“This was close. Much too close for my tastes, but I don’t think there’ll be much chance of them passing by that thing.”
“Unless they’re smart enough to locate the emitter and smash it,” she leaned over breathless, pressing her hand to her side.
Dean shuddered at the prospect. He couldn’t credit the Ghost People for doing that one yet. “And I was just starting to feel optimistic about our chances.”
“I’m… still very optimistic about them…” Guilty dropped her rifle and started to rummage through her pouches and bag with one hand. Dean, still keeping an ear out for any creature that might roll in their direction glanced at her before turning to her fully. Even the red glaze of the Cloud couldn’t cover the true crimson of fresh blood dripping across the yellowing mortar.
“They got you?” The often pretentious ghoul singer said it in such a tone that made it clear it was another hurdle on his way to Sierra Madre Casino he did not need.
“It’s not that bad. At least it’s not a bear trap. I’d hate to be the one to slow down your heist even further with hobbling.”
“At least you admit to it,” he stated, straight-faced as possible and with lips pressed into a thin line. They’ve narrowly escaped being dragged away like a couple of pups to a pound lined with handlers just waiting to skin them alive. Or stuff them in one of those suits. Whichever. Quite a time for her to crack jokes, underlined with sarcasm and insults of all things.
He rubbed the back of his head, rough, uneven, occasionally peeling. Not at the moment though so he ignored it.
“Have a look, will you,” she said, nudging him from where his thoughts have veered, and bent forward across the stairs exposing the injury to him. Dean had to kneel next to her and unroll the tear in the thinner material between padding of her armor to get a good look at the wound. From the offhand first glance the only thing he could tell was a red line across her flesh.
“It looks like one of their spears has gotten to you. I would need more light to-…” A bright beam shone into his face and he balked in surprise. She had thrown her arm across her head and the light of her pip-boy managed to reach her side just enough for him to examine it properly. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and fixed her with an annoyed expression before setting to task of inspecting it properly. He ran his finger around the dark bruise, barely daring to touch it so not to open it further. He couldn’t see much from the blood but the wound at her side was a long gash, swelling but a clean cut – from what he could tell at least, he wouldn’t call himself the expert though. “It doesn’t look like it’s gone in deep, but… you might have to remove the… top if I am to have a good look at it.”
Dean was not clumsy with words, he never had been. When he was the one to cut through the core of the matter with a sharpened tongue and oily words, it was with style and there was none alive who could dispute that. But in any other situation, the choice of his words could have gone pear shaped in so many different ways. And if he had become any judge of the expression she was likely to wear under that helmet, she might have – just might – taken it the way he had clearly not intended. What was that woman thinking?! Not at the time like this, and certainly not with her bleeding all over the floor!
Belatedly, she unclasped side buckles and took the heavy front of off her chest. With a muffled curse she pulled her shirt up to reveal her midsection and the gash, horribly bloody, darkening in color, possibly infected already and… Dean simply couldn’t help himself but notice the line of muscles, hard, clearly defined plates decorating her stomach like a chessboard, crisscrossed with pale scars, bites and burns. Her skin looked like it had been used as parchment for the life after bombs to write memories across. But beyond all that and so much in contrast to him, barring many scars, tanned and marked, her skin was smooth. Used for fighting. Used to killing.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 6b
Date: 2013-04-04 06:01 pm (UTC)“Unless they’re smart enough to locate the emitter and smash it,” she leaned over breathless, pressing her hand to her side.
Dean shuddered at the prospect. He couldn’t credit the Ghost People for doing that one yet. “And I was just starting to feel optimistic about our chances.”
“I’m… still very optimistic about them…” Guilty dropped her rifle and started to rummage through her pouches and bag with one hand. Dean, still keeping an ear out for any creature that might roll in their direction glanced at her before turning to her fully. Even the red glaze of the Cloud couldn’t cover the true crimson of fresh blood dripping across the yellowing mortar.
“They got you?” The often pretentious ghoul singer said it in such a tone that made it clear it was another hurdle on his way to Sierra Madre Casino he did not need.
“It’s not that bad. At least it’s not a bear trap. I’d hate to be the one to slow down your heist even further with hobbling.”
“At least you admit to it,” he stated, straight-faced as possible and with lips pressed into a thin line. They’ve narrowly escaped being dragged away like a couple of pups to a pound lined with handlers just waiting to skin them alive. Or stuff them in one of those suits. Whichever. Quite a time for her to crack jokes, underlined with sarcasm and insults of all things.
He rubbed the back of his head, rough, uneven, occasionally peeling. Not at the moment though so he ignored it.
“Have a look, will you,” she said, nudging him from where his thoughts have veered, and bent forward across the stairs exposing the injury to him. Dean had to kneel next to her and unroll the tear in the thinner material between padding of her armor to get a good look at the wound. From the offhand first glance the only thing he could tell was a red line across her flesh.
“It looks like one of their spears has gotten to you. I would need more light to-…” A bright beam shone into his face and he balked in surprise. She had thrown her arm across her head and the light of her pip-boy managed to reach her side just enough for him to examine it properly. He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and fixed her with an annoyed expression before setting to task of inspecting it properly. He ran his finger around the dark bruise, barely daring to touch it so not to open it further. He couldn’t see much from the blood but the wound at her side was a long gash, swelling but a clean cut – from what he could tell at least, he wouldn’t call himself the expert though. “It doesn’t look like it’s gone in deep, but… you might have to remove the… top if I am to have a good look at it.”
Dean was not clumsy with words, he never had been. When he was the one to cut through the core of the matter with a sharpened tongue and oily words, it was with style and there was none alive who could dispute that. But in any other situation, the choice of his words could have gone pear shaped in so many different ways. And if he had become any judge of the expression she was likely to wear under that helmet, she might have – just might – taken it the way he had clearly not intended. What was that woman thinking?! Not at the time like this, and certainly not with her bleeding all over the floor!
Belatedly, she unclasped side buckles and took the heavy front of off her chest. With a muffled curse she pulled her shirt up to reveal her midsection and the gash, horribly bloody, darkening in color, possibly infected already and… Dean simply couldn’t help himself but notice the line of muscles, hard, clearly defined plates decorating her stomach like a chessboard, crisscrossed with pale scars, bites and burns. Her skin looked like it had been used as parchment for the life after bombs to write memories across. But beyond all that and so much in contrast to him, barring many scars, tanned and marked, her skin was smooth. Used for fighting. Used to killing.