"You're kidding, right?" Phobos scoffed. He didn't bother to look up from the lock of hair he had wrapped around his finger, the blood red strands a beautiful highlight against his brown skin.

"And why would I be?" Strife asked in reply, casual from his tone to the way he sprawled on his side of the squeaky leather couch.

Phobos frowned at that, a slight furrowing of his brow that crinkled his nose.  All he'd ever needed was a pair of pointed ears to make him look like an elf. "It's just not, I don't know, godly. We don't do that."

"That's the perfect reason to do it," Strife responded in a patient tone.

That got Deimos' attention. He was nearly addicted to Pokémon -- Strife thought it had something to do with Team Rocket; he suspected Deimos had a crush on Jessie, or possibly Meowth -- so getting him to look away from it meant that he was very disturbed by what he heard.

"You gotta be shitting me," Deimos said, leaning back on his elbows in the beanbag chair, craning his head further back to look at both his brother and Strife. The television was the only illumination in the room and Strife thought, not for the first time, that the stark lighting made Deimos look even more washed out than he normally was, his hair a ghostly white.

He raised an eyebrow at Deimos' choice of words, not because he disapproved, but more because he knew the superior attitude drove his cousin batshit. Right on cue, Deimos reached out with one arm, trying to hit his leg. Strife tucked the leg up under him, moving it well out of reach in a motion that was in no way hurried and he knew would annoy Deimos more.

Unbalanced by his attack, Deimos couldn't hold himself up and fell back into the beanbag. It let out a whoosh of air and Deimos struggled for a few moments to pull himself out of the thing. Strife smirked in mild amusement. Only Deimos could do battle with furniture on a daily basis, and lose.

Eventually Deimos had to roll himself out of the beanbag, coming to rest on the floor in front of the couch, right by Phobos' bare feet.

"As long as you're down there dusting the floor, why don't you give me a foot massage," Phobos said, nudging Deimos' arm with his toes, naturally dark skin a sharp contrast even against Deimos' tan.

Deimos stuck out his tongue at his brother. "You can't do that, Strife," he said as he sat up, shoving Phobos' feet away.

"Yeah? Why not?" Strife asked, still smirking. This promised to be fun.

"Um...well," Deimos hesitated, looking up at his brother for help. Phobos just shrugged, although he didn't look all that thrilled either. "You're a god," Deimos finally said, lamely to Strife's mind.

"Phobos already covered that," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Have any better reasons? Because if not, I'm thinking it's still early and I should head on out, see if I can get a good spot."

It was vaguely amusing to see their eyes widen in horror like that. Phobos had stopped playing with his hair and was staring at him, his eyes the same ice blue they all shared despite their other variances in appearance.

"What about the other gods?" Deimos blurted out, almost running his words together. "I mean, how're you gonna face them if you do that, cuz?"

Strife snorted. "When did you two ever get the impression that I had any sense of shame? Fuck 'em. I don't care what they think."

Phobos and Deimos glanced at each other and Strife saw reluctant acknowledgement of that little fact pass between them. Maybe they did have their own way of communicating, but he'd spent enough time with them over the millennia to crack some of that code.

"Okay, so maybe you could do it," Phobos conceded that much, no more though, "but you won't."

That got another raised eyebrow from Strife. He loved a challenge. "What makes you think that?"

"It's not you, cuz," Deimos answered. "You're a 'behind the scenes' kind of guy; you don't get out there and get your hands dirty. Not anymore."

"Yeah, well, it's not my hands we're talking about. Maybe my knees though." His smirk took on a wicked edge as the horror returned to their expressions. "So, what do you two want to bet?"

"Bet?" Deimos' voice was pitched a little higher than normal.

"Duh, cuz. You just told me I wouldn't do it and I say I will; so what're the stakes?" Strife knew he had them. They couldn't get out of this unless they wanted to simply hand him a victory. Of course, they'd backed themselves straight into this and that was going to make it sting even worse when they lost.

Strife let his head fall back against the bricks with a small sigh, closing his eyes. He'd been standing there for almost a half hour now with no propositions; maybe it was time to move up the block a bit.

He really hadn't been serious when he'd first tossed out this suggestion. A god selling himself on the street like a common mortal whore, preposterous. But when he'd seen his cousins' reactions, the opportunity for entertainment had become too good to pass up.

