He kept going back to the moment of being able to touch the smooth skin, not at all like the times when he was stripping of valuables the unwashed monkeys who took a wrong turn in the Madre. This was different. This felt different. And that jolted him, reminded him in no uncertain terms, that despite his appearance which would win him no awards for the most desirable bachelor – he was still very much alive, and very much still a man.
Merciful heavens, it had been two hundred years and he was surrounded by poisonous gas, walking suits, had a bomb collar strapped to his neck and some crazy old man was trying to pry open his vault – his vault! He couldn’t possibly imagine worse time to be reminded that he still had a pulse. Although, the bomb collar alone was enough to do the trick nicely.
Now was certainly not the time for philosophizing about such things, liaisons… possible intertwining… “There’s certainly no chance for any of that to happen,” he snorted. Even if there were a place the Ghost People avoided, and they set up a perimeter of explosives two blocks in all directions, he still wouldn’t chance it. That she might not be interested was not something that entered his mind until much, much later.
The point around which his mind centered was, surprisingly, that in alarmingly short time he had gotten used to taking to someone. Dean had always talked, and Sierra Madre had always listened but she was never really good at responding – not unless an occasional ghost stumbling on him could be considered a reply.
But the Courier listened, sometimes more than he’d like, and she responded… baited, teased, mocked, pulled, stroked his ego only to finish with a bite and nip…
Dean felt lonely, and not because he was some kind of people person pining after company, oh no, god forbid that! If there was one good thing about Sierra Madre it was that, unlike cockroaches, simpletons were quick to die. No, what he meant was, that simply – after two hundred years of stale silence, one shot of decent conversation was enough for the quiet, which he had endured with relative ease, to make his ears bleed.
Dean sighed, letting out another puff of milky smoke. He was on the roof in Villa’s most dangerous neighborhood, alone, waiting for the music to start again and he longed for some conversation to pass the time. That he wouldn’t mind it at all if it happened to be her…
Then he caught the ludicrous line his thoughts have been going down for a while.
:*.*.*.*.*:
“I am not pining after that damnable tourist!”
The Courier shut down her radio. Dean likely didn’t even know that she could listen in on his private musings and mutterings. Well, Guilty smirked, if he wanted to keep them private he shouldn’t be thinking allowed. And apparently, and much to her enjoyment, he had taken to talking to himself without even realizing it. Pre-war ghouls… all of them had something that made them crazier than your standard fanfare of post-nuclear freaks. Guilty already knew that she couldn’t trust him, but she had underestimated what centuries of loneliness could do to a man of Dean’s appetites.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty boy…”
She brought up the flat front of her dark helmet and gauged her refection as much as she could in the dim light of the switching station. She chuckled. Well, he was good for laughs. And all the attempts not to laugh in his presence were a trial of patience. Good thing she was in possession of a decent helmet.
She wondered if he’d dared to… but no. Not now while he was on that roof waiting for the spectacle to begin. Although, and she grinned, it would be a fun thing to listen.
To the side Christine, busily typing on the terminal, was giving her a stare, and a raised eyebrow pointing at the helmet. She too had been listening to Dean’s clear voice blazing off the pip-boy’s radio. Courier’s eyebrow shot up and she looked at black head covering in her lap.
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timeasmymeasure
F!Courier/Dean Domino - A Heist - 9b
Date: 2013-06-01 08:40 am (UTC)Merciful heavens, it had been two hundred years and he was surrounded by poisonous gas, walking suits, had a bomb collar strapped to his neck and some crazy old man was trying to pry open his vault – his vault! He couldn’t possibly imagine worse time to be reminded that he still had a pulse. Although, the bomb collar alone was enough to do the trick nicely.
Now was certainly not the time for philosophizing about such things, liaisons… possible intertwining… “There’s certainly no chance for any of that to happen,” he snorted. Even if there were a place the Ghost People avoided, and they set up a perimeter of explosives two blocks in all directions, he still wouldn’t chance it. That she might not be interested was not something that entered his mind until much, much later.
The point around which his mind centered was, surprisingly, that in alarmingly short time he had gotten used to taking to someone. Dean had always talked, and Sierra Madre had always listened but she was never really good at responding – not unless an occasional ghost stumbling on him could be considered a reply.
But the Courier listened, sometimes more than he’d like, and she responded… baited, teased, mocked, pulled, stroked his ego only to finish with a bite and nip…
Dean felt lonely, and not because he was some kind of people person pining after company, oh no, god forbid that! If there was one good thing about Sierra Madre it was that, unlike cockroaches, simpletons were quick to die. No, what he meant was, that simply – after two hundred years of stale silence, one shot of decent conversation was enough for the quiet, which he had endured with relative ease, to make his ears bleed.
Dean sighed, letting out another puff of milky smoke. He was on the roof in Villa’s most dangerous neighborhood, alone, waiting for the music to start again and he longed for some conversation to pass the time. That he wouldn’t mind it at all if it happened to be her…
Then he caught the ludicrous line his thoughts have been going down for a while.
:*.*.*.*.*:
“I am not pining after that damnable tourist!”
The Courier shut down her radio. Dean likely didn’t even know that she could listen in on his private musings and mutterings. Well, Guilty smirked, if he wanted to keep them private he shouldn’t be thinking allowed. And apparently, and much to her enjoyment, he had taken to talking to himself without even realizing it. Pre-war ghouls… all of them had something that made them crazier than your standard fanfare of post-nuclear freaks. Guilty already knew that she couldn’t trust him, but she had underestimated what centuries of loneliness could do to a man of Dean’s appetites.
“Oh, you naughty, naughty boy…”
She brought up the flat front of her dark helmet and gauged her refection as much as she could in the dim light of the switching station. She chuckled. Well, he was good for laughs. And all the attempts not to laugh in his presence were a trial of patience. Good thing she was in possession of a decent helmet.
She wondered if he’d dared to… but no. Not now while he was on that roof waiting for the spectacle to begin. Although, and she grinned, it would be a fun thing to listen.
To the side Christine, busily typing on the terminal, was giving her a stare, and a raised eyebrow pointing at the helmet. She too had been listening to Dean’s clear voice blazing off the pip-boy’s radio. Courier’s eyebrow shot up and she looked at black head covering in her lap.
“It has a filter installed in it.”