The wind was howling something fierce, making the windowboards clatter as Simon put up cloth to keep the ambient light out. He didn't want to travel too far from the Strip, to avoid questions, and the bright lights coming off the Lucky 38 even reached these small ranch houses north of it. He made one more quick scan of the perimeter, and kicked sand into the campfire near the door. Made his way through the small house and crawled into bed.
He made himself sleep in the Lucky 38 some nights, just for appearances. But he preferred not to. The visits never happened there, his guest not being permitted entrance. Simon would grant it in a second if he knew who his guest was.
That was the final part in ruling out Boone or Arcade. He had been fairly certain it wasn't either of them for a while, and some small part of him had been disappointed -- his inner romantic quite liked the idea of his mystery lover being one of his brothers in arms. The disappointment faded quickly, though, when he realized the new power he had. The visits had always been random, so much so that Simon couldn't parse any kind of pattern. Now, when he was working in the Strip, in the surrounding area, the visits were almost on his terms. It meant a few lonely nights in one of these abandoned ranch houses, when the stranger didn't come, but it was worth it.
He heard the door opening with the roar of wind, closing, listened in the darkness to the soft shuffling of footsteps. Felt a hand, cold from the desert night, settle gently on his face. He took it in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the thick burn scar that ran from the bottom joint of the thumb down to the wrist, and pressed its fingertips into the gnarled, knotted scar on his forehead, near his hairline. Their own silent hello. He lay back, listening to the shuffle of clothes, the rustle of them hitting the floor and felt the warm, familiar weight settle on top of him, gently wrapping his face in two anonymous hands and kissing him deeply. Simon knew how the stranger smelled. How he tasted. He could almost guess at the cut of his hair, from running his own fingers through it. He knew the pattern of his scars. And that he would always let loose this low, restrained groan almost like a purr when Simon's fingertips slipped under his shirt to brush circles against his lower back, feeling the dip of his spine. But Simon didn't know his name, or face.
The first night, he hadn't had any idea what was going on. He had been traveling alone, found an abandoned house with a decent bed and no holes blown in it. And he had been exhausted, in that bone-deep kind of way that was so pervasive that he'd initially thought he may have been dreaming when he heard the cautious pad of light footsteps.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
M!Courier/? - Remain Nameless [1a/?]
Date: 2011-11-16 06:26 am (UTC)The wind was howling something fierce, making the windowboards clatter as Simon put up cloth to keep the ambient light out. He didn't want to travel too far from the Strip, to avoid questions, and the bright lights coming off the Lucky 38 even reached these small ranch houses north of it. He made one more quick scan of the perimeter, and kicked sand into the campfire near the door. Made his way through the small house and crawled into bed.
He made himself sleep in the Lucky 38 some nights, just for appearances. But he preferred not to. The visits never happened there, his guest not being permitted entrance. Simon would grant it in a second if he knew who his guest was.
That was the final part in ruling out Boone or Arcade. He had been fairly certain it wasn't either of them for a while, and some small part of him had been disappointed -- his inner romantic quite liked the idea of his mystery lover being one of his brothers in arms. The disappointment faded quickly, though, when he realized the new power he had. The visits had always been random, so much so that Simon couldn't parse any kind of pattern. Now, when he was working in the Strip, in the surrounding area, the visits were almost on his terms. It meant a few lonely nights in one of these abandoned ranch houses, when the stranger didn't come, but it was worth it.
He heard the door opening with the roar of wind, closing, listened in the darkness to the soft shuffling of footsteps. Felt a hand, cold from the desert night, settle gently on his face. He took it in his hands, rubbing his thumb over the thick burn scar that ran from the bottom joint of the thumb down to the wrist, and pressed its fingertips into the gnarled, knotted scar on his forehead, near his hairline. Their own silent hello. He lay back, listening to the shuffle of clothes, the rustle of them hitting the floor and felt the warm, familiar weight settle on top of him, gently wrapping his face in two anonymous hands and kissing him deeply. Simon knew how the stranger smelled. How he tasted. He could almost guess at the cut of his hair, from running his own fingers through it. He knew the pattern of his scars. And that he would always let loose this low, restrained groan almost like a purr when Simon's fingertips slipped under his shirt to brush circles against his lower back, feeling the dip of his spine. But Simon didn't know his name, or face.
The first night, he hadn't had any idea what was going on. He had been traveling alone, found an abandoned house with a decent bed and no holes blown in it. And he had been exhausted, in that bone-deep kind of way that was so pervasive that he'd initially thought he may have been dreaming when he heard the cautious pad of light footsteps.