Prompt fic: Finders Keepers
In the interest of writing something today, I broke my own no fic rule. Don't tell my friends list. Anyway, this is what the prompt made me think of. It's not my novel, but it is me revisiting my favorite universe ever (the Aftermath Series, which is that Harlan/Marcus series I still obsess about, even though I keep it to myself these days), and you know how I always want to draw hearts around Harlan and Marcus, so I'm going to go ahead and be okay with it.
This is a little bit of 'time in between' fic, i.e. it's set during the Lost Years in Chicago. In case anyone actually cares : )
~
The coat’s at least a size too big for him, cuffs skimming his knuckles and the hem hitting him just above the ankle. It’s black and frayed at the seams and he know he looks like one of those kids who goes nuts and takes out half his class with a machine gun, but that’s sort of the look he’s going for. Not because he’s planning to shoot anyone, but if it makes people think twice before they hassle him, it’s worth it.
He hands over seven dollars and tells the cashier he’ll wear it out. She just shrugs and turns toward the next customer, dismissing him from her presence and her life. He can’t really blame her; working the register at the Salvation Army can’t be a very fulfilling job, especially when she has to deal with people like him all day.
He reaches into his jeans for his cigarettes as he leaves the store, shaking one out and then tucking the nearly empty pack into one of the cavernous pockets in his new trench coat. It was probably a pretty nice coat at one time, one of those fancy overcoats that businessmen wear when they’re dodging raindrops on the way to business meetings. Harlan probably has one; it’s probably black, with a designer label sewn into the collar. It probably cost more than the down payment on Marcus’ ratty apartment.
Marcus shakes his head and reaches into his jeans for his lighter, pulling it out and lighting his cigarette before he drops the lighter into his coat pocket too. His fingers brush something solid and he freezes for a second, half expecting the thing to bite him. But whatever it is, it’s cool and solid against his fingers, smooth like metal and about the size of his lighter. He closes his fingers around it and pulls his hand out of his pocket, looking down to find himself holding a money clip.
It’s plain silver, the only decoration a single H engraved in a solid block script. And that just figures, because he’s finally getting on with his life and of all the letters in the alphabet, did it have to be an H? Even R would have been better, because yeah, Harlan’s last name starts with an R, but so does his. At least that way he could pretend it wasn’t some weird cosmic reminder of what he left behind, just another way for the universe to kick him while he’s down.
And yeah, it’s his own fault that he’s alone in Chicago, squinting against the wind and trying to ignore the giant hole where his heart used to be. He’s the one who left, and if he wanted to…but it’s too late to call now. Too much time has passed, and there’s no way Harlan will understand if Marcus calls him out of the blue six months after he walked out without so much as a goodbye.
Besides, it’s not like it’s really a sign or anything. It’s just a money clip, for God’s sake, just a mostly useless piece of metal that someone named Henderson or Hall left behind. It doesn’t mean anything. But that doesn’t stop Marcus from running a thumb over the H as he tucks it carefully back into his pocket. He knows he’s going to want to call Harlan every time he touches it, but somehow that’s a risk he’s willing to live with.
~
This is a little bit of 'time in between' fic, i.e. it's set during the Lost Years in Chicago. In case anyone actually cares : )
~
The coat’s at least a size too big for him, cuffs skimming his knuckles and the hem hitting him just above the ankle. It’s black and frayed at the seams and he know he looks like one of those kids who goes nuts and takes out half his class with a machine gun, but that’s sort of the look he’s going for. Not because he’s planning to shoot anyone, but if it makes people think twice before they hassle him, it’s worth it.
He hands over seven dollars and tells the cashier he’ll wear it out. She just shrugs and turns toward the next customer, dismissing him from her presence and her life. He can’t really blame her; working the register at the Salvation Army can’t be a very fulfilling job, especially when she has to deal with people like him all day.
He reaches into his jeans for his cigarettes as he leaves the store, shaking one out and then tucking the nearly empty pack into one of the cavernous pockets in his new trench coat. It was probably a pretty nice coat at one time, one of those fancy overcoats that businessmen wear when they’re dodging raindrops on the way to business meetings. Harlan probably has one; it’s probably black, with a designer label sewn into the collar. It probably cost more than the down payment on Marcus’ ratty apartment.
Marcus shakes his head and reaches into his jeans for his lighter, pulling it out and lighting his cigarette before he drops the lighter into his coat pocket too. His fingers brush something solid and he freezes for a second, half expecting the thing to bite him. But whatever it is, it’s cool and solid against his fingers, smooth like metal and about the size of his lighter. He closes his fingers around it and pulls his hand out of his pocket, looking down to find himself holding a money clip.
It’s plain silver, the only decoration a single H engraved in a solid block script. And that just figures, because he’s finally getting on with his life and of all the letters in the alphabet, did it have to be an H? Even R would have been better, because yeah, Harlan’s last name starts with an R, but so does his. At least that way he could pretend it wasn’t some weird cosmic reminder of what he left behind, just another way for the universe to kick him while he’s down.
And yeah, it’s his own fault that he’s alone in Chicago, squinting against the wind and trying to ignore the giant hole where his heart used to be. He’s the one who left, and if he wanted to…but it’s too late to call now. Too much time has passed, and there’s no way Harlan will understand if Marcus calls him out of the blue six months after he walked out without so much as a goodbye.
Besides, it’s not like it’s really a sign or anything. It’s just a money clip, for God’s sake, just a mostly useless piece of metal that someone named Henderson or Hall left behind. It doesn’t mean anything. But that doesn’t stop Marcus from running a thumb over the H as he tucks it carefully back into his pocket. He knows he’s going to want to call Harlan every time he touches it, but somehow that’s a risk he’s willing to live with.
~