nysalogs | Two spies on a park bench (Closed)

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Two spies on a park bench (Closed)

Who: Brock Rumlow (

ukase) & Byerly Vorrutyer (

vorrutyer)
What: Two perfectly normal gents meeting on a park bench to people watch, drink alcohol, and gossip.
When: The evening after this thread occurred.
Where: Park bench. In a park. Per the map.
Warning(s): Probably language. Will add as necessary

[Rumlow had been amused that they had agreed on friendship over discussion of orgies, then moved to attempting a dinner date somewhere and finally settled on drinking on a public park bench. That seemed to be his stride, and he recognized that this was one of those situations that would either allow them a better assessment of each other and keep the 'friendship', or they would likely hate one another for life. That's how most of his relationships went anyway. He was either liked and respected or he was loathed.

His opponents generally didn't survive long. He'd hate to have to go that far with his first friend of new beginnings.

He had come to the park bench earlier than the set upon time, performing some general recon on the area, the escape routes, the general population that came around here, and noting all the points where he could have his head blown off. There were many of the last point, but that was the risk with public meetings. He didn't consider himself well-known or infamous enough to earn a hit so soon.

He stepped up to the bench at ten minutes to seven and settled himself upon it, armed with a sidearm on his hip and a knife hidden on his calf. He might not be expecting trouble, but he was always prepared for it; he was from a country where openly carrying a sidearm was allowed in the law, and he saw no reason to change that here and now.

He slung an arm along the back of the bench and watched people as they did their evening walks. All chatty, all hands gesturing, all with weird manner of pets in tow. He set one ankle on his opposite knee and looked perfectly comfortable, like he belonged there. He also had a bottle of his own alcohol of choice, since friends shared. The bottle was sealed; he hadn't looked into the laws of public alcohol consumption.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I don't quite care how you look at me, friend. Just most people don't consider me the pick of the litter as I am now.

[Before his life literally and figuratively collapsed around him, he had been quite the looker. He didn't like the scars for what they represented over how they made him look; they were a constant reminder of what he had lost. But as to anyone's actual opinion of him, he didn't care. He could like himself enough for the both of them.

He watched the Byerly with a seemingly idle interest, but he also knew the name of the game, the way that finger shifted around the label in search of tampering. So more than a pretty face, huh? He said nothing for his own observations, filing the information away.]

If that's the case, feel free to drink up. I'll fireman carry you home like a great friend.

[ Byerly would be hanged before he took the first swig out of the bottle. Barrayarans never drink first - culturally, the person who brought the booze is always obligated to take the first glug, to prove it's safe. So, instead, he hands it back to Rumlow, implicitly an invitation for him to open it himself, saying: ]

To whose home would we go, great friend? I wouldn't mind a bed to sleep it off in. [ And a little flutter of his eyelashes makes it clear just what the implications of a bed are. ]

[Rumlow, a man who grew up rough and clawed his way out of that life, still took the bottle back and cracked the seal with a practiced ease. He was not entirely one for tradition, particularly any idea of high society. It just wasn't his way; it was why he was a soldier, even if he could fake it when he needed to and often did.

It was all part of being a good tactician. He offered the now open bottle back to his companion, waiting to see what the other would do given it was open but still virgin of anyone's lips.]

Well, you haven't told me where you live, and it seems unwise to guess. So, you either tell me, or I dump you off at a hotel to sleep off your intoxication. [He smiled and winked, not at all opposed to a random tryst.] Unless you don't trust me, of course, which I completely understand.

[ Byerly doesn't wave the bottle off; he simply ignores it, like in his fuzzy drunken state he's incapable of focusing on more than one thing at a time. And, indeed, he makes a show of being raptly attentive to this flirting. ]

What - you're not keen on breaking into a random house? Making use of their bed? It would add a little spice to it, I'd think.

[This guy just gave as good as he could take, and Rumlow happened to like that. It didn't even matter that he could probably drown this guy in a shallow puddle - not that he was counting anyone out in a fight - but they didn't even know each other's names and apparently they were heading for a real random hook-up. Spicy was a great word for it.

He still held the bottle out, resting his elbow on the back of the bench as if everything about this was as casual as could be.]

Is that what you're after? A drunken random hook-up? I mean, I could call Jones and see if she would be into a threesome... in a random house on a random bed? Think she'd be into that?

[ Byerly purses his lips challengingly, still ignoring that bottle. ]

What - would I not be enough? Do you need a woman there?

[He laughed, thoroughly enjoying himself.]

Hardly. I'm more worried for your safety in an event like that. And you didn't answer my question: a little fling what you're actually after?

I'm after all of life's pleasures.

[ Byerly smiles slowly at Rumlow. ]

Are you one of them? The pleasures of life?

So which of life's pleasures are still on your bucket list to complete? Point form is fine by me.

[His grin widened, waggling his eyebrows flirtatiously.]

I can be a lot of things, as I'm sure you saw on my post.

Well, I've never slept with a...

[ Byerly trails off and makes a show of thinking. Finally, he asks: ]

What's your first name?

[He snorted softly and finally brought the bottle of whiskey to settle next to him on the bench.]

