Arcade snorts derisively, grabbing an old pre-war book from the courier's desk and sitting down on a nearby couch. He starts to thumb through the pages.
"Fun times. Three 'jolts', and you risk respiratory depression. That's when the party really gets started."
Jonah looks up sharply from where he hovered over Boone at the foot of the bed.
"Really?" He asks. "Hypoventilation?"
He had been contemplating whether or not to just stick the other man and run. Boone was bigger, but Jonah was much faster- all gangly limbs and nervous energy. He figured that if he had a decent head start he could make it safely out of the room and flee into the bathroom, or some other room with a lock. Preferably a sturdy one. Somewhere he could run to before Boone had a chance to punch him in the face.
Arcade nods, not looking up from the book now cradled in his lap between crossed legs, but Jonah catches the tiny smile the doctor sometimes gets when he's exceptionally proud of the courier's medical knowledge.
"You bet. Something about analgesic drugs and human lungs just doesn't jive correct when administered in the ridiculous doses NCR loves to pump into their troops. Strange, I know. The Followers have certainly treated enough of them, though. Did you know the differences between a Freeside junkie's liver and a veteran Ranger's liver are nearly indistinguishable?"
Boone chokes out a noise somewhere between a cough and indignant scoff, letting his arms fall to his sides and flopping back down on the bed. "Yeah, whatever. Sure made you feel like a million caps, though, but I guess that's- Jonah."
The sudden shift in tone makes Jonah stand straight up from where he was sitting at the foot of the bed. He had been distracted by the conversation and sat down to face Arcade, back turned to Boone, and he quickly spins around to face the other man, alarmed. "What? What is it?"
Boone is staring at him with a strange expression on his face, but his eyes are cast downwards, toward Jonah's belt.
"Were you....are you wearing.... is that lace?"
Horrified realization dawns on Jonah's features, and he feels his stomach drop as he looks down to where Boone is staring.
He doesn't have to look, he knows immediately what Boone is talking about, but he drops his head anyway. His clothes had been fitting a bit too loose lately (he blamed all the courier work running around in the hot, Mojave desert) and sitting down had caused his denim trousers to shift a little too low, hanging a little too slack off of his narrow hips.... and a thin strip of black, lace-trimmed elastic peeked out just above the waistband.
Anything Goes 2/?
"Fun times. Three 'jolts', and you risk respiratory depression. That's when the party really gets started."
Jonah looks up sharply from where he hovered over Boone at the foot of the bed.
"Really?" He asks. "Hypoventilation?"
He had been contemplating whether or not to just stick the other man and run. Boone was bigger, but Jonah was much faster- all gangly limbs and nervous energy. He figured that if he had a decent head start he could make it safely out of the room and flee into the bathroom, or some other room with a lock. Preferably a sturdy one. Somewhere he could run to before Boone had a chance to punch him in the face.
Arcade nods, not looking up from the book now cradled in his lap between crossed legs, but Jonah catches the tiny smile the doctor sometimes gets when he's exceptionally proud of the courier's medical knowledge.
"You bet. Something about analgesic drugs and human lungs just doesn't jive correct when administered in the ridiculous doses NCR loves to pump into their troops. Strange, I know. The Followers have certainly treated enough of them, though. Did you know the differences between a Freeside junkie's liver and a veteran Ranger's liver are nearly indistinguishable?"
Boone chokes out a noise somewhere between a cough and indignant scoff, letting his arms fall to his sides and flopping back down on the bed. "Yeah, whatever. Sure made you feel like a million caps, though, but I guess that's- Jonah."
The sudden shift in tone makes Jonah stand straight up from where he was sitting at the foot of the bed. He had been distracted by the conversation and sat down to face Arcade, back turned to Boone, and he quickly spins around to face the other man, alarmed. "What? What is it?"
Boone is staring at him with a strange expression on his face, but his eyes are cast downwards, toward Jonah's belt.
"Were you....are you wearing.... is that lace?"
Horrified realization dawns on Jonah's features, and he feels his stomach drop as he looks down to where Boone is staring.
He doesn't have to look, he knows immediately what Boone is talking about, but he drops his head anyway. His clothes had been fitting a bit too loose lately (he blamed all the courier work running around in the hot, Mojave desert) and sitting down had caused his denim trousers to shift a little too low, hanging a little too slack off of his narrow hips.... and a thin strip of black, lace-trimmed elastic peeked out just above the waistband.