Steven Grant / Marc Spector (Fandom High)

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]

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]

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]