Fallout Kink Meme Part IV: Closed to prompts, open for fills.

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Since When, 3b/3

[(Anonymous)]

After he says an apologetic goodbye to whomever might still be up and paying attention and sets the recorded tapes to while he catches some Z's, he heads back to his room to find the little Lone Wanderer is still out cold, but with some color returning to her skin at last. At least from what he can see, with the blankets pulled up to her nose. He stretches out on the couch, and later can't say when he actually fell asleep, though somewhere in there - seemingly days after he laid down and a few days yet more before he actually slips off without noticing - he checks his watch again and to his frustration finds out it's 4 in the morning.

When he wakes up again it's to the smell of coffee and the instinctive alarm at the way his internal clock is telling him it's well after 8 and he should already be on the air.

He groans as he sits up, the movement eliciting a series of embarrassing cracks in his bones, and scrubs a hand over his face. Someone's removed his shades and headwrap, and he's in the kind of just-woke-up-hating-life grump that he'd love to go on a rampage over it, but that's also the exact opposite of what he wants to do, and requires energy and conviction he doesn't actually have. When he manages to crack an eye open, the kid is sitting on the edge of the couch next to him with a steaming mug between her bandaged palms, still dressed in just his shirt.

The moment is somewhat surreal. Through the haze of fresh consciousness, he takes in how refreshed she looks compared to her initial arrival, though she's still definitely looked better. The circles under her eyes aren't completely gone, and her normally pin-straight long hair is a mess, but the eyes are themselves clear and the old familiar lopsided smile finally reaches them properly. Her hands are steady as a surgeon's when she holds out the mug of coffee in offering - this he notices less because he's awake and aware enough to be looking for it, and more because it's a hell of a lot easier than letting himself think about on the way that shirt only falls over the first few inches of thigh past her hips.

He clears his throat and accepts the coffee with a mumbled thanks, looking down into it for a moment. It's as black as the night itself, and at a sip he finds it more sugary than he likes. Maybe she's just a black-as-night-sweet-as-sin kind of girl, or assumes he's that kind of guy. But the way she's looking at him, all bright and awake and... whole, happy, comfortable, the way the tingle of brushing his fingers to hers when he took the cup lingers, he figures he could be any kind of coffee drinker she wants.

He can give a fuck about a lot of things, but at the moment over-sweet coffee isn't one of them.

Three Dog finally gets himself into a proper sitting position, and Hana, 101, whichever, scoots back farther on the couch to sit properly, knees drawn up and shoulder-to-shoulder with him. He considers trying to make light conversation, but his head's still a little too cloudy for it, and she doesn't seem to be gunning for a chat anyway, so he just slings one arm over the back of the couch behind her head and sips his coffee, staring into the corner of the room and thinking. The quiet that settles over them is a contented sort that doesn't beg any sound breaking it, in fact revels in itself in a warm and cozy way, interrupted only when she occasionally hums a note or two - slightly off key - of something from Billy Holiday.

Crazy He Calls Me, he identifies numbly.