At his side, Willow smiles. She sees through him like a window—always had—nudges his shoulder.
“Cheer-up,” she says. “You’re too damn pretty to look so sad.”
And Quinn laughs—unexpected, nearly snorts beer through his nose—ends up coughing through the rest of song on the radio until Three-dog croons, “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen. The last seconds of an old year, but would look at that baby shine? Fresh waters, no slavers—my, oh my, whatever will the new year bring?”
“Shut up, Three-dog,” V snaps, but smiling, sleepy, her head tucked under Charon’s chin.
“Let’s count her down, shall we? 10… 9… 8…”
Quinn finds himself thinking about the oncoming year, fresh water and people getting their feet under them again. Thinks about clearing out the feral-corridors of the museum. Might be more ghouls coming, what with the roads easier.
“7… 6… 5… 4…”
At the bar, V grins, sits upright. “We had a tradition in the vault,” she starts.
But Three-dog finishes, “3… 2… 1! Happy New Year, Wasteland!” and Quinn doesn’t get to see what her vault tradition might be, because Underworld has tradition, too, and tradition leaves him with a mouthful of Willow, warm like smoke, leather beneath his hands.
Quinn leans into her, smiling against her lips, presses his forehead to hers when they finally part for air. And judging by the cheers—by the singing and laughing and clanking bottles found from Wasteland-wide—judging by Willow’s fingers tugging the smear of her red lipstick from his skin—
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timeasmymeasure
Last Seconds of Old Years 1c/1
Date: 2013-11-24 10:19 pm (UTC)“Cheer-up,” she says. “You’re too damn pretty to look so sad.”
And Quinn laughs—unexpected, nearly snorts beer through his nose—ends up coughing through the rest of song on the radio until Three-dog croons, “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen. The last seconds of an old year, but would look at that baby shine? Fresh waters, no slavers—my, oh my, whatever will the new year bring?”
“Shut up, Three-dog,” V snaps, but smiling, sleepy, her head tucked under Charon’s chin.
“Let’s count her down, shall we? 10… 9… 8…”
Quinn finds himself thinking about the oncoming year, fresh water and people getting their feet under them again. Thinks about clearing out the feral-corridors of the museum. Might be more ghouls coming, what with the roads easier.
“7… 6… 5… 4…”
At the bar, V grins, sits upright. “We had a tradition in the vault,” she starts.
But Three-dog finishes, “3… 2… 1! Happy New Year, Wasteland!” and Quinn doesn’t get to see what her vault tradition might be, because Underworld has tradition, too, and tradition leaves him with a mouthful of Willow, warm like smoke, leather beneath his hands.
Quinn leans into her, smiling against her lips, presses his forehead to hers when they finally part for air. And judging by the cheers—by the singing and laughing and clanking bottles found from Wasteland-wide—judging by Willow’s fingers tugging the smear of her red lipstick from his skin—
It’s going to be a hell of a new year.
(The End)