AN: I'm already doing the 100 Themes off of ygallery once, going all-out and turning it into a novel-length story with continuity. But a friend on ygal is also doing the themes, and I pretty much agreed to be her bitch and write a drabble for every picture that she drew. That's what this is. And since these are like little snapshots of Hanna and Zombie's life, I have decided to put it forward as a sort of scrapbook. For the most part, I guess these could happen along the same timeline. To start, I bring you oldman!Hanna. And as usual, Hanna is Not a Boy's Name belongs to the marvelous Tessa Stone, I am making no money and mean no offense.
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SCRAPBOOK ALBUM
-by: Lira-
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.PAGE 001. - "Love" - .After All These Years.
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Hanna had never been so interested in material things, but Gallahad detected, over the years, that having a place for himself was important to the redhead. Just a little nook, somewhere he could packrat his arcane memorabilia and hide away in, now that he was retired. Oh, Hanna didn't actually know the meaning of the word retired, but at least age slowed him down a little, and he didn't officially accept cases.
The years had also instilled in Hanna a vague understanding of the word "relax." On one of his enthusiastic impulses, Hanna had gotten them a pair of mismatched antique rocking chairs, complete with green and orange plaid cushions for Gallahad, black and white check with splatters of neon color for Hanna. Hanna's taste had not aged with time. The rocking chairs were installed on their front porch of the dumpy little cottage they had together, out near where Ples' house used to be. Hanna liked all the rustic wood furnishings, and the fact that he could see the wooden beams in the cramped little attic. Gallahad wished that he'd stop climbing up there, lest he fracture something that wouldn't let itself be put back with runes.
Gallahad and Hanna would spend their evenings on the rocking chairs, the balmy warmth of early summer draped over everything and the light of fireflies cutting the settling gloom. Hanna would start out rocking energetically, but his legs always became tired and he'd relax into a slow rhythm which Gallahad would happily match. And when the last light drained from the sky, and the light pollution from the city was behind them and negligible, Gallahad would help Hanna from his chair and turn to go inside, taking a quick moment to pull the man close.
Hanna never let him down, not in more than half a century. The number of times Hanna had nearly died was matched only by the number of times Gallahad had tried to save him, protect him, patch him back together when necessary. And it absolutely meant the world when Hanna told him he loved him, in a voice more reserved than Hanna ever was, the loaded emotion brimming over to Gallahad's well-trained ear.
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