Strife rarely got his kicks anymore by messing with mortals in person, Deimos was right about that. The world was too big to devote all that attention to one insignificant mortal, so finding ways to amuse himself outside of his job had become problematic for Strife. Therefore it wasn't the selling himself part that was the attraction, although that was an amusing novelty in and of itself, it was more the way he could use it to bait his cousins. Even after so many centuries he loved finding new ways to pull their strings.

Of course doing that successfully would require winning this wager and so far things weren't looking so good. He'd put on his most appropriate outfit -- ripped black T-shirt, faded jeans, old tennis shoes; he'd left in his ear and navel rings but removed his tongue piercing, figuring it might turn off potential customers. Except he had yet to see one single john. The area itself had looked good enough, kind of seedy without being a total dive, and there was plenty of traffic, but no one had ever stopped. Maybe he should've worn make-up?

The sound of footsteps accompanied by hushed voices caught his attention, breaking into his musings. Strife opened his eyes -- and just stared. The man stopped in front of him and smiled politely. Strife blinked.

"Well, ho, ho, Santa," he muttered in bemusement, staring at the mortal before him. He was hot in a serious way, tall, dark and all that, but you really had to get past the outfit to see it, and Strife was having problems with that. Red. Very, very, red. And what was with the hat?

"Good evening, sir," the man greeted him, his tone just as polite as his smile, and wasn't that kind of strange. "I believe the customary dialogue attributed to Kris Kringle -- commonly known as Santa Claus -- is 'ho, ho, ho,' three of the 'ho's' to be precise."

Strife had to grin. This was just too weird, even for him. "Nah," he said with an exaggerated look around, "just one of us 'ho's' here."

The man...blushed? Strife's grin widened further.

"Ah, yes; I stand corrected." He reached up to flick a finger over a black eyebrow. "Be that as it may, if you were making a reference to the color of my uniform, I should inform you that it is the official uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and while I have been posted above the Arctic Circle, it really has no bearing on the legend of Santa Claus."

"A Mountie. You don't say?" There were so many jokes Strife could've made, so many double entendres, single ones too, but he really couldn't bring himself to do it. If the word 'ho' made this guy blush, anything more might send him packing and Strife was too amused to let that happen right away.

"Well, yes, actually, I do," the man said in all seriousness. "Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP." He held out his hand. Wondering when reality had turned so strange, Strife found himself returning the greeting in a fashion customary to him, grasping forearms. If the archaic move surprise Benton, he didn't show it.

"So what's a Mountie doing...." Strife frowned as he released Benton's arm, then looked around the street in confusion. "Wherever we are," he finished. He had no idea where that was. His apartment was in New York, but he'd just randomly chosen a city in which to "ply his trade."

"Chicago." A new voice provided the answer. "C'mon, Frase, time to get moving." Tall, wiry, blond, it could've been Deimos -- if Deimos had been more bad-ass and scruffy looking. Oh, they looked little alike save for the physical type, but this mortal moved a lot like Deimos, the fluidness as he came to a halt beside Benton, the way he jerked his head indicating that they should leave. Strife wondered if, despite every obstacle Ares and Aphrodite had come up with over the years, Deimos had managed to reproduce.

"Now, Ray, that would be rude," Benton chided. "I haven't answered the question."

Ray rolled eyes that were only a shade darker blue than Deimos', then he turned his attention to Strife. "He came to Chicago on the trail of his father's killers and for reasons that you don't need to hear, stayed as a lesion--"

"Liaison, Ray," Benton cut in, his tone resigned as though they'd been through this many times.

"S'what I said," Ray sounded slightly irritable with the interruption. "Liaison between the Canadian Consulate and the Chicago Police Department, which is me." He draped an arm over Benton's shoulder and dangling from his hand was an open wallet displaying a badge.

Strife fought the urge to laugh aloud. Oh, this just got better and better. He wondered what would happen if he placed a long-distance call to his cousins asking them to come bail him out of jail. Or maybe he could phone Zeus and ask him to fork over a good lawyer? The pantheon would have a collective heart attack and the thought gave Strife more warm and fuzzy feelings than he'd had in years. But he wasn't going to do it. The thought was good enough.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to proposition him," Strife said to Ray -- Detective Raymond Vecchio, or so said the badge. He didn't look all that Italian to Strife.

