If Harkness had to blame any one for the disaster that his past few weeks had been, he would have blamed Mac. It wasn’t necessarily anything MacLaren had done. He had just existed in that present time and role, at a damn wedding. At night he was often haunted by memory recalls of haunting and deactivating runners that did not deserve what he did to them. However, in Oasis at the wedding of the two Vault Dwellers he had memory recalls of a different kind.
Her hair had been blonde and she had been dressed well. Her laugh echoed his own and for that short while he had been happy.
Now, the memories took him back to the snarling arguments and difficult divorce. There was no prewar paperwork. Nothing was easy when you spent the entire time yelling and screaming. So at the wedding Harkness drank. A lot. Hiding from the memory of his own marriage and ex wife each fistful of beer were gratefully tossed back and then replaced with stronger liquids, more volume, quicker consumption. Externally, he was chatty, vocal and had lost the stern lines of a frown on his forehead for the night. Internally his system struggled to translate binary and was quickly losing the ability to speak, then walk. There was a recall of his elbow leaning against a god damn tree while he narrowed his eyes at a familiar Brahmin. Then nothing.
His system alarmed.
Harkness came around slowly, he could feel harsh sand on his cheek and his senses were filled with the musk of dirt. The sun made a small part of his stomach exposed by an untucked shirt warm. Liquid hit his face. A hell of a lot of it. Harkness launched into a sitting position drenched to be greeted by the bitter tone “you’re a disgrace.”
His eyes narrowed painfully, squinting in the bright line as he sourced the slim silhouette. “Go to hell" he pointed, in the wrong direction. This was new. There was no hangover because he was still completely inebriated. There was no attempt to stand. Harkness sat, near synthetic death somehow, on the barren dirt ground. He had hoped that with the profanity the image of his ex wife would disappear but it stayed. Arms folded. Lips twisted. She was meant to be a damn hundred plus miles away.
His system made him aware that she hasn’t appeared. He had moved, that distance, with one damn shoe. When the sun started to feel less bright and pay some consideration to his fragility he assessed the situation. He had m- This wasn’t his jacket. Harkness scowled.
Then threw up on her scavenged stilettos.
In character reason for absence: Harkness got really drunk at the Avrilly wedding.