Characters: F!Courier, Boone, Ranger Andy Relationship: General Series: Standing Alone
"Boo-"
Charlie presses her forehead against the peeling motel door and starts coughing, her hat brim folding in over her face. Mornings have always been the worst when she's sick, and as unique as the cause is this time, apparently her body's sticking with the same old routine. Everything settles in nice and tight overnight, all cozy in the cooler air, but five minutes after the sun comes up and starts heating things it's checkout time.
She digs her nails in where she had planned on knocking before her lungs decided to turn inside out and just hacks and wheezes until her body can't do anything but twitch and give up and drag in another breath.
Pulling in air isn't much better. It feels like she's trying to deep throat a straight razor. Unable to stand the tickle any longer, Charlie rears back and sneezes, a hard 'ka-CHOW!' that rocks her on her heels.
She waits for a moment, has to, then wipes some of the clotted red mist off the door and rubs it between her fingers. It's either blood from her innards or leftovers from the Cloud.
"Probably both." She croaks, and leans down to grab a handful of dust from the stoop, rubbing it onto the stain with her soiled hand until it's all just nice, tidy, unassuming mud instead of blood, or toxic waste, or whatever the hell those little chunks were she just messed up his door with. "Boone. C'mon, it's sunshiny time. I'm back."
Charlie waits for another minute, two, then decides he's either out of it or ignoring her, and either way she doesn't have a scrap of politeness or patience left to deal with it. She's tired, so very tired, and while Boone is a cranky sonofabitch, one that by all accounts left Forlorn Hope without her after barely a day of waiting, he's a slightly familiar one that she thinks will at least have her back instead of trying to drive a super-heated knife into it and all she wants to do right now is simply spend some time being close to-
She stands there poleaxed for a second, decides to add a heap big side of lonely to the fatigue, then gives a disgusted huff and sets to work.
It's a short matter of a held breath and a bobby pin to get the door open. Boone's radio is back out it in about half that amount of time, landing on the stoop with a staticky clunk. Mr. New Vegas is subsumed under a swath of white noise.
Well, Boone's not in, but she is, and now very reluctant to change that state of affairs, so she decides she might as well learn something while she searches for her nerves. Any insight into the taciturn young man would be a bloody godsend.
Charlie looks around avidly, taking in the finely made wardrobe and bed, which is not made at all and probably hasn't been for a long time judging by the dingy grey the linen has turned, scrubs her boot over the pretty rug on the floor that has dents dug into it from a missing dining set that was obviously larger than the crapsack diner one off to the side with its single cracked chair, and finally fixes her eyes on the bloodied knife on the floor and the old stains arcing out around it. His, or some Legionary Carla was lucky enough to tag? Charlie suspects it to be the latter; Boone has no noticable scars, and the short time she's been around him has been long enough to teach her that while not the brightest blossom on the cactus, he is far too skilled at killing to miss a target that damn close.
That puzzle speculated on to satisfaction, she focuses on other things.
Enough of her nose still works to tell her the wardrobe next to her smells like mesquite and flowers, some store-bought scent that's slowly being snuffed out by time and heat. The rest of the room reeks of cheap gutrot, rancid beans, and the sour punk of sweat and sickness. It's surprisingly thick for a place that has next to nothing left in it.
She's wondering if she should head on up into Dinky's mouth; if Boone's anywhere around, green-eyed Manny Vargas whould know about it, obsessive bugger that he is, when the missing sniper in question shoves his bathroom door open with a sharp *whang!*
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timeasmymeasure
Five Times Boone's Brawled With Charlie: No Vacancy 1/?
Date: 2012-09-28 11:44 am (UTC)Relationship: General
Series: Standing Alone
"Boo-"
Charlie presses her forehead against the peeling motel door and starts coughing, her hat brim folding in over her face. Mornings have always been the worst when she's sick, and as unique as the cause is this time, apparently her body's sticking with the same old routine. Everything settles in nice and tight overnight, all cozy in the cooler air, but five minutes after the sun comes up and starts heating things it's checkout time.
She digs her nails in where she had planned on knocking before her lungs decided to turn inside out and just hacks and wheezes until her body can't do anything but twitch and give up and drag in another breath.
Pulling in air isn't much better. It feels like she's trying to deep throat a straight razor. Unable to stand the tickle any longer, Charlie rears back and sneezes, a hard 'ka-CHOW!' that rocks her on her heels.
She waits for a moment, has to, then wipes some of the clotted red mist off the door and rubs it between her fingers. It's either blood from her innards or leftovers from the Cloud.
"Probably both." She croaks, and leans down to grab a handful of dust from the stoop, rubbing it onto the stain with her soiled hand until it's all just nice, tidy, unassuming mud instead of blood, or toxic waste, or whatever the hell those little chunks were she just messed up his door with. "Boone. C'mon, it's sunshiny time. I'm back."
Charlie waits for another minute, two, then decides he's either out of it or ignoring her, and either way she doesn't have a scrap of politeness or patience left to deal with it. She's tired, so very tired, and while Boone is a cranky sonofabitch, one that by all accounts left Forlorn Hope without her after barely a day of waiting, he's a slightly familiar one that she thinks will at least have her back instead of trying to drive a super-heated knife into it and all she wants to do right now is simply spend some time being close to-
She stands there poleaxed for a second, decides to add a heap big side of lonely to the fatigue, then gives a disgusted huff and sets to work.
It's a short matter of a held breath and a bobby pin to get the door open. Boone's radio is back out it in about half that amount of time, landing on the stoop with a staticky clunk. Mr. New Vegas is subsumed under a swath of white noise.
Well, Boone's not in, but she is, and now very reluctant to change that state of affairs, so she decides she might as well learn something while she searches for her nerves. Any insight into the taciturn young man would be a bloody godsend.
Charlie looks around avidly, taking in the finely made wardrobe and bed, which is not made at all and probably hasn't been for a long time judging by the dingy grey the linen has turned, scrubs her boot over the pretty rug on the floor that has dents dug into it from a missing dining set that was obviously larger than the crapsack diner one off to the side with its single cracked chair, and finally fixes her eyes on the bloodied knife on the floor and the old stains arcing out around it. His, or some Legionary Carla was lucky enough to tag? Charlie suspects it to be the latter; Boone has no noticable scars, and the short time she's been around him has been long enough to teach her that while not the brightest blossom on the cactus, he is far too skilled at killing to miss a target that damn close.
That puzzle speculated on to satisfaction, she focuses on other things.
Enough of her nose still works to tell her the wardrobe next to her smells like mesquite and flowers, some store-bought scent that's slowly being snuffed out by time and heat. The rest of the room reeks of cheap gutrot, rancid beans, and the sour punk of sweat and sickness. It's surprisingly thick for a place that has next to nothing left in it.
She's wondering if she should head on up into Dinky's mouth; if Boone's anywhere around, green-eyed Manny Vargas whould know about it, obsessive bugger that he is, when the missing sniper in question shoves his bathroom door open with a sharp *whang!*