I've never done one of these before and I thought it might be a fun way to try and write one section each day on schedule. The meme provides!
The first time Boone heard Arcade and Courier was when he was rolled up musty-smelling blankets, only half-awake and cotton-headed by too much meat at dinner and a snootful of Arcade's healing powder to tamp down his headache. Early in the evening he'd balled his shirt up for a pillow and dropped off to sleep, his back turned against Courier and the doc as they played Caravan for caps.
When he'd woken up again the canvas walls of their tent were bowed against the chill wind that rushed up Red Rock Canyon, and the fire in the middle of their ring of sleep mats had long burned itself down to coals. Boone hitched his blankets up over his shoulder and let what heat was left in the fire warm his back as he closed his eyes and willed himself back to sleep, drifting in and out of half-formed dreams as the canyon whistled with the wind.
He would've stayed like that for minutes, hours maybe, until a small sound prickled at the edge of his hearing. It kept him awake enough to frown at the dirty canvas and try to place the noise as friend or foe; important enough to get up and brave the cold night air, or just annoying enough to keep him awake and remind him of how much his head ached. He frowned at the canvas, ready to roll over and toss something at the doc to get him up for once, then finally recognised the noise for what it was: the stop-start breaths of Courier jerking himself off and trying – failing – to be silent.
Boone's line of thought on these things was generally that privacy was where you claimed it. Shit, three older brothers and a few years serving in the army meant that he didn't really care when and where a fella decided to bend his wrist, save maybe pointing it in Boone's direction. There wasn't much in the way of locked doors and quiet moments when you took up company with a fella who seemed fated to save the Mojave come hell or high water. Hell, it's not like he hadn't spent a few nights on the road waiting for Courier to fall asleep so he could rub one out himself. Whatever. A man has needs. If he wanted to toss off in a tent with a sleeping audience, then so be it.
Boone would've deployed his best selective hearing and ignored Courier's laboured breathing, maybe distracted himself with thoughts of those legendary Kahn breakfasts he'd heard so much about, but instead there was a low murmur of spread your legs and, yeah, that wasn't Courier talking. The doctor was awake too; awake and watching and directing from his own bedroll.
Boone blinked. Somehow he suspected that this might not be the best time to roll over and announce he was awake. He'd never been one for smoothly extricating himself from awkward situations, and this was probably right up there on the awkward scale. 'Sorry for interrupting' seemed like it wouldn't quite cut it, not when he'd apparently slept his way all through the foreplay.
"Slower. I don't want you rushing."
"Shh," mumbled Courier, voice shaky. "You'll wake him up."
"He snorted a double dose of healing powder for his headache," said Arcade, low and quiet. "You could sing Swanee and he'd sleep straight through it. Now keep going. I don't remember saying you could stop."
They kept going in a soft susurrus of keep going and show me and faster and slower until Courier swore under his breath, feet kicking out from under his blankets as he came with a strangled grunt. The doc whispered his approval, and Boone stared blankly at the canvas walls of the tent and blushed so hard he thought he might catch alight.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
Arcade/M!Courier + Boone, 'Four Times Boone Ignored Arcade and Courier, and One Time He Didn't' 1/5
Date: 2012-09-15 01:30 pm (UTC)The first time Boone heard Arcade and Courier was when he was rolled up musty-smelling blankets, only half-awake and cotton-headed by too much meat at dinner and a snootful of Arcade's healing powder to tamp down his headache. Early in the evening he'd balled his shirt up for a pillow and dropped off to sleep, his back turned against Courier and the doc as they played Caravan for caps.
When he'd woken up again the canvas walls of their tent were bowed against the chill wind that rushed up Red Rock Canyon, and the fire in the middle of their ring of sleep mats had long burned itself down to coals. Boone hitched his blankets up over his shoulder and let what heat was left in the fire warm his back as he closed his eyes and willed himself back to sleep, drifting in and out of half-formed dreams as the canyon whistled with the wind.
He would've stayed like that for minutes, hours maybe, until a small sound prickled at the edge of his hearing. It kept him awake enough to frown at the dirty canvas and try to place the noise as friend or foe; important enough to get up and brave the cold night air, or just annoying enough to keep him awake and remind him of how much his head ached. He frowned at the canvas, ready to roll over and toss something at the doc to get him up for once, then finally recognised the noise for what it was: the stop-start breaths of Courier jerking himself off and trying – failing – to be silent.
Boone's line of thought on these things was generally that privacy was where you claimed it. Shit, three older brothers and a few years serving in the army meant that he didn't really care when and where a fella decided to bend his wrist, save maybe pointing it in Boone's direction. There wasn't much in the way of locked doors and quiet moments when you took up company with a fella who seemed fated to save the Mojave come hell or high water. Hell, it's not like he hadn't spent a few nights on the road waiting for Courier to fall asleep so he could rub one out himself. Whatever. A man has needs. If he wanted to toss off in a tent with a sleeping audience, then so be it.
Boone would've deployed his best selective hearing and ignored Courier's laboured breathing, maybe distracted himself with thoughts of those legendary Kahn breakfasts he'd heard so much about, but instead there was a low murmur of spread your legs and, yeah, that wasn't Courier talking. The doctor was awake too; awake and watching and directing from his own bedroll.
Boone blinked. Somehow he suspected that this might not be the best time to roll over and announce he was awake. He'd never been one for smoothly extricating himself from awkward situations, and this was probably right up there on the awkward scale. 'Sorry for interrupting' seemed like it wouldn't quite cut it, not when he'd apparently slept his way all through the foreplay.
"Slower. I don't want you rushing."
"Shh," mumbled Courier, voice shaky. "You'll wake him up."
"He snorted a double dose of healing powder for his headache," said Arcade, low and quiet. "You could sing Swanee and he'd sleep straight through it. Now keep going. I don't remember saying you could stop."
They kept going in a soft susurrus of keep going and show me and faster and slower until Courier swore under his breath, feet kicking out from under his blankets as he came with a strangled grunt. The doc whispered his approval, and Boone stared blankly at the canvas walls of the tent and blushed so hard he thought he might catch alight.