"Good, 'cuz I don't wanna waste my time hauling you in." Ray flipped the wallet closed and transferred it to his free hand, then shoved it in the back pocket of his jeans.

"Yeah, well, it's not because of you. He's just so...innocent," Strife said, his grin taking on epic proportions.

Benton blushed more and Ray snorted in amusement. "Let's go, Frase," he said a moment later, smiling slightly himself now. "We should get back before Dief talks Frannie into giving him more donuts."

"Just a moment, Ray." Still blushing, Benton nevertheless met Strife's eyes without hesitation. "If I may ask, why are you out here? If it would help, I could give you the name of two local shelters that take in...disadvantaged youth."

And he put it so nicely too! Polite, well-spoken, good looking, intelligent -- and apparently very taken, judging from that possessive arm Ray still had draped over his shoulder. Pity. Strife dismissed it with a mental shrug. Wasn't what he'd come here looking for anyway. Time to help Ray move him along before Benton tried to "help" him any more.

"Don't worry about it," Strife said casually, standing up straight and letting his shirt fall back to its normal position. "I'm not making a living out of it."

"Sure you aren't," Ray said sarcastically. "Look, Frase, this is a lost cause, okay?"

Benton gave him a disappointed look before turning his attention back to Strife, his expression becoming earnest. "Doing this may seem like an easy way to make money now, but I promise you that this life will only get harder. There are so many better ways of funding your future than...this, and if you'd like to make an attempt at finding them, I'll be happy to help...."

If he said anything else, Strife didn't hear it. By that point he'd lost the battle for self control and was laughing out loud, letting the wall support him as his body shook with pure, joyful humor. It'd been so damn long since he'd been this entertained. "Oh, man, my cousins are never going to believe this!" he gasped out between fading chuckles.

Ray was giving him a wary look, as though doubting his sanity, but Benton just looked disappointed. "Your cousins are...in this line of work as well?"

"In this line--?" That sent Strife into another fit of laughter and he almost slid down the side of the building, only the rough surface of the bricks giving him something to cling to. "Those two? Are you kidding?" He snorted, finally pulling himself back up to a straighter position. "Deimos would work for the Peace Corp before he'd ever do this." And that thought almost had him laughing again, but he controlled it when he realized what he'd said. It made him pause for a moment, but then he decided, what the hell? What did it matter what two mortals knew? Maybe they'd leave him alone if he gave them a good reason, like thinking he was a total head case.

"I'm out here on a bet," he said, still grinning widely. "Name's Strife, by the way."

"Strife." Benton frowned, looking thoughtful. "Your family uses mythological names?"

The grin took on a mischievous tone. "Nah, we are the mythology. Anyway, it started when I told Phobos -- you know, God of Panic? -- when I told him I thought I could do pretty good out here on the streets."

A minute or two later, Strife had finished the tale and was trying not to laugh again at the look Ray was giving him, like he was now one hundred percent certain that Strife was ready for the nut house. Benton, well, Strife really couldn't read that look, and it interested him.

"So, you would be the god of...Strife then," Benton said, and he sounded thoughtful again. Ray apparently didn't like the sound of that because he suddenly grabbed Benton's arm and tried to pull him away.

"Would you just come on already?" he demanded. "The guy's nuts; let him do his thing and be happy, huh? We have a case file to look over, remember?"

Benton nodded, a crisp, military movement. "Right you are, Ray. Just...one thing first. That wager you made," he turned his attention back to Strife, "were the terms worded exactly as you stated? That you had to sell your 'services?'"

Strife nodded. "Yep, that's what we bet on."

"Ah, good." Benton took off his hat, turned it upside down and pulled out two purple pieces of paper. "Loan me twenty dollars, Ray."

"What?" Ray said incredulously, and with more than a touch of anger. "Fraser, I am not giving you money so you can just throw it away like that." He motioned vaguely in Strife's direction.

"Of course you're not, Ray, it's a loan. I'll pay you back tomorrow." He looked at Ray expectantly.

