hasaknightjob: Marc casual (Marc casual)
It had been about a month since the last time they did anything. Which Marc didn't really pay attention to since that involved both details and time. What he was aware of, though, was Passover coming ever closer.

Which had meant mocking Steven for all the extra cleaning he had to do (that's what happened when you ate in rooms besides the kitchen and the dining room, buddy), but also an awareness of the upcoming dietary restrictions.

Not that Marc planned to be out too much during the week. Him and Jewish holidays were hit or miss on if he felt like engaging. But if he did come out he would adjust his eating accordingly.

Which meant tonight was a great night for a giant freaking sandwich or something for dinner. And yeah he was vaguely aware he hadn't seen Harley in a time frame that he could at least quantify as pretty sure it was more than a week? At least?

So he'd texted, and they'd gotten on his bike, and now here they were sitting in a booth at a standard greasy spoon style diner with the menus in front of them.

"My treat," Marc told her, while still studying his menu. Hey, she'd gotten the last one with the roller derby they hadn't spent much time watching.

[for the dinner companion]
hasaknightjob: Marc looking over his shoulder (Marc looking up)
Marc checked on things all the time. No particular schedule, per se, but regularly enough. Were things clean? Did anything need to be restocked? That kind of thing.

But for some reason today Marc felt like checking on Midnight itself. Couldn't explain why. Just a feeling. Like somewhere out there a version of Midnight had had something bad happen to it.

Which was crazy, right?

Well crazy was Marc's wheelhouse. Not the weirdest thing he'd ever done, yadda yadda.

So there was Marc, in his office on the boarding house side, asking, "Uh, you okay?"

There was no reply since Midnight didn't talk. The atmosphere kind of vibed fine though?

"Okay," Marc said, taking that for a response. He awkwardly patted the wall closest to him. "Good talk."

He sat down behind his desk and tried not to look like a guy who'd been worried about nothing.

[open]
hasaknightjob: Marc looking over his shoulder (Marc looking up)
Marc had some lingering opinions on this. Don't, for example. A sensation not at all discouraged by the sight of whatever the fuck colored deer with red noses wandering around town in a way that vaguely stirred annoyance in him but not so Marc could remember why exactly?

Unimportant or just some quirk of Marc's brain, clearly.

Anyway, there was also the this which was a lot of impulse and not much thinking and Marc didn't want to think about it, frankly. Which meant he could go home and forget it all. That was an option. It was an option highly likely to result in Steven giving him pointed stares of I'm not saying anything from reflections, but it was an option.

Finally Marc figured fuck it and texted Harley.

You home?

[for she who lives here]
hasaknightjob: Marc looking in the distance (Marc looking to his left)
Marc had done some research, because apparently that was a thing he did now, and found a place on the mainland that seemed like it might not be a total waste of time. He then reached out to Harley, because that was also apparently a thing he did now, to ask if she wanted to join.

Which was why they were now pulling up in a parking lot on the motorcycle Marc was hanging on to for some reason, outside of a place that swore it had good Cuban food as well as dancing.

"Still hungry?" he asked when he turned the engine off.

[for the other person on the bike, NFB due to distance]
hasaknightjob: Marc looking in the distance (Marc looking to his left)
It wasn't that Marc had planned or anticipated or anything. It was just that there'd been some amount of time (don't ask him to specify how much, he didn't keep track of these things) and that had left him with the ability to idly ponder his options.

For instance, he could rent a bike but that required returning it in something like good condition. He could buy a bike but then he'd have to remember to take care of it.

Or he could borrow one. From someone who maybe didn't deserve nice things. Win/win, right?

Well maybe not for the guy the bike belonged to but again: didn't deserve nice things. Marc wasn't losing sleep over it.

Which was why come Tuesday evening, after running some errands (so to speak), Marc was in the parking lot by the causeway, dressed in his usual dark on dark, while leaning up against a new to him bike.

A bike which he may or may not have unconsciously gravitated towards because of the color scheme, regardless of the other reasons he'd picked it.

(The fact that it was not a Harley Davidson was, in fact, very much on purpose. Even Marc could guess she was probably sick of those jokes.)

On the back seat there was a candy apple red helmet. That one he had bought because he wasn't taking a chance on safety. If Harley did that was her business, but he wanted the option there for her if she wanted it.

No, he wasn't wearing one and didn't intend to. When you couldn't stay dead you didn't worry about these kinds of things.

Now all he needed was the person who'd said she'd meet him here.

[for the wild card, NFB due to distance]
hasaknightjob: Marc looking in the distance (Marc looking to his left)
Marc had given the heads up that this was not a dress up thing. He'd changed from earlier in the day, but only into a fresh pair of jeans, t-shirt, and a light button down over it. (Yes, he was not a guy with a lot of variety in his wardrobe. No prize for guessing if the overall outfit favored his usual dark colors too.)

He picked up Harley at her place and then they headed over to the mainland while it was still light enough the sun hadn't set yet.

Based on Harley's comments about what she was in the mood for, Marc had picked the kind of place that looked like a hole in the wall from the outside. One you could easily overlook if you didn't even know it was there. The inside wasn't too much better, with an eclectic mix of tables and chairs in various stages of torn cushions and cracked surfaces.

But as anyone knew who had experiences with these sorts of things, this was the kind of place where the worse the restaurant looked the better the food was. And sure enough even a casual glance around showed multiple generations of the same family working to seat guests, bus tables, and get the food ready while shouting back and forth at each other in a mix of Creole and English.

Even so, Marc looked at Harley to be sure. "This work?"

[for the wild card. NFB due to distance]

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Steven Grant / Marc Spector

May 2025

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