Jonah sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face and knocking his glasses askew to rub at his eyes. "You've got three layers of clothing on, plus all the duvets in the suite, and you're still shivering. You're sick." He leans heavily against the large oak desk of the Lucky 38's main bedroom, crossing his arms and addressing the feverish pile of blankets swaddled in the center of his double bed. "I swear to god, Boone, if you don't drop it and just let me treat you-"
"I'm not sick," Boone insists from beneath the layers of thick cashmere blankets. His ever-present beret blends almost indistinguishably into the scarlet pillows propped under his head, and his eyes are closed as he talks. "'M just tired. So you and Gannon can fuck off with your needles." He sniffles wetly and grotesquely, burrowing deeper into the blankets.
Jonah blinks owlishly. "Needles?"
"He's scared of needles," a helpful voice pipes up, and Jonah turns just in time to watch Arcade stroll casually into the bedroom, a snack cake clutched in his hand. It was around breakfast time, but Jonah hadn't noticed, too busy trying to goad Boone into at least injecting a stimpak to help him through whatever fever the sniper was sweating out.
"I'm NOT scared of needles," Boone says, turning his back to the two bespectacled men. "I just don't like 'em."
Arcade takes a generous bite from the snack cake and chews thoughtfully as he contemplates Boone's huddled form. "You look like hell," he decides, swallowing. "Still planning on fighting off this virus through testosterone and denial alone, I see. How's that going for you?"
"You can't seriously be scared of needles," Jonah insists, walking around the room and retrieving his doctor's bag from the cabinet next to his bed. He plops the bag on to the ground and bends over to take out an empty syringe and a small vial of blended broc flower and xander root extract- his own homemade concoction.
Jonah straightens up and pauses, empty syringe posed purposefully above the vial he intended to fill it with.
"You must have used stimpaks before... with the NCR, at least?"
Boone shifts beneath the blankets, propping himself up on bent elbows.
"Yeah. Sometimes. Mostly didn't have a choice. If you're bad enough off that a field medic's running after you, you don't really care what they're sticking you with-"
He coughs deeply, a choking wheeze that rattles his entire frame, and Jonah makes a mental note to be sure and clean the blankets very thoroughly later on.
Or perhaps burn them.
"-and anyway, most of the time they just hopped us up on med-x. One jolt and you're basically running into combat. Two jolts and you're running into combat with a broken arm, two fractured ankles, and a head wound that you forgot about, 'cause you can't feel a damn thing."
Anything Goes 1/? [M!Courier/Arcade/Boone] kink: crossdressing
"I'm fine."
"You're sick and you can barely move."
"I'm fine."
Jonah sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face and knocking his glasses askew to rub at his eyes. "You've got three layers of clothing on, plus all the duvets in the suite, and you're still shivering. You're sick." He leans heavily against the large oak desk of the Lucky 38's main bedroom, crossing his arms and addressing the feverish pile of blankets swaddled in the center of his double bed. "I swear to god, Boone, if you don't drop it and just let me treat you-"
"I'm not sick," Boone insists from beneath the layers of thick cashmere blankets. His ever-present beret blends almost indistinguishably into the scarlet pillows propped under his head, and his eyes are closed as he talks. "'M just tired. So you and Gannon can fuck off with your needles." He sniffles wetly and grotesquely, burrowing deeper into the blankets.
Jonah blinks owlishly. "Needles?"
"He's scared of needles," a helpful voice pipes up, and Jonah turns just in time to watch Arcade stroll casually into the bedroom, a snack cake clutched in his hand. It was around breakfast time, but Jonah hadn't noticed, too busy trying to goad Boone into at least injecting a stimpak to help him through whatever fever the sniper was sweating out.
"I'm NOT scared of needles," Boone says, turning his back to the two bespectacled men. "I just don't like 'em."
Arcade takes a generous bite from the snack cake and chews thoughtfully as he contemplates Boone's huddled form. "You look like hell," he decides, swallowing. "Still planning on fighting off this virus through testosterone and denial alone, I see. How's that going for you?"
"You can't seriously be scared of needles," Jonah insists, walking around the room and retrieving his doctor's bag from the cabinet next to his bed. He plops the bag on to the ground and bends over to take out an empty syringe and a small vial of blended broc flower and xander root extract- his own homemade concoction.
Jonah straightens up and pauses, empty syringe posed purposefully above the vial he intended to fill it with.
"You must have used stimpaks before... with the NCR, at least?"
Boone shifts beneath the blankets, propping himself up on bent elbows.
"Yeah. Sometimes. Mostly didn't have a choice. If you're bad enough off that a field medic's running after you, you don't really care what they're sticking you with-"
He coughs deeply, a choking wheeze that rattles his entire frame, and Jonah makes a mental note to be sure and clean the blankets very thoroughly later on.
Or perhaps burn them.
"-and anyway, most of the time they just hopped us up on med-x. One jolt and you're basically running into combat. Two jolts and you're running into combat with a broken arm, two fractured ankles, and a head wound that you forgot about, 'cause you can't feel a damn thing."