Letters are a bit old-fashioned, aren't they?
Written for the prompt : any, any, "Letters are a bit old-fashioned, aren't they?"
Fandom : Leverage
Characters : Hardison and Eliot
Rating : PG
Word Count : 560
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Letters are a bit old-fashioned, aren't they?
Eliot sat at the table, head down, shoulders hunched, barely aware of Hardison standing in the door. His senses had alerted him when Hardison arrived and having established that he was no threat, Eliot had tuned him out again to continue with his task.
Bored with the lack of reaction from Eliot, Hardison crossed the room and pulled out the chair alongside him. "What are you doing?"
"Writing a letter." Eliot didn't even look up, just continued the smooth progress of pen across paper. Hardison leaned in closer, entranced by the elegant script that seemed to flow like magic from the end of the pen.
"Huh! Why?" he asked.
Eliot looked up briefly, frowning, before shaking his head and continuing with his task, not deigning to reply.
"Eliot, why are you writing a letter? Isn't that kind of . . ." Hardison paused as Eliot looked up again, the frown more pronounced. "Well, I guess what I was going to say . . . Hmm." He cleared his throat suddenly nervous and unsure of the response he was going to get, but Eliot's head was cocked and his eyebrows raised as he waited for Hardison to finally spit it out. "Letters are a bit old-fashioned, aren't they?"
"Huh," was all the response he got for a moment, then Eliot tapped his pen against his chin as if thinking about what to say. Then he looked down and started writing again. It only took a few moments before he finished with a final flourish and then leant back recapping his pen. "So . . . old-fashioned, huh?"
"Erm . . . well, you know . . . e-mail is quicker?"
"Only if the person you're writing to actually has access to the internet."
"You know someone else who doesn't own a computer?" Hardison sounded horrified. "I thought you were the last person on Earth to not have one!"
Eliot glared, "I had a computer!"
Hardison scoffed at the thought that Eliot's old machine could be classed as a computer, although perhaps if one were thinking in terms of that ancient dude, what was his name . . . Charles Babbage. . . His mind wandered for a moment almost forgetting the point of the conversation until he noticed Eliot's glare again.
"Oh yeah, course you did, totally. . . kind of! So you know someone who doesn't have a computer, then?" He tried to keep his tone lighter, less judgemental.
"No, I know some people who work on relief projects in parts of the world where electricity is almost non-existent, let alone internet and so while yes, they do in fact own computers, they are here in the US and the owners are not. On the other hand, I know someone else who is about to travel out there and can hand-deliver a letter for me. So . . . Problem?"
"No, no problem. Actually, you have . . . erm . . . nice handwriting actually," Hardison grinned, frantically.
Eliot rolled his eyes, reached for the letter and folded it, slipping inside an envelope before writing the address and then reaching for the notepad and starting another letter.