Heathrow is never a calm place, even among the ranks of international airports. It has no quiet corners or tranquil places to wait. Consequently, Loki has staked out a section of wall where he can watch passengers filing out from the appropriate airline, the music cranked up in his earpiece and his eyes half closed.
     He's a not particularly noticeable shape behind the crowds, in jeans, gray jacket, gray t-shirt. Nor is he paying a great deal of attention, eyes half-closed as the music blocks out the noise of endless airport announcements. He's a child of the internet age, and when Pres gets in... There'll be a call.

     He is tired, but not as tired as he could be. Pres limps off the plane with a wooden cane with ebony head (no metal, no) that has a bit of TSA tape on it to signify it's been held for him, probably by a Federal Marshall, for the duration of the flight. His expression suggests what he is too polite to say: What was I going to do, take over the plane in the name of Al Qaida with a mahogany cane and a bad leg? But if they could ground a Senator Kennedy for having the wrong name, they can probably ground him too, and he takes what he can get.
     He's casually dressed, comparatively, in tan dockers and a white button-up shirt and a polo blazer tied around his shoulders; a navy backpack is over one shoulder, his hair just a little longer than he usually wears it and definitely rumpled. Even first class travel isn't all pork and beans when it's transcontinental, and he looks a little sleepy-eyed as he makes his way down the corridor with a bit of help from his cane, fishing out his phone from a pocket.
     Beep. You have four new messages. Pres doesn't go further than glancing at the caller ID; he ignores the messages for later and instead selects who he's going to call instead. It is, of course, you.
     "Hey. I'm off the plane and heading down to baggage claim. Only one bag, figure I can buy some new stuff if I have to. I didn't want to travel too heavy, y'know? I hope you have somewhere in mind to eat, though. I could eat a horse."

     Loki's eyes snap open as the call cuts off his musical line. There's a kind of rhythm to the crowds that's still going, but he's not quite feeling it yet. Movement and emotion and--something to think about when he's not busy. "I'll meet you at the bag claim." He pushes off from the wall, a quick glance over his head to mark out the multi-language signs pointing the way there. "The Equine Cafe was closed over some sort of health violation, so you may have to settle for cow tonight. How do you feel about steak?"

     "Yeah, okay. I like steak, steak's good. Moo. Power to the people, brother, support the farms. See you at baggage claim." Pres laughs, ringing off and hurrying a bit to get there already. He stumbles slightly, catches himself and makes himself slow down.
     Remember what the doc said. Be patient, Three. Try to, anyway.
     Pres grimaces and then grins sheepishly, taking the elevator down to baggage claim and then using his cane to discreetly and judiciously beat a path through ankles and calves until he finds you, coming up behind you as quietly as he's capable of. "Hey," he says quietly in your ear from behind, poking you lightly in the back of a calf with the rubber prod of his cane. "Boo."

     At the poke, Loki twitches, nearly dropping the phone in his hand. "Hey," he says, with a there-and-gone smile as he sees you. There's a tiny flash of surprise behind the smile, as if he might've been expecting someone else standing behind him at the Heathrow baggage claim. "I borrowed my father's car, so we're not stuck with public transportation. I apologize now for any potential fiery blaze resulting from my attempt to negotiate London traffic."

     "Oh, good. I'd pay for a taxi if we had to deal with public transportation. Want me to drive?" Pres cocks up an eyebrow in almost roguish inquiry, then directs his gaze to baggage claim. "You can't miss my bag. It's been tagged. With spraypaint. Orange glow in the dark spraypaint. With a big number three."

     "Sure, if you want. Drive on the left, don't crowd the buses, crowd everyone else. London driving regulations are very simple." Loki slants another quick smile. "You're less likely to destroy something with the car than I am. Including the car."
     He stakes out a spot at the edge of the conveyor belt, as the bell rings and the belt starts to move. "Spray paint? What prompted the arts and crafts approach?"

     "I'm a good driver," Pres tells you confidently. "As for the arts and crafts - I don't know. It came pre-tagged. I got the suitcase delivered to the house by the shop and it'd been tagged." He shrugs. "I was pissed at first, but then I figured, y'know, at least it'll be easily identifiable on the belt. - Hey, there it is."
     He lifts his cane to point it out to you...

