This is a filthy habit, Marlowe knows. It’s a habit that he should really kick, but it’s so addictive. He can justify it so easily. He just needs to go for a little walk. He just needs some exercise, to stretch out his legs. And while he’s walking, he may as well occupy himself. It’s only natural.

Oh, it’s a filthy habit.

But as Marlowe sinks down onto a bench and raises his hand to his mouth, he knows that it’s one that he’s not going to be breaking any time soon.

He pulls his sucker from between his lips with a soft sound, licking the taste of sugary cherry from his lips. His eyes scan the people as they walk past, milling down the sidewalks of Pierian’s high street. People-watching. No good has ever come of it, really. He could have worse habits, like shooting heroin between his toes or frequenting underage Filipino transgendered prostitutes. But one has to admit that this seemingly-innocent addiction has gotten him into a good bit of trouble. He rubs the wound in his thigh slowly as if to punctuate this thought.

He glances down the street. The police are nearby, looking like they’re not policemen. These particular policemen aren’t very good at it. One is eating a bagel and very pointedly not looking at Marlowe, while the other one looks around casually. Both are wearing aviators. If he has to have police protection, he really wishes they would be inconspicuous.

Marlowe looks around again, putting the sucker back between his lips, rolling it against his tongue. Across the street, a little boy stops and lets go of his mother’s hand to stoop down and tie his shoelace. He has a look of absolute concentration on his face. His mother lets him try it on his own for a moment, her head tipped to the side as she watches him. She reaches down to touch the boys shoulder gently and points, offering some direction on some forgotten piece of the shoe-tying puzzle. The boy finishes and gets to his feet. Marlowe can hear his laugh as the little boy reaches for his mother’s hand again.

The boy pushes his chubby hand through his hair—shiny blonde hair that catches the light much like Shakespeare’s does. Marlowe twists the end of the sucker, letting his lips purse a bit around the candy. He tips his head to the side slightly. Usually, he doesn’t make a habit of staring at children. It’s a creepy sort of thing to do, but that little boy—he could be a baby Shakespeare. Or Shakespeare’s baby. A little boy who they would name… John, perhaps—after Shakespeare’s father, not after Marlowe’s. And he would have Shakespeare’s hair and Shakespeare’s eyes, and Marlowe would take him for walks and teach him how to tie his shoes.

He draws his eyes away from the boy as the boy turns his head to look across the street at him. Marlowe’s eyes are on some scrap of paper in the gutter, barely diverted in time. But he catches a little movement from the boy. He raises his eyes again. The little boy is waving to him, innocent and sweet. Marlowe smiles. He waves back.