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Mar. 21st, 2020 08:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
iniquiticityhorologist au washington/hamilton, of something
The outside of Patriot Watchworks was shabbier than the inside. Gilbert heard the bell on the door rung as it closed. Clocks of every size stuck in every space. A persistent ticking was all around.
“Yeah?” said the man behind the counter, putting down the gold bits he was fiddling with. He looked young for a watchmaker - dark hair and a goatee, with suspicious eyes. “What can we help you with?”
Gilbert pulled the box from his jacket pocket and put it on the glass case. “I was hoping,” the english fumbled on his tongue. “To fix.”
“Hmm,” the man said, taking the box and opening it. “Wow, nice piece. Heirloom?”
Gilbert nodded.
The man made a thinking face. Then he closed the box. “George!” he shouted at a wall of clocks.
The wall of clocks became a door and a man appeared from the door, bowing under a low doorjam. He was tall and broad, with a deep brow. Handsome, GIlbert thought, stupidly.
“Repair,” the man behind the counter said, and threw his box.
“Alex!” The man – George – snapped, after Gilbert made a distressed, sudden yelp watching his heirloom go flying through the air. George caught the box, so Gilbert died only a little. “Why would you – never mind.” George opened the box and the anger melted away from his face. He clearly understood the value of the piece.
**
Geroge was bent over his workshop, which Alex always thought looked a little odd. Somehow, he managed to not look trollish and hunched. Somehow he managed to fit right in with the gidgets and wizmos. (Gidgets and wizmos only to himself. George grouched at him if he didn’t refer to each gear and spring by it’s official name. There were quizzes.)
George was currently investigating the pocket watch the French guy had left. Hadn’t even gotten his name. They had either not realized the pricelessness oft the pocketwatch, or didn’t care. It wasn’t every day that people came in with pieces that no one would have known how to replicate and the secrets of how to build were probably lost. How did such a guy know to get to George? English hadn’t been his first language. He hadn’t asked for George instantly upon appearing. He hadn’t treated his watch like it was made of diamons, even if Alex throwing it had distressed him. George certainly had a reputation for being the best, but…
Maybe George’s habit of picking up young men had found it’s way to the guy, Alex thought, wryly. He’d met the man through a program trainee program to mentor foster youth. The program as a whole had been shit. George was …. it was hard to explain, what George was. He slept in George’s apartment sometimes. (sometimes on Mr. Mulligan’s couch. Sometimes outside. Sometimes other places.).George paid him to sit at the desk and read, and taught him about watches. Either way, the foster youth program had stopped looking for him, so this was it, at least for now. George was – he wasn’t sure. At least George was better than his last foster parents.
“Alex!” George said, from the back. Alex folded down the page and put out the bell. He went through the door that never looked like a door. “What?”
“Find that man when he gets back, I want to talk about his watch.”
“The french guy?”
George’s head lifted and turned. Alex couldn’t shake how funny he looked wearing the many magnifying glasses all at once. “With the Arlaud.”
“The French guy, right.”
**
The outside of Patriot Watchworks was shabbier than the inside. Gilbert heard the bell on the door rung as it closed. Clocks of every size stuck in every space. A persistent ticking was all around.
“Yeah?” said the man behind the counter, putting down the gold bits he was fiddling with. He looked young for a watchmaker - dark hair and a goatee, with suspicious eyes. “What can we help you with?”
Gilbert pulled the box from his jacket pocket and put it on the glass case. “I was hoping,” the english fumbled on his tongue. “To fix.”
“Hmm,” the man said, taking the box and opening it. “Wow, nice piece. Heirloom?”
Gilbert nodded.
The man made a thinking face. Then he closed the box. “George!” he shouted at a wall of clocks.
The wall of clocks became a door and a man appeared from the door, bowing under a low doorjam. He was tall and broad, with a deep brow. Handsome, GIlbert thought, stupidly.
“Repair,” the man behind the counter said, and threw his box.
“Alex!” The man – George – snapped, after Gilbert made a distressed, sudden yelp watching his heirloom go flying through the air. George caught the box, so Gilbert died only a little. “Why would you – never mind.” George opened the box and the anger melted away from his face. He clearly understood the value of the piece.
**
Geroge was bent over his workshop, which Alex always thought looked a little odd. Somehow, he managed to not look trollish and hunched. Somehow he managed to fit right in with the gidgets and wizmos. (Gidgets and wizmos only to himself. George grouched at him if he didn’t refer to each gear and spring by it’s official name. There were quizzes.)
George was currently investigating the pocket watch the French guy had left. Hadn’t even gotten his name. They had either not realized the pricelessness oft the pocketwatch, or didn’t care. It wasn’t every day that people came in with pieces that no one would have known how to replicate and the secrets of how to build were probably lost. How did such a guy know to get to George? English hadn’t been his first language. He hadn’t asked for George instantly upon appearing. He hadn’t treated his watch like it was made of diamons, even if Alex throwing it had distressed him. George certainly had a reputation for being the best, but…
Maybe George’s habit of picking up young men had found it’s way to the guy, Alex thought, wryly. He’d met the man through a program trainee program to mentor foster youth. The program as a whole had been shit. George was …. it was hard to explain, what George was. He slept in George’s apartment sometimes. (sometimes on Mr. Mulligan’s couch. Sometimes outside. Sometimes other places.).George paid him to sit at the desk and read, and taught him about watches. Either way, the foster youth program had stopped looking for him, so this was it, at least for now. George was – he wasn’t sure. At least George was better than his last foster parents.
“Alex!” George said, from the back. Alex folded down the page and put out the bell. He went through the door that never looked like a door. “What?”
“Find that man when he gets back, I want to talk about his watch.”
“The french guy?”
George’s head lifted and turned. Alex couldn’t shake how funny he looked wearing the many magnifying glasses all at once. “With the Arlaud.”
“The French guy, right.”
**