People have to earn my first name, but I can certainly tell you that you've never slept with a Rumlow.

Let me think -

[ He purses his lips, again demonstrably pondering. ]

No, you're right. You're my first Rumlow. But, say, what can I do to earn that pleasure?

I know. All my relatives still toil the soil in Italy. They can speak four words of English between the lot of them.

[Anyone that knew anything about names would be able to tell where he was from, especially with the way he looked. There was no point hiding where he came from anyway. Nonna would haunt him if he tried.]

Well... I like creativity, so that's the only hint you're getting. What should I call you, friend?

That depends.

[ By smiles slyly at Rumlow. ]

How much do you like me?

I think you and I can see eye-to-eye, and I'm willing to be your friend for longer than a network conversation.

[That's fairly likable in his books.]

I'd also like you more if I knew why you don't drink first. Don't trust me not to poison your ass?

Hm? Oh.

[ By blinks down at the booze, a little puzzled. He plays it well. He doesn't ever oversell it; his character is complete and polished and believable. If you don't watch too closely, it's damnably easy to buy him as nothing more than a drunken fool. ]

I was waiting for you to drink. Sorry, do your people not have that custom? The person who brought the drink always takes first sip. [ Then, like it's just occurring to him - ] I wonder if it's because they're scared of poison. Huh.

[ Then, smoothly: ]

And you can call me either Vorrutyer or By. Whichever your pleasure is.

[He was highly perceptive, knew how to read the signs of a good cover, even the best covers. He had once built the best cover, and he was doing little more than building another here. Unlike Romanoff, he didn't often change his name. There was pride in that name no matter what he might say otherwise. He just have code names he sat on, but all good spies left pieces of their original selves in every cover they made.

He wasn't one hundred percent where this guy stood, but the hairs on the back of his neck were up enough where he was still suspicious. It just wasn't enough to go flying off and make accusations. They were to be amenable and so they would be.]

Nah, where I'm from, whoever brings the alcohol offers it to the guest first as a sign of respect. Seems like our traditions are opposite. Good thing there is clarification, isn't it? [He raised an eyebrow.] Whom are you referring?

[He chuckled again, offering the bottle one more time. If it was refused or ignored again, he would take the first sip.]

I like that it took us longer for introduction. It keeps me curious for certain. What I call you depends on my mood.

On your mood, eh?

[ By gives a little grin. ]

Well, to help you decide...Vorrutyer is my honorific name. If you want to respect my lordship, then call me that. But the Vorrutyers are a pack of vicious sadists and sycophants, so if you want to please me, call me By. [ Then, gracefully gesturing: ] But since I'm teaching you Barrayaran custom, let me introduce you to the Barrayaran way of drinking. You take a deep swig, right from the neck of the bottle, and then wipe it off with your sleeve.

[ Byerly is, it must be noted, quite stubborn. And paranoid. ]

[Ah family history, a little give and take. He supposed he wasn't entirely expecting that from a guy he literally met hours ago on a random post. He snorted, amused by the fact that there would be an honourific name compared to the one that a man preferred to be called. Wasn't that just always the way?]

I respect lords who prove they should be respected, just as an aside. [He wasn't expecting to meet the family or anything. That might get awkward.] You want me to deep throat a bottle, huh? That's a good way of getting killed in my books.

[Still, he followed the custom all the same, though he purposefully added more than his fair share of tongue action tot he head of it, eyes crinkling with mirth. He pulled back and wiped his mouth on his sleeve and then made a great show of fluttering his way into a deep bow where his forehead almost touched the bench that was still between them.

He enacted his posh and pretentious of voices.]

Oh, my great lord of lords, do let me grovel upon your lap at some point in our budding friendship. [He rose and offered the bottle.] Bottoms up, I say.

[ He presses his fingertips to his lips, eyes wide in mock-amazement. ]

Dear heavens.

[ His voice is low and falsely reverent. By reaches out and takes the bottle, then, and wraps his lips around it - and then actually starts to perform an act of mock-fellatio on it. Just quickly, a single slide down and up again, and then a deep glug. He lowers the bottle, then, and purrs - ]

What a fine flavor. So tell me, Rumlow, who's taken revenge on you? [ A little gesture of his hand. ] The premise of our discussion.

[He watched the lewd show with amusement, eyes following the motion of the bottle, and it seemed that they were, for a time, on the same page. Mocking those that weren't here to defend their own traditions. Or his leg was being pulled. Either way, great show.

Oh, they were back to that. He reached out and stole the bottle from By, grinning.]

Way back then, no one. The little one who decided to try... it didn't end so well for him. [He took a good swig from the bottle, offering it back.]

Do go on. I'm owed a story. [ And then, with a flirty wink - ] And you're welcome for sweetening that whiskey.

[ You know. With his saliva. ]

Oh, are you? What makes you think you're owed anything?

[He took the bottle back to run his tongue over the rim and then offered it again.]

Considering I took first deep-throat, I sweetened it. Indirect kiss right here.

Ah, bragging about being the one to make the first moves?

Well, I am a leader. Making the first move and the best decision is what I do.

[He winked.]

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