     Loki reaches for the bag, and gets elbowed out of the way by a grim-faced family of tourists charging for their first suitcase. On the second try, he drags it off the belt, and staggers back from the mob going in for the wave of luggage.
     "You're a better driver than I am. It took me three tries to past the test back in L.A., and they don't even make you prove you can parallel park." He lifts the proof of his suitcase acquisition triumph. "Let's get out of here before we're trampled. I hate airports."

     He laughs. "Dad had me drive in D.C.," Pres confides as he moves to follow you. "I'm not a big fan of airports, either. Let's get out of here." He is quiet while following you, intent on the task of parting the able-bodied sea in front of him, not at all shy about judicious jabs of his cane at the pedestrian foot traffic...

     The Eos SE sits in the nearest parking lot, quietly acquiring absurd parking costs for the sake of convenience as every additional quarter hour passes by. It is shiny, black, and beeps cheerfully when Loki points the key in its direction. "My father's off on a boat yelling at Japanese whalers for the rest of the month, so the car's all ours." The trunk pops open, and he drops the suitcase in.
     He presents the keys to you ceremoniously. "Just don't set it on fire, or he'll get all sad about releasing toxic chemicals into the atmosphere. And he gets very unnerving when he's tearing up about pollutants."

     "Your father - no offense - is nuts." Pres grins at you and takes the keys, sliding cautiously in behind the wheel and settling in to adjust mirrors and seat. "You'll need to tell me where we're going, by the way. And in general what the plan is. Steak, right? What after steak?"

     "No offense taken. It's the truth." Loki takes the passenger seat, sliding his earpiece out before he buckles in. "First, steak. After that, it depends on whether you want to catch a nap, or keep moving until later. I figured we'd play it by ear, since I wasn't sure what you'd be up for."

     "I slept on the plane. I"m a little tired, but I'm good for now." Pres puts the car into gear, and pretty soon the silver alloy wheels are spinning merrily away from the airport down the M-16 towards London. He leans back, focusing for a bit on the intricacies of driving on the left side of the road, doing his best to curb his tendency to drift to the right. "So," he says eventually. "How's the band?" It is definitely not Is Balthazar still fucking my sister? But that's still in there. Somewhere.

     "The band's doing fine," Loki says, because Yes, they are totally going at it, though I'm trying not to dwell on that, and you'd be better off not doing so either would be impolitic at best. He cranks his seat back a notch. "Practice is really clicking. Things have been...going well, generally. How was the D.C. trip?"

     "Good. Dad and I talked - really talked - for the first time in a long time. It gave me a lot to think about, to be honest, but it also gave some answers." Pres glances over at you, grinning with the shift in topic. "He's paying for me to begin that treatment. I've had the first couple of appointments already."
     He is almost lightheaded with the relief of it. There is still something heavy and burdensome beneath that - but the difference, already, is immense. There is once again something golden about him, as he used to be, back before the shark incident. That the gold is tempered with something else does not alter that it is gold.

     The seat snaps back upright. "Fuck. Really?" Loki breaks into a sharp, quick grin. "So what do you want to do with the money in that skimming account?"

     "I don't know," Pres admits. "Sit on it and stop skimming, for now, I guess. I, uh. I didn't tell dad about that." There just is no good way to tell your father you've been systematically skimming from your mother for the past several months. "We'll think of something, right? If nothing else, it'll pay for one hell of a wild party - not that that's really our thing."
     He pulls off the M-16 when he see signs for London. "Okay, tell me where to go from here," Pres tells you. He absently brushes his hair back from his eyes. "Anyway, yeah, I don't know what I'm going to do. Dad thinks I should really think about what I want to do, in college. I'm getting good enough grades, and it's early enough that I'm not fucked yet, but ... I don't know what I want to do." He shrugs, some of the gold fading from his mood. "I'll figure something out. I just haven't, yet."

     "You have all summer to start thinking about classes. They expect people to swap them around during the first few weeks anyway. Did you end up applying for that transfer you were talking about?" Loki pulls open the glove compartment to get out a map. This whole driving thing is somewhat trickier than just giving a cabbie an address. "Our exit's next, hang a right at the second light. Now I'm remembering that I chose a restaurant with parking for a reason."

