vileflora
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The thwap-skrich of knock-off slides against concrete. A gait somewhere between a limp and a swagger. A cigarette pinched between a thumb and pointer finger, poised to meet a scruffy jawline.
“Don’t you got better places to be, kiddo?”
As if this day couldn’t get any worse.
The Hickfield Clinic, of course. He always passed by it on his way to the courthouse. He knew that much.
What he wasn’t expecting was for his former hero, current asshole boss, to be propped up outside the back entrance, a crutch in one hand, cigarette in the other. Still in yesterday’s hoodie and sweats.
Wright lets out a long whistle, the corner of his lip curled up in another infuriatingly smug pastiche of a smile. “Someone looks like death run over,” he chuckles, taking in another drag. “Long night?”
Big words coming from the man who was literally mowed down by a car, but whatever.
Apollo has been chasing father figures his entire life, but now that another one is gone, he’s not exactly impressed with the man left in his place.