When he's all settled into a room he worries. What if someone comes in and sees him without the compressor? What if someone has to wake him up in a hurry and he won't let him have the time to put it on? What if---
Snap.
His eyes widen and he looks to his left shoulder.
The strap broke. His mind goes through a thousand terrible thoughts but he realizes he's okay at sewing, he can fix it....
"Three Dog, you got a needle and thread?" He asks to him while he's staying up, fiddling with records and buttons.
"Yeah, it's in the backroom in the toolbox." He doesn't even look up.
"Can you bring it to me?"
Three Dog looks up. "Look, kid, much as I like you, I'm busy, and your legs work."
He looks down and shuffles. "I'm sorry." His voice is quiet and low and feminine and Three Dog stares.
"You ok?" Three Dog stands up and starts to walk towards him nononono what if he sees. "Sorry, haven't slept in 48 hours cus of all the fucking explosions."
"It's..." No way out no way out nowayout nowayoutnowayoutnowayout
"You promise not to tell?" What if he does what if he says THE LONE WANDERERS A GIRL on the radio what if what if
He looks surprised for a second but just nods.
James Jr steps out and theres the body of a Cathy that he sees a million reasons to hide but he doesn't, just sheepishly holds out the binder and says "It broke".
Thee Dog just grabs the binder and he can see the gears clicking in his head and 1-2-3 "Ah. No prob. I think we got some in the med bay, lemme just get you a new one."
"What." He feels tears coming up and swallows them back.
"Yeah, it's no big deal. Sorry for being an asshole. If I knew I wouldn't have been like that."
Three Dog leaves and comes back in a few minutes with a brand new white binder that didn't even smell 200-something years old.
He lifts it on over himself and it fits perfectly, maybe even better than the old one.
He comes back out of his room and Threedog's still fiddling at the records. "Should I have told you?"
"What? No, did you want too?"
James Jr shakes his head. "I don't know much about this."
Three Dog murmurs something like "poor sheltered bastard". He flinches.
"Ok. First things first, got you something." He opens up a drawer and tosses a bottle of pills at his feet. He picks them up and examines the label.
"Is this buffout? My dad said you shouldn't take it." Three Dog laughs.
"Tell that to a million raiders." he turns to the clueless boy and looks serious. "Alright, listen carefully. Half a pill a day. Not 3, not the whole bottle, not one because you forgot the other day. Half a pill. It's basically straight testerone. It'll beef you up and put some hair on your chin."
He looks and stares at the bottle in his hand and suddenly he's filled with so many questions. Will it make him taller? More muscular? Deepen his voice?
"And, uh. Don't bother him until you've been on it for a while, but--" He turns back to the desk and scribbles a name on a corner of paper. He hands the paper over and on it in the shitty, self-taught handwriting is the name "Horace Pinkerton".
"Only guy I know that can do extensive shit like that. Ask around for him when you reach Rivet City." Threedog goes back to the records and examines one closely.
He swallows hard and clenches the bottle in his hand. "Why are you helping me?"
He looks up. "Huh?"
"Why are you helping me?" he repeats, louder and a little more urgent. Three Dog sighs again and flicks a piece of dirt out of the record's ridge.
"I gotta help people, don't I? Fighting the good fight and all."
He doesn't say anything else. He takes the pills and goes to bed with a smile.
constricting 3/???
Snap.
His eyes widen and he looks to his left shoulder.
The strap broke. His mind goes through a thousand terrible thoughts but he realizes he's okay at sewing, he can fix it....
"Three Dog, you got a needle and thread?" He asks to him while he's staying up, fiddling with records and buttons.
"Yeah, it's in the backroom in the toolbox." He doesn't even look up.
"Can you bring it to me?"
Three Dog looks up. "Look, kid, much as I like you, I'm busy, and your legs work."
He looks down and shuffles. "I'm sorry." His voice is quiet and low and feminine and Three Dog stares.
"You ok?" Three Dog stands up and starts to walk towards him nononono what if he sees. "Sorry, haven't slept in 48 hours cus of all the fucking explosions."
"It's..." No way out no way out nowayout nowayoutnowayoutnowayout
"You promise not to tell?" What if he does what if he says THE LONE WANDERERS A GIRL on the radio what if what if
He looks surprised for a second but just nods.
James Jr steps out and theres the body of a Cathy that he sees a million reasons to hide but he doesn't, just sheepishly holds out the binder and says "It broke".
Thee Dog just grabs the binder and he can see the gears clicking in his head and 1-2-3 "Ah. No prob. I think we got some in the med bay, lemme just get you a new one."
"What." He feels tears coming up and swallows them back.
"Yeah, it's no big deal. Sorry for being an asshole. If I knew I wouldn't have been like that."
Three Dog leaves and comes back in a few minutes with a brand new white binder that didn't even smell 200-something years old.
He lifts it on over himself and it fits perfectly, maybe even better than the old one.
He comes back out of his room and Threedog's still fiddling at the records. "Should I have told you?"
"What? No, did you want too?"
James Jr shakes his head. "I don't know much about this."
Three Dog murmurs something like "poor sheltered bastard". He flinches.
"Ok. First things first, got you something." He opens up a drawer and tosses a bottle of pills at his feet. He picks them up and examines the label.
"Is this buffout? My dad said you shouldn't take it." Three Dog laughs.
"Tell that to a million raiders." he turns to the clueless boy and looks serious. "Alright, listen carefully. Half a pill a day. Not 3, not the whole bottle, not one because you forgot the other day. Half a pill. It's basically straight testerone. It'll beef you up and put some hair on your chin."
He looks and stares at the bottle in his hand and suddenly he's filled with so many questions. Will it make him taller? More muscular? Deepen his voice?
"And, uh. Don't bother him until you've been on it for a while, but--" He turns back to the desk and scribbles a name on a corner of paper. He hands the paper over and on it in the shitty, self-taught handwriting is the name "Horace Pinkerton".
"Only guy I know that can do extensive shit like that. Ask around for him when you reach Rivet City." Threedog goes back to the records and examines one closely.
He swallows hard and clenches the bottle in his hand. "Why are you helping me?"
He looks up. "Huh?"
"Why are you helping me?" he repeats, louder and a little more urgent. Three Dog sighs again and flicks a piece of dirt out of the record's ridge.
"I gotta help people, don't I? Fighting the good fight and all."
He doesn't say anything else. He takes the pills and goes to bed with a smile.