For a moment Strife thought Ray might either yell or hit something, but then he just shook his head and yanked out his wallet. "Hell, it might get him off the streets for a night," he muttered, pulling out a twenty and shoving it at Benton.

Well, wasn't that sweet? They guy had a heart under that rough exterior. Normally it might've made Strife want to gag, but none of this was in any way normal and he just kept smiling.

Benton held out the three bills, the American twenty and what had to be two Canadian tens. Strife accepted them with a bemused raise of his eyebrows. "So...what can I do for you?" He wasn't even going to try to make a guess; this was well outside of his venue.

"Since you're the God of Strife, I'd like you to keep any undue forces of...hardship or difficulty from our lives."

Ray's head fell forward onto Benton's shoulder and he groaned in theatrical disbelief.

Strife looked at him for a moment, using his thumb to bend the money around his fingers, feeling the texture as he considered the request. He had to give the guy points for smarts, that was for damn sure.

Finally he nodded. "Done," he said in all seriousness.

Benton looked just as solemn when he nodded back, and Strife wondered if he was being mocked, but quickly decided that wasn't in Benton's nature. For whatever reason -- probably just to get him off the street as Ray had said -- Benton was willing to treat this seriously.

"Look, don't be here tomorrow, okay?" Ray said, raising his head, and all traces of his earlier temper had vanished. "Police station's just up the block and if I don't bust you, someone else will."

So that's why there hadn't been any customers! Strife smiled again, closer to a smirk maybe. "Not a problem. I won the bet."

"Uh-huh, whatever. Time to go." Ray patted Benton's arm, then let him go and walked off, heading, unsurprisingly towards the station.

"Well, it was nice meeting you, Strife," Benton said, putting his hat back on and straightening it.

"Sure thing," Strife nodded to him as he began to walk away. "Hey, hold up a second," he said suddenly, almost before he realized he'd meant to say it.

Benton stopped, turning to face him again with a politely quizzical expression, hands clasped behind his back.

"Why?" Strife asked, holding up the money.

Benton glanced behind him; Ray was standing just a few feet up the block, well within hearing range and starting to look impatient, tapping his foot, drumming his fingers on his crossed arms. Benton cleared his throat and returned his gaze to Strife. Then he spoke, and it was the most beautifully, perfectly pronounced Greek Strife had heard spoken by a mortal in over two thousand years.

"I once told the full, true story of my life and how I came to live here, to a mental health official; I was committed the next day. The truth is not always the most logical sounding thing and often people will believe what is easiest for them, rather than accepting the truth."

Strife knew he was grinning openly again, and he could barely suppress a laugh of delight. "I think the Fates are playing games again," he said, slipping gratefully into his native tongue, enjoying the opportunity to speak it outside of family. "Go join your friend; the gods' blessings go with you both." It was a literal blessing as he'd said it himself.

Benton nodded once more to Strife, then did an about-face and walked off towards Ray.

Strife watched him go, shaking his head in amusement. There was no way this had been random, a chance meeting; but who was he to question the Fates? If it was indeed them orchestrating things and not some other force. And it didn't matter now anyway. He'd won. Time to leave.

But instead he just made himself invisible to mortal eyes, one moment there, the next gone. There was no one to see him do it, even Benton and Ray had their backs to him.

"What was all that?" he heard Ray ask as Benton joined him. "Sounded like a bunch of gibberish. Thought you only knew French and Mandarin."

"Yes, well," Benton tugged at the collar of his red uniform, "Classical Greek was a part of my upbringing and I've endeavored to maintain a proficiency in it over the years."

"Classical--? You're telling me that kid speaks Ancient Greek? Hey, where'd he go?"

They both looked back, Ray scanning the area with suspicious eys; Benton just gave a calm shrug. "To see his cousins, I'd imagine. He did win the wager, after all."

"Back to the other 'gods,' huh?" Ray snorted. "Right." But he gave the street a last, careful once-over before turning and walking away. Benton followed him without a look back.

Strife tucked the money into his back pocket, watching them go with a smile. Whatever had precipitated this, it'd been well worth it. Maybe he hadn't stuck to the spirit of the wager, but this story was wild enough to impress even the Gods of Panic and Pain. They'd be falling all over themselves for months trying to top this one and by that time Strife would have found something else he could use to throw them off balance.

It was good to be Strife.