That fic prompt meme thing
I left my notebook in my work locker, meaning I'm holding off on writing that Snafu and Burgie bromance fic for the modern-au b/c what's in the notebook was golden. It also contained a hell of a lot of notes. I don't want to mess with what I started there, as I really, finally, liked it. Damn you, my forgetful mind
( Read more... )
It was just a ride on the New York Central Railroad from his place in Jersey to Buffalo, but it took Bob Leckie seven months to make that trip. He would wander into Grand Central, stare at the grand architecture and people going on with their daily lives, and always waver before boarding the train Upstate.
The Empire State Express was probably the most famous of the lines running from New York City, people got on it every day, if only to follow the same path as Engine No. 999. They’d debuted a new train on the line the same day the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. Hundereds of people used that line to commute. And still Bob Leckie couldn’t make himself purchase a ticket, much less set his feet on the platform.
It was Vera who finally got him to go. She always seemed to know, he never had to say, and she demanded he get up to Buffalo. To take the steps to heal that which he didn’t deny but refused to deal with. She stayed with him until boarding, watching over him like a small child, her vibrant eyes and knowing smile convincing him that everything would be okay. She handed him a packed lunch, dusted off the invisible lint on his jacket, and rearranged his scarf.
“Do not embarrass me, Robert Leckie,” she warned.
“I won’t, Vera,” he promised.
“And don’t embarrass yourself,” she said. She pressed a kiss to his cheek and shooed him onto the train.
******
It always amazed him, seeing New York from outside the city. The vast tracts of open space and farm land, far removed from concrete and steel. There were spurts of urban life along the railways, but Bob saw far more cows than anything resembling industrialization.
Until he got to Buffalo.
Reply
Buffalo was a monster of steel belt machinery and factory smoke. Still a proud trading post, so close to the Great Lakes. And here he had to find Runner Conley.
He pieced together parts of Runner’s history, from the bars he talked about to the jobs he worked. Bob was a reporter, a good one, and he knew how to sniff out a story and find the truth with the fewest of facts. He knew how to get people to talk to him, knew the questions to ask to reveal information they had no intention of giving.
The train ride took almost eight hours, it took an hour or so to locate Runner’s favorite bar, and by the time Bob got where he needed to be, it was dinner time. Still, he counted it as a win when he opened the door to Conall Casey’s Irish Pub and heard Runner’s laugh. Bob felt the smile grow across his face.
“Holy Shit, Peaches,” Runner called out. “You get lost on your way back to Jersey?”
Runner slid off his stool and came over to Bob, slapping him on the back. His hair was longer, his eyes still a bold blue-green, but they held the shade of weariness that Bob knew he shared. They saw enough over in the Pacific to mark them for life, trying to fit back into a world that had no clue what they went through, that took even more of a toll.
“Runner, I see you’ve traded in a log for a barstool,” he said.
“I swear to God, half the time that log was more comfortable,” Runner said. He led Bob over to his corner of the bar, introduced him to the gang.
It was comfortable, to be around a group of men again, most war vets like him. They didn’t swap stories, nobody asked about where he got that scar, or where that nickname came from. They were able to shoot the shit without having to pray that no one would ask them to relive memories they didn’t want to think about, not now.
Bob spent the night on the couch in Runner’s apartment. It was a step-above a shithole and before the years of living in bombed out holes with jungle rot, he never would have set foot inside the place. Now it felt like a palace of cracked foundations and linoleum. He had a breakfast of runny eggs, greasy bacon and black sludge coffee at the kitchen table.
“So, what really brings you here?” Runner asked, the sunlight falling across his face in slants from the window blinds.
Bob pursed his lips, fiddled with his fork, and finally answered. “The Buffalo Courier-Express is looking for reporters.”
Reply
Runner slid off his stool and came over to Bob, slapping him on the back. His hair was longer, his eyes still a bold blue-green, but they held the shade of weariness that Bob knew he shared.
♥
Reply
Reply
BUT YEAH. WHY ISN'T THERE MORE POST-WAR TEAM LECKIE, SERIOUSLY.
Reply
But, for reals, were is the Post-War Team Leckie fic? In the like, field Leckie built in dedication to their epic bromance? Come on, fandom, hop to.
Reply
8|
Reply
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment