ArchivedLogs:Keeping Your Figure

Keeping Your Figure
Dramatis Personae Eric, Lucien	2013-02-18 '
Location <NYC> Central Park North
Central Park North is slightly quieter than its southern counterpart, being further uptown and slightly out of the bustle of the City - insofar as one can escape the bustle of the City even here, in the acres of green and blue that make up Central Park. The reservoir is in the northern half, providing miles of jogging and biking trails along the clear water, as well as benches for people to sit and rest. It's warmed enough that the jogging trails here are heavily trafficked. Joggers, dog-walkers, people pushing strollers, people out chatting as they circle the reservoir. Lucien doesn't look like he's out for a jog or any other form of exercise; his suit is neat-pressed and neat-tailored, dove grey, tie dark where it can be seen over his only partially-buttoned peacoat. He is checking the time on his phone, checking the messages on his phone, frowning at both these things like they displease him. He has a few bags, on his arm. One from a record store in Harlem, a few slim booklets of sheet music inside; one from a bookstore nearby, holding a pair of paperbacks; one nondescript in black plastic. Who knows what it holds. At the moment, he is /on/ the jogging path, though he is not moving, making traffic flow around him as he eyes the reservoir. Then turns, to eye a few stands nearby. Hot dogs, at one. Kebabs at another. He's giving these both critical thought. And then glancing at his phone again. "Excuse me!" A southern accent calls from behind Lucien, and a bike swerves quickly past the other man, pedaling, hard, after one of the joggers. From the street, a siren can be heard and a police car is driving slowly onto the curb, spilling its officers out as they run in the direction of the biker. The biker is, himself, a police officer, if the tiny little red and blue lights mounted on the handlebars and the back of his seat and the large-print POLICE on the back of his shirt can be believed. It does not take the biker long to overcome the jogger and bring the bike skidding to a sharp stop in front of his path. As quickly as the police had arrived, bike and car, the jogger is being walked over to the car in handcuffs by the two uniformed police, and the bike cop is leaning against his bike, taking a long drag from a squeezy-bottle. Lucien does not, in fact, move at this, though the other man swerves past him easily enough. He actually flinches when he /does/ bother to look up, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment and looking away from the little flashers mounted on the handlebars. Having apparently made up his mind, Lucien saunters forward towards the kebab stand, eying the bike cop as he nears. "Is there a speed limit?" He is watching the jogger being escorted away. Perhaps noticing the other man's discomfort, Eric reaches behind him and flicks a switch mounted on the handlebars. The lights, front and back, go black. "Oh, no. But flashing people isn't looked kindly upon, at any speeds." he says, glancing to the man being led away. "We've been chasing him around the park for a couple weeks, but we've not been able to find him until now. We just got lucky and I was not far from him when the call came in." he says, flashing Lucien a smile as he looks over the suited man. "No? You just were." Though Lucien is glancing to the lights rather than to Eric. There's a rustle of plastic as he shifts his hand, glancing at his phone once more but then slipping it into a pocket. Eric chuckles, eyes twinkling. "I suppose you're right," he says, saying the word as if it has an 'a' in it. "But not the kind of flashing that you might get arrested for. This kind of flashin' is allowed." his eyes twinkle. "The other kind, too, if done between consentin' adults in private." "Goodness, I certainly hope so," Lucien murmurs to that last, dropping his gaze to turn a small private smile downwards. To the path, maybe. To his bags. To his gleaming dress shoes. His own accent is a soft thing, less drawling in its francophone-tinged syllables. "Else my weekends would tend to end rather more badly. Jail is a terrible end-cap to -- well." His head shakes. He takes a step forward, towards the stall, to order a lamb kebab. He gets a Coke to go with it. "Mine as well. Jail is a terrible end-cap to much of anything. Not even a particularly good place to visit. I suggest recommending other locations to your travel agent." Eric says, kicking up the, well, kick-stand of his bike and following Lucien towards the kebab stand. He smiles and greets the vendor by name, but gets nothing to eat. He does get a Sprite, though, which he takes a sip of and then places in the empty of the two drink holders on his bike. "I suppose you would know." Lucien pays for his food, pockets the change. Turns, but not far. He leans against a bench to open the soda, drinking long and deep, his kebab held in the opposite hand. He eyes the one drink holder, and then the other, his eyebrows raising. "Thirsty work?" "Very. I was a patrol officer before I joined the bike squad, and we'd be walking around the entire shift, many days." Eric shakes his head, leaning against the bicycle and taking a sip from his squeezy-bottle. "That was nothing to this. Now, I might have to bike fifteen, twenty, twenty-five