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Generous ASSets, 2/?
Date: 2012-06-15 05:51 am (UTC)He shook his head stiffly and popped it open, genuinely needing a drink - water would do, he guessed - and using it as a means to tear his eyes away again, shutting them tight and tilting his head back to guzzle the whole bottle. When it was gone, he regretted that there wasn't more, just because his excuse for looking the one place her ass wasn't in his peripheral (which always meant it was only a matter of time before he was stuck looking dead at it again) had drained away.
This wasn't fair. In fact it was about fifty different kinds of unfair. She'd busted into Novac still wearing the shapeless NCRCF uniform she'd used to slip past the Powder Gangers and talk Sheriff Meyers into taking Primm under his wing, wild ginger hair tied in a tight braid tucked under her hat and looking for all the world like an underfed teenage boy in too-big clothes. That was the first thing on Boone's list of reasons this was unfair - he'd had no idea what he what he was getting into. Turned out she'd had the dusty, form-fitting leather armor she'd squeezed out of a shopkeep back in Goodsprings sitting around in her pack the whole time, just because it wasn't as breathable. When they'd backtracked through the wreckage of Nipton to check out the Mojave Outpost he'd had to remind her she'd be shot on sight wearing the Powder Ganger getup, so she'd slipped into a gutted trailer and squeezed herself into the armor, and he'd nearly landed on his ass when she'd emerged again.
If only because his guilt and self-loathing felt a lot like the ghost of Carla glaring daggers at the back of his head, he'd decided if he ever got the drive and ability to become president of the NCR, he'd outlaw that fucking armor in a heartbeat. Also because there was no way it was healthy for him. His buzzcut was going to be gray by thirty if he was unlucky enough to live so long, he just knew it, but more likely he'd keel over within a month of following her crazy ass (son of a BITCH) around the Mojave from a heartattack and sweat-induced dehydration - at the same time - long before the Legion got him.
Here lies Craig Boone. Sniper, widower, sad victim of a killer ass.
He could think of worse ways to go, but all of them were a lot more dignified.
They kept walking ("You sure you don't wanna--" "M'fine."), and soon enough the telltale signs of Fiend territory - namely a trail of bones and the stench of piss, blood, vomit, and unwashed junkies - surrounded them. The blasted remnants of buildings were more tightly spaced here, and the need to stick together started to outweigh the need for Boone to have a wider scope of what Six was walking into, so she gestured for him to tighten up the formation and, cussing up a raging storm in his head, he obliged.
He really was a lot more likely to get caught staring at her butt this close, but unfortunately it was a lot harder not to when those swaying cheeks were filling up so much more of his peripheral.
God, he hated his life.