     "Yeah, I applied to a couple of schools, just in case. But - I don't know if it's what I want, now." Pres frowns, weaving through traffic with the ease of somebody who's driven in both Italy and India. "I just dunno, y'know?"
     He turns at the exit, heading for the light and then turning, ignoring the indignant blaring of a taxi cab's horn. "You snooze, you lose, pal," he calls over his shoulder - not that the other driver can hear him. "And yeah, parking's good. Anyway, I'll ... figure it out. I have all summer to think about it, right? How about you, did you get your dad off your back yet?"

     "Left at that light up ahead, look for the faux-Texan look on the right. They're better than the decor suggests." Loki looks out the window into traffic. "I haven't heard from Dad since Boston. Though my father did stop by last week on his way to the anti-whaling thing to be extremely supportive in that way that says he spent three hours on the phone being not-yelled-at."
     He fiddles with the collar on his coat. It acquired a wrinkle at some point. How annoying. "So, hey, I'm still at a 50% approval rating. That's better than some presidents."

     "You need to cut your dad loose." Pres says it without thinking, then grins a bit sheepishly, glancing at you. "Sorry, man. I know it's not that easy. Sucks." He shrugs, embarrassed, and focuses on getting to the restaurant. "You doing okay for money? I could give you the skim, if it'd help. I mean, I don't need it."

     "I'm okay right now. My father's trying to stay out of things--he's not confrontational unless there's some sort of animal rights issue involved--but he went and cranked up my allowance quietly, like I might not notice if he didn't say anything about it." Loki grimaces as briefly as any of his smiles. "I'd as soon get my finances under control enough that I don't need the income from either of them."
     He leans forward to point out the entrance to an underground parking garage. "In there. If you're planning on driving home, that means I can get a drink with dinner."

     "Okay, then." Pres nods. "Yeah, go ahead and drink at dinner." He turns into the parking garage deftly. "I can't drink for two more days, then I'm okay to do so. Doc's got me on some pain killers I take at bedtime to help with the aftereffects of the first operation. I go back for the next one in late August, so it's not going to cut into my summer too much. So. Seen either of my sisters lately?"

     "I've seen Maddie in passing." Don't say "through the door of Balthazar's bedroom," don't say it... Loki unfastens his seat belt. "Gillian's busy, I assume, since I haven't heard from her lately. Which is about what I expected from both of them. I've been sort of distracted myself anyway, with, uh, band stuff."

     "Yeah. Gilly's ... yeah." Pres frowns as he pulls into a parking space and turns off the engine. "I'm a little worried about her. Maddie's graduation ... it got kind of ugly, y'know?"
     He slides out from behind the steering wheel, taking his cane while propping himself up one-handed on the doorframe. "I know this is going to sound stupid what with me being right here, but - do you think you could, you know. Talk to Gillian? Just ... I donno. Meet her for lunch at some point, or something, make sure she's okay?"

     "Sure." Loki automatically checks his pocket for keys before closing the door, and promptly remembers you have them. "I'll drop her an email and arrange lunch. There's at least one thing I wanted to ask her about anyway, a project she was involved in a few months back that I haven't heard anything more on."
     He folds his arms over the car's roof on his side to look at you. "What about you, and Maddie, and Balthazar? Because I'm willing to juggle scheduling if you don't want to run into the two of them without warning, but if so, I need to know ahead of time."

     "I don't know." Pres shrugs and shakes his head, locking the car and moving to follow you into the restaurant. "I'm not evading, I just, I really don't know. I'm a little pissed, you know? That's my sis. My baby sister, no less. And, yeah, okay, they made their choices, and that's cool, that's fine - but they hooked up in Hawaii, and she's sixteen, and I just don't know. I'm still pissed, mostly."
     He sighs, limping towards the restaurant and scowling at the pavement. "I'd like a fucking apology, but there's not much point. I doubt he even sees what he did wrong, to admit it to my face, and even if he did, what would be the point? It's not like I'm a jerk enough to want them to break up to soothe my feelings. It's just a case of Dude, that was wrong."

     "You don't need a point to excuse being pissed." Loki shrugs, falling into step beside you. "It is what it is. If I had any stunningly good advice for settling things I'd offer it, but as it is, I can offer drinks in two days and sympathetic listening on demand."