miles per day." There's a quick flick of Lucien's gaze, down over Eric's form. Brief, and soon shifting as he takes a bite of his lamb. "A more productive way to keep in shape," he decides, musing, once he has swallowed, "than hitting the gym every day." His thumb presses lightly at the corner of his mouth, wiping away a possibly-invisible fleck of sauce, and he slips it between his lips to suck it clean. "Colder, though." "I do both. Every other day, that is. One feeds into the other, and they try not to put us out on the streets on the bikes every day. Every other day, usually, sometimes three." Eric gives a little half-shrug, shifting to accentuate his musculature as the other man looks him over. "Sometimes more, sometimes less. There aren't enough police officers trained for it, so, we have to make do." His eyes watch the other man's lips curl around his thumb and he smiles. "Mmm, yes," Lucien murmurs, slipping his thumb out of his mouth, "it does seem like a rather tiring excess of work for most officers." He lifts his soda can for another drink, slow, his eyes travelling the same path they had just swept. In reverse, now, lifting back /up/ along Eric's form until they reach his face. "All the more respect, then," he says, lightly, bright green eyes meeting Eric's, "for those who make the cut." "Well, doughnuts are a hard thing to resist for people in my profession," Eric says, unashamed by the other man's gaze, and echoing his own on the other man's body. "I have frequently joked that they should give us a discount card at Krispy Kreme. Or, I guess, Dunkin', up here." he says, squirting another bit of water into his mouth and capping the bottle. "Sadly, we just have to devote a lot of our meager salary to it instead." "It sounds a hardship," Lucien says, quite solemnly. "Surely frequent customers like yourselves can at least accumulate rewards card bonuses fairly quickly." Another bite of kebab, and he takes his time with this one, washing it down with a sip of soda afterwards. "You would think people would be lining up for your post. I can only imagine all that biking works off the donuts fairly quickly." "As you say, not everyone is cut out for it." Eric drawls, eyes twinkling. "And transfers are not so easy to make in the police force. They happen, or they don't, and sometimes you have very little control over which is the case." He shrugs, once, leaning against the bike. "And you? What do you do to stay in shape?" "Eat horrible greasy food from street vendors." /Demonstratively/, Lucien takes another bite of his kebab. "Lounge about parks watching more adventurous people jog or --" He flicks a glance at Eric's bicycle. "Make arrests." Eric chuckles, eyes twinkling. "Sounds quite the exciting life. And Ahmad's food isn't bad. It's just..." the police officer's lips quirk into a grin. "Greasy. But greasy food can be quite delightful, in many circumstances." he replaces the water bottle in its home and pulls the sprite back out to take a sip of it. "Certainly. Or I would not be eating it. But," Lucien says, mildly, "it does little for one's figure." There's a buzzing from his pocket, and he is /quick/ to answer it, setting his soda down on the bench so that he can look at his message. "They say," he is saying, as he answers it, "that having an interesting life is a curse. Perhaps I am just exceptionally blessed." "Oh? And what is interesting you now?" Eric asks, looking curiously down at the phone and giving a slanting smile to Lucien as he eyes the other man. "There is a balance in all things. If you are blessed in some ways, perhaps you must also be blessed in others." Lucien's eyebrows raise, as he swipes a message out, tucks his phone back away. "Have you looked at the world, lately?" he asks, mildly. "Do you really believe things are balanced?" Eric laughs and shakes his head, lips curling up into a sardonic grin. "Not at all. Not in the /least/." His radio blares for a moment, and Eric tilts his head to listen to it only for a moment before turning the volume down on it. "But. I can keep hoping that I will look and see it so." "If only hope could change the world," Lucien is talking down to his kebab, now, his jaw tightening slowly until he takes another bite. "How is that plan working out for you?" "Disappointment, so far. But I'll keep trying, for a while, anyway. It's either that or drink until I can't feel feelings anymore, and I've got to maintain my figure." Eric pats his stomach for a moment, eyes twinkling. "Priorities." "Is disappointment good for your figure? That would explain a lot," Lucien muses, half to himself. "I am sure all those miles of biking could work off quite a bit of beer, too. You need not worry." "I won't worry, too much." The radio blares again, and Eric turns to it. This time, he winces. "Sorry, that's me." He grabs for the microphone on his chest and depresses the button on it. "Portable 2. Bethesda Terrace, 10-4." He gives the other man an apologetic look. "Duty calls and all that." He gives Lucien a little salute as he climbs onto his bike. "Enjoy your lounging!" he calls, laughter in his tone, as he takes off down the path. Lucien offers a smile in return to the salute, quick and easy. It fades as soon as Eric takes off. His expression slips back into neutral-leaning-grim, his lean against the bench more of a slump.