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sidewaysTitle: D. Quinn
Rating: G
Genre: Modern
Wordcount: 234
Summary: He's not accustomed to hand-me-downs.
Remarks:![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
originalfic100 prompt - old clothes. And that is pretty much all the explanation I have.
He gets a coat to the face and a brass button to the eye and a dismissive half-shrug when he tries to question the first two occurrences. It’s gettin’ cold and you’re scrawny as shit, is all Don will say, the barest measure of tolerance in his tone hiding no apology for the well-aimed throw. It’s still tolerance enough that he does no more than laugh when Alex bares his teeth in a quick, rare huff and pulls back past the borders of his room.
Later, sitting on his bed with the soles of his feet pressed together, Alex slowly runs his fingers along seams and the frayed patch near the left pocket. As a tangled bundle of olive wool it’s hard to judge how flattering it would be on any figure, but he does have a slight suspicion it would sit better on shoulders of Don’s breadth than his own.
A flip of the tag near the collar is solid confirmation, faded biro somehow outliving instructions for the wash. It should be enough, but something draws him further in, fingers gently tugging the tag taut as he squints. Under this closer inspection, he finds the discrepancy—a hidden line even fainter than its fellows shifts the first initial two paces down the alphabet. B. Quinn.
He doesn’t ask. He also doesn’t wear the coat for two weeks. On the third, it gets cold.
Rating: G
Genre: Modern
Wordcount: 234
Summary: He's not accustomed to hand-me-downs.
Remarks:
originalfic100 prompt - old clothes. And that is pretty much all the explanation I have.He gets a coat to the face and a brass button to the eye and a dismissive half-shrug when he tries to question the first two occurrences. It’s gettin’ cold and you’re scrawny as shit, is all Don will say, the barest measure of tolerance in his tone hiding no apology for the well-aimed throw. It’s still tolerance enough that he does no more than laugh when Alex bares his teeth in a quick, rare huff and pulls back past the borders of his room.
Later, sitting on his bed with the soles of his feet pressed together, Alex slowly runs his fingers along seams and the frayed patch near the left pocket. As a tangled bundle of olive wool it’s hard to judge how flattering it would be on any figure, but he does have a slight suspicion it would sit better on shoulders of Don’s breadth than his own.
A flip of the tag near the collar is solid confirmation, faded biro somehow outliving instructions for the wash. It should be enough, but something draws him further in, fingers gently tugging the tag taut as he squints. Under this closer inspection, he finds the discrepancy—a hidden line even fainter than its fellows shifts the first initial two paces down the alphabet. B. Quinn.
He doesn’t ask. He also doesn’t wear the coat for two weeks. On the third, it gets cold.
