EACH FILL I POST IS A NEW ADVENTURE IN EMBARRASSING ERRORS. This time it was the classic 'sudden un-anon mid-fill' which is actually a rule breaker to boot but completely unintended, honest. Sorry, mods.
SIGH.
-----
He's not ready for it when it happens. Well, the visit, yes. He's prepared for that. All inner turmoil aside, all hope he won't be put in a position to test his willpower aside, he still has willpower he can trust, because Three Dog's a man of restraint when he wants to be and he really does want to be. Despite the anxiety it's not like he can't make light conversation with a girl he's madly in love with without tackling her onto the nearest stable surface and having his way with her; not like he can't do it without letting on that he's got it that bad for her, even.
Conversation, yeah, he's ready for that.
He damn sure isn't ready for the outfit, though. Or the shock of the rest of her.
Three Dog gave the report on her return a little before noon yesterday, and figured when he woke up from his five hour coma of dead-dog exhausted sleep early this morning (it's true, he basically doesn't punch out until someone in power armor takes pity on him or maybe just gets sick of him and takes it upon themselves to punch him out) she probably made it to Megaton late last night and should still be there resting up. If she's not immediately busy (which she always is). If she has any sense of self-preservation (which history has proven she doesn't).
The day's wound on and on with the same old shit since then, playing, not that he's complaining, the same old music over and over punctuated by news stories that only too rarely have endings as happy as the Lamplight one from yesterday, at least when 101's not involved. He's giving another such news report near midnight when he hears the door downstairs open and shut -- a group of Brotherhood with a supply of Aqua Pura went missing en route to Andale. His money's on raiders who don't realize they can get the stuff for free without gunning down good people. Or do realize it and don't care. But he knows in his gut already it's gonna be a sad tale either way if it finds its resolution. Almost undoubtedly on the Lone Wanderer's to-do list, he figures, because he can't fail to notice that the resolution to any problem that makes its way into his inbox usually happens very shortly after he's gotten around to bringing the problem up on the air. By now it's well and thoroughly confirmed, The Lone Wanderer is an avid fan.
Three Dog keeps talking as the visitor proceeds to the stairs, but it takes him all of five seconds to determine who it is. The pitter patter of bare feet on concrete paired with the double-time rhythm of four padded paws comes distinctly without the sound of clanking metal and whirring servos, and furthermore without the cracking, popping, and grumbling that accompanies Margaret's slow, shuffling strides. He lights another cigarette on habit, a minor wave of stress rising up, and takes a quick, deep drag between sentences, then rambles on, letting the smoke claw its way back out of his lungs on its own and twist around his face as he continues his report. In his peripheral, he can see a head of inky black hair appear over the edge of floor obscuring part of the stairs. "So keep an eye out in that area, kiddies -- no need to go charging into any danger the guys in power armor couldn't handle, but if you catch wind of where our paladin pals might have vanished to, pass the word along.
"Now with that sad mess dealt with, heeeere--"
He makes the mistake of glancing up at her, and chokes on his words.
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timeasmymeasure
Since When, 2a/3
Date: 2012-06-18 07:01 pm (UTC)SIGH.
-----
He's not ready for it when it happens. Well, the visit, yes. He's prepared for that. All inner turmoil aside, all hope he won't be put in a position to test his willpower aside, he still has willpower he can trust, because Three Dog's a man of restraint when he wants to be and he really does want to be. Despite the anxiety it's not like he can't make light conversation with a girl he's madly in love with without tackling her onto the nearest stable surface and having his way with her; not like he can't do it without letting on that he's got it that bad for her, even.
Conversation, yeah, he's ready for that.
He damn sure isn't ready for the outfit, though. Or the shock of the rest of her.
Three Dog gave the report on her return a little before noon yesterday, and figured when he woke up from his five hour coma of dead-dog exhausted sleep early this morning (it's true, he basically doesn't punch out until someone in power armor takes pity on him or maybe just gets sick of him and takes it upon themselves to punch him out) she probably made it to Megaton late last night and should still be there resting up. If she's not immediately busy (which she always is). If she has any sense of self-preservation (which history has proven she doesn't).
The day's wound on and on with the same old shit since then, playing, not that he's complaining, the same old music over and over punctuated by news stories that only too rarely have endings as happy as the Lamplight one from yesterday, at least when 101's not involved. He's giving another such news report near midnight when he hears the door downstairs open and shut -- a group of Brotherhood with a supply of Aqua Pura went missing en route to Andale. His money's on raiders who don't realize they can get the stuff for free without gunning down good people. Or do realize it and don't care. But he knows in his gut already it's gonna be a sad tale either way if it finds its resolution. Almost undoubtedly on the Lone Wanderer's to-do list, he figures, because he can't fail to notice that the resolution to any problem that makes its way into his inbox usually happens very shortly after he's gotten around to bringing the problem up on the air. By now it's well and thoroughly confirmed, The Lone Wanderer is an avid fan.
Three Dog keeps talking as the visitor proceeds to the stairs, but it takes him all of five seconds to determine who it is. The pitter patter of bare feet on concrete paired with the double-time rhythm of four padded paws comes distinctly without the sound of clanking metal and whirring servos, and furthermore without the cracking, popping, and grumbling that accompanies Margaret's slow, shuffling strides. He lights another cigarette on habit, a minor wave of stress rising up, and takes a quick, deep drag between sentences, then rambles on, letting the smoke claw its way back out of his lungs on its own and twist around his face as he continues his report. In his peripheral, he can see a head of inky black hair appear over the edge of floor obscuring part of the stairs. "So keep an eye out in that area, kiddies -- no need to go charging into any danger the guys in power armor couldn't handle, but if you catch wind of where our paladin pals might have vanished to, pass the word along.
"Now with that sad mess dealt with, heeeere--"
He makes the mistake of glancing up at her, and chokes on his words.