At some point during the night, the King dozes off in the stiff metal chair, lulled to sleep by the kid's ragged breathing and the ambient noises of a busy Saturday night in the Follower's compound. He wakes at dawn, cold and stiff with a crick in his neck. He's getting too old for this.
He stands, stretches. Something in his back pops and he winces. It's a good pain, and he fools looser and more relaxed after. The kid's still asleep. He's rolled onto his side, pulled his knees up to his chest. He's cold, too, shivering despite the thin, starchy blanket. His jacket's hanging from the bedpost, and the King drapes it over him, feeling gallant and more than a little foolish.
It's light enough in the tent to see the patch on the back: a green snake coiled under a banner reading 'Tunnel Snakes.' The King's never heard of them, but it's a nice jacket, heavy and well-constructed. It's real leather, not the cheap, imitation vinyl that cracks and peels at the elbows and collar. It's got a few rips and tears, nothing major, patched with dark thread that doesn't quite match the black leather. There's a lot of care evident in the jacket, in the mending and the patches, sewn on by hand in big, child-like stitches. Whoever he is, wherever he's from, someone cares about this kid. The King's willing to bet that they miss him, assuming they're not already dead.
There's a hotplate with coffee somewhere in the compound; the King can smell it over the medicinal, sickbay stench of the dingy little tent. He steps through the flaps into the watery, early-morning sunshine and nods to Beatrix Russel, who's sitting with her feet up on the sandbag wall at the front of the compound. It's mostly too early for any major crises, and the doctors are milling about, yawning and swapping horror stories from the night before. One or two catch sight of him and nod deferentially, the rest ignore him. The King and his John Doe are old news, but hey, have you heard about the guy came in last night, puked a rainbow after drinking Abraxo mixed with paint? No shit.
This is Sunday morning in Freeside, and the King smiles to himself. He locates the coffee in the back tent, the one that was supposed to be for research before the doctor in charge ran off to play hero with the Courier. Now it's mostly storage, disused stretchers and mismatched crutches, but with a few chairs in the corner, it can pass as a ready room. It's empty except for the ghoul doctor from the night before, dozing on a chair in the corner, glasses askew. The King pours himself a cup of coffee (it's just tobacco and mesquite, strengthened with chicory and bitter as death itself) and wanders back out into the courtyard.
He's half a mind to find Julie, apologize on behalf of the kid, ask how she's been holding up. She's a sweet lady, Julie, deserves more thanks than she gets. He can't count the number of times she's patched him and his boys up. She won't take sides in the dispute between the Kings and the NCR, says the Followers have to remain apolitical, but in his heart of hearts, the King knows she'd take his side if only she could. It's the voice, he thinks. Drives women wild.
Butch/The King, "Jailhouse Rock," 2a/?
He stands, stretches. Something in his back pops and he winces. It's a good pain, and he fools looser and more relaxed after. The kid's still asleep. He's rolled onto his side, pulled his knees up to his chest. He's cold, too, shivering despite the thin, starchy blanket. His jacket's hanging from the bedpost, and the King drapes it over him, feeling gallant and more than a little foolish.
It's light enough in the tent to see the patch on the back: a green snake coiled under a banner reading 'Tunnel Snakes.' The King's never heard of them, but it's a nice jacket, heavy and well-constructed. It's real leather, not the cheap, imitation vinyl that cracks and peels at the elbows and collar. It's got a few rips and tears, nothing major, patched with dark thread that doesn't quite match the black leather. There's a lot of care evident in the jacket, in the mending and the patches, sewn on by hand in big, child-like stitches. Whoever he is, wherever he's from, someone cares about this kid. The King's willing to bet that they miss him, assuming they're not already dead.
There's a hotplate with coffee somewhere in the compound; the King can smell it over the medicinal, sickbay stench of the dingy little tent. He steps through the flaps into the watery, early-morning sunshine and nods to Beatrix Russel, who's sitting with her feet up on the sandbag wall at the front of the compound. It's mostly too early for any major crises, and the doctors are milling about, yawning and swapping horror stories from the night before. One or two catch sight of him and nod deferentially, the rest ignore him. The King and his John Doe are old news, but hey, have you heard about the guy came in last night, puked a rainbow after drinking Abraxo mixed with paint? No shit.
This is Sunday morning in Freeside, and the King smiles to himself. He locates the coffee in the back tent, the one that was supposed to be for research before the doctor in charge ran off to play hero with the Courier. Now it's mostly storage, disused stretchers and mismatched crutches, but with a few chairs in the corner, it can pass as a ready room. It's empty except for the ghoul doctor from the night before, dozing on a chair in the corner, glasses askew. The King pours himself a cup of coffee (it's just tobacco and mesquite, strengthened with chicory and bitter as death itself) and wanders back out into the courtyard.
He's half a mind to find Julie, apologize on behalf of the kid, ask how she's been holding up. She's a sweet lady, Julie, deserves more thanks than she gets. He can't count the number of times she's patched him and his boys up. She won't take sides in the dispute between the Kings and the NCR, says the Followers have to remain apolitical, but in his heart of hearts, the King knows she'd take his side if only she could. It's the voice, he thinks. Drives women wild.