Perhaps he had not made it rain, but no one could prove that, and he slanted a knowing grin at Hale.
Slinking through the rain pretending to be a criminal mastermind had done nothing for his propriety, so when the light switched to the Walk symbol as they reached the intersection, he took credit for that as well. "You see, I'm very important," he explained, with an indicative nod toward the sign. "I will the universe to bend to my whims. It's what evil fucks do." His pause was so immediate it very nearly reversed over the top of his words. "Very charming evil fucks," he amended, blinking against the rain as he ducked in conspiratorially and tightened his grasp on Hale's fingers. "By the end of the night, you will have divulged all of your most guarded American secrets."
Hale: "Oh yes," Hale chuckled, "Although I think I prefer your work creating sunsets." Rain gathered through the triangular channel of his bangs, further dampening his field of vision and punishing him with a cold shower every time he threatened to look up. He assumed that Watts was leading them in the right direction, but it was not as though the other man's bangs could be faring any better. The Swindlers were not optimally shorn for poor weather, but they never had been, and stumbling through rainstorms was as warm and familiar as their socks were cold. He straightened once they'd stopped inside, his eyes adjusting to yellow light, white walls, green booths.
"I think that depends on how much coffee you're willing to buy me," he replied, but just for sport. "Though I guess you're entitled to half of our state secrets, now." At this point there was not much danger of his keeping anything secret. Part of Hale was relieved that he was no longer obligated to do research, even if the assignments lingered and the work was only postponed; it had not felt like a work night, even before the brutal attack upon his person had steered him towards puddles rather than footnotes. It was a night for philosophical debates chiefly ignoring ethics, entire baskets of greasy french fries, and volumes of caffeine to not be proud of.