It was a clandestine meeting on a not-so-random night, the time carefully chosen by the elder of the two individuals in questions, as he possessed the distinct advantage of knowing where the younger man would be at any given time. He was limited only by his memory, which happened to be excellent, and his wits, which remained exceedingly sharp. He had selected the opportune moment, made his excuses to his travelling companion, and met up with his target quite easily.
The other man reacted calmly, as if he had been expecting the meeting he should not have been able to predict. They exchanged a mere handful of words before retreating to a secluded hotel staffed by discreet employees. The best room in the house was soon theirs. They did not bother with lights, so it was fortunate that both occupants possessed excellent night vision.
If one had happened to eavesdrop, however, one might have been surprised by the brief exchange of words between the two fellows.
"I hate you, Scarecrow," the taller man would have first been heard to say.
The shorter man promptly replied, "I hate you too, Fancy Pants."
The bed squeaked as he turned over. A pause in the conversation ensued. Whatever was happening in the darkness remained a matter of speculation to all except the two actively involved.
"Well, sometimes you aren't so bad," the initial speaker finally conceded.
"Thanks. You, too."
"Anyway," continued the first man in a cheerier tone, "those nicknames don't really apply when we aren't wearing any clothes, do they?"
Both agreed on this point, but neither was inclined to get dressed for a good while yet.