     "Heh. I kind of want to break his nose," Pres admits as he moves to yank open the door of the steakhouse. "Maddie'd be pissed. Wouldn't stop me if I didn't need to use my cane to do it, but as it is... well... his perfect good looks are safe from me. For now."
     He isn't making promises for further on down the line. "Anyway, Maddie can take care of herself and her boyfriend without me getting involved. For now. But something's up with Gillian, and between me and you, Maddie's snagging Balthazar didn't help. You know why, right?"

     "Why she snagged him? Or why it didn't help? Because on both points we're hitting the place where I raise my hands and go Staying out of this one. Your sisters are fucking terrifying, Pres, and I say this in the nicest way possible. I don't get between them and what they want, or between the two of them when they're having a philosophical disagreement involving dating choices."
     Loki stops at the hostess stand to claim the reservation made earlier. He adds half under his breath, "And if you're going to break something of his, don't break his nose. The whistling sound during the singing would get old during practice really fast."

     "Didn't help." Pres grins reluctantly. "Maybe they're terrifying, but they're still my sisters. And it didn't help," the grin fades, "because of mumsie. Didn't you see her practically bodily throwing Gilly at that damn doctor? She thinks he'll become a senator someday. You can imagine how happy she was that Gillian let a real live duke slip through her hands."
     He shrugs, falling silent while the hostess checks her list, muttering to you sotto voce, "Well, I could kick him in the balls, but then he'd only be singing castrati. Wouldn't help much for your repertoire."

     Loki stifles the choked off laughter in a fist, with a hasty cough to cover it. He keeps his commentary down until a booth has been acquired, and menus, and a lack of waitress. "I suppose he could still sing with a broken arm, but it'd make for weird stage presence, and I am so not suggesting any more ways for you to injure the leader of the band I'm in, who is, I point out, also a friend of mine."
     He drags out the drink menu for a look. "Gilly's got enough going on here already with school and the rest without having doctors flung at her. And I continue to not understand why everyone is throwing fits over the Duke issue. Maybe it's an east coast/west coast thing."
     Now, knowing about the sun god aspect, that would be a title worth throwing fits over.

     "Because we're Boston blue bloods, mostly. Not as much as mumsie likes to think we are, but enough to count." Pres shrugs. "The only way Gilly's going to be able to top Maddie's landing a real, live duke is going to be to marry into the fucking royal family. Maddie's a good kid. She's my sister, even if she has ... issues. I just ... well, I'm worried about how this extra pressure is going to affect her."
     He opens his menu, taking refuge behind it so you can't see the look on his face. "She's a perfectionist and an overachiever. What do you think she might do?"

     "Throw herself into her studies and do something amazingly newsworthy that way?" Loki gives you the polite distance of not looking at you directly while the menu's open. It's something of a moot point when what he's getting from you isn't coming from the expression on your face, anyway. "Or did you mean Maddie? I don't know. I've never known her as well as you or Gilly. She seems to be coping just fine so far. The distance probably helps."

     "Gillian. Maddie's practically a cheerleader." Pres shrugs that off, brooding behind his menu. His mood's dipped down; he's definitely worried. "She'll throw herself into her studies. Fuck, I'm worried she'll throw herself into the river."

     "She won't. It'd give her incompletes on her record." Loki tilts a slight smile your way. "I'll get in touch and see how she's doing. She owes me an update on one of her projects that I gave her a hand on. Don't stress it too much, really. Boston got ugly, but she's not there now."

     "Yeah. Maybe." Pres doesn't sound convinced, but seems willing to let it slide. He eyes the menu again. "I'll have the t-bone steak, medium rare, with the yorkshire pudding and the scalloped potatoes. What're you getting?"

     "Prime rib, I guess. And a draft beer, because I'm being wild and reckless tonight." Loki flips his menu closed. "If I really want to live on the edge, I may even go for dessert."

     He laughs at that, setting his menu aside. "Right," Pres grins, the smile sparkling. "Right on the fucking edge. Let's live to have regrets but save the regrets til we're eighty. We're in London, right? Cheers, mate."

Posted by rowan at May 16, 2009 10:07 AM