rest uneasy (incomplete)
Jul. 8th, 2016 09:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysTitle: Rest Uneasy
Rating: PG
Series: Fallout: New Vegas (original characters)
Wordcount:
Summary: Avery's sometimes not okay. There used to be people who noticed.
Remarks: An attempt to capture some of Avery's history. (The surprise was puppies.)
The tent’s flaps were pinned back as far as they went, sacrificing sanctuary from bright sunlight for the vain hope of catching a breeze off the flats, and Julie idly tucked a trailing tie back into place as she surveyed the beds inside. One was filled with the rounded hunch of someone balled up too tightly to make out their face, from the other came the soft buzz of a snore delivered directly into a pillow – and then there was the stretcher covered in an angular sprawl, its occupant motionless save for the agitated twitching of the booted foot dangling off the end, keeping time to some silent rhythm.
She kicked the boot lightly and danced out of range as it kicked back in knee-jerk reflex. A moment later, the khaki-clad arm shifted just enough to bare a single dark eye that narrowed as it focused on her.
“Up and at ‘em, Munir,” she said, pitching her voice low for the sake of the others.
“Mrghnrgh,” Munir said, and dropped his arm back over his face.
Unfazed by this predictable response, she jostled the boot some more until he pulled it away, rolling over onto his side and dragging his pillow with him. Her next kick subsequently dug into the small of his back, earning a yelp and a graceless flail of an arm as he rolled back again at twice the speed and propped himself up onto his elbows, shirt askew and the curl of his hair glued to his sweat-soaked forehead.
“What the fuck, Ortega,” he said, aggrieved.
Unable to repress the glee bubbling in her chest, Julie bounced on her heels. “There's something you need to see, c’mon.”
He flopped backwards, scrubbing at his face with both hands as if he could scrape enough of his senses away to successfully escape her presence. “For the love of…”
She spread her arms in a broad gesture at the tent. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”
He drew in a long breath, and for a moment she could almost hear the familiar crescendo of a spiel building – almost hoped for I know the beds and the closed eyes and the general horizontal positioning of the people here are difficult dots to connect when you’re a wasteland harpy fuelled by nothing but caffeine and malice – but all he said, muffled and gravelly behind his hands, was, “I’m trying to sleep.”
Julie snorted. “You’re terrible at sleeping. Besides, it’s two in the afternoon.”
“And a hundred and two in the shade!”
“Isn’t it awful?” she agreed. “Not much of a loss. Stir your stumps, Avocado.”
“Sit on a cactus, private,” he said without missing a beat.
That he’d whipped out the rank card made her pause, more out of surprise than anything else, but in the same moment there were rising groans from the other beds - “For love and money and Kimball’s hairy ass-” “Take it outside, man, god” - and when Munir levered himself up in bristling willingness to share the fight, Julie took the opportunity to hook her arms around one of his own and pull. It was come with or mash his face into the floor, and self-preservation was evidently a stronger force than spite.
He shook her off immediately, glaring down like the sweaty, ruffled stork to her sparrow – but with both of his tent mates turning mutinous there wasn’t much ground to retreat to, and she could tell just when that realisation sunk in because he promptly threw both his hands into the air and stormed out of the tent in long strides, pausing only to snatch a packet from the side table as he went.
She followed at a more peaceable pace, confident the full weight of the sun would poleaxe him in seconds if he actually tried to run anywhere. Sure enough, Munir stood only a few paces out, irritably tapping the box of cigarettes against his palm, and he didn’t dodge when she sidled in close to slide her arm back through his.
“You’ll like it,” she told him. "It’s way better than broiling in a tent and pretending to sleep."
The low grunt was resentfully doubtful in the extreme, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Outside the shadow of the canvas there was no mistaking the shadows under his eyes for anything but his own, and there was a pinched look about him, a downward turn to lips and shoulders.
Julie patted his arm sympathetically, pleased to find her gut as trustworthy as ever, and when she tugged at his arm he resisted for only a second or two before taking grudging steps forward. Barely a token show of pettiness, by Munirian standards. Either he was too tired to continue fussing, or he was starting to grow a little curious about her mystery enticement.
That he just didn’t want to be kicked some more was also on the table, admittedly.
Rating: PG
Series: Fallout: New Vegas (original characters)
Wordcount:
Summary: Avery's sometimes not okay. There used to be people who noticed.
Remarks: An attempt to capture some of Avery's history. (The surprise was puppies.)
The tent’s flaps were pinned back as far as they went, sacrificing sanctuary from bright sunlight for the vain hope of catching a breeze off the flats, and Julie idly tucked a trailing tie back into place as she surveyed the beds inside. One was filled with the rounded hunch of someone balled up too tightly to make out their face, from the other came the soft buzz of a snore delivered directly into a pillow – and then there was the stretcher covered in an angular sprawl, its occupant motionless save for the agitated twitching of the booted foot dangling off the end, keeping time to some silent rhythm.
She kicked the boot lightly and danced out of range as it kicked back in knee-jerk reflex. A moment later, the khaki-clad arm shifted just enough to bare a single dark eye that narrowed as it focused on her.
“Up and at ‘em, Munir,” she said, pitching her voice low for the sake of the others.
“Mrghnrgh,” Munir said, and dropped his arm back over his face.
Unfazed by this predictable response, she jostled the boot some more until he pulled it away, rolling over onto his side and dragging his pillow with him. Her next kick subsequently dug into the small of his back, earning a yelp and a graceless flail of an arm as he rolled back again at twice the speed and propped himself up onto his elbows, shirt askew and the curl of his hair glued to his sweat-soaked forehead.
“What the fuck, Ortega,” he said, aggrieved.
Unable to repress the glee bubbling in her chest, Julie bounced on her heels. “There's something you need to see, c’mon.”
He flopped backwards, scrubbing at his face with both hands as if he could scrape enough of his senses away to successfully escape her presence. “For the love of…”
She spread her arms in a broad gesture at the tent. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”
He drew in a long breath, and for a moment she could almost hear the familiar crescendo of a spiel building – almost hoped for I know the beds and the closed eyes and the general horizontal positioning of the people here are difficult dots to connect when you’re a wasteland harpy fuelled by nothing but caffeine and malice – but all he said, muffled and gravelly behind his hands, was, “I’m trying to sleep.”
Julie snorted. “You’re terrible at sleeping. Besides, it’s two in the afternoon.”
“And a hundred and two in the shade!”
“Isn’t it awful?” she agreed. “Not much of a loss. Stir your stumps, Avocado.”
“Sit on a cactus, private,” he said without missing a beat.
That he’d whipped out the rank card made her pause, more out of surprise than anything else, but in the same moment there were rising groans from the other beds - “For love and money and Kimball’s hairy ass-” “Take it outside, man, god” - and when Munir levered himself up in bristling willingness to share the fight, Julie took the opportunity to hook her arms around one of his own and pull. It was come with or mash his face into the floor, and self-preservation was evidently a stronger force than spite.
He shook her off immediately, glaring down like the sweaty, ruffled stork to her sparrow – but with both of his tent mates turning mutinous there wasn’t much ground to retreat to, and she could tell just when that realisation sunk in because he promptly threw both his hands into the air and stormed out of the tent in long strides, pausing only to snatch a packet from the side table as he went.
She followed at a more peaceable pace, confident the full weight of the sun would poleaxe him in seconds if he actually tried to run anywhere. Sure enough, Munir stood only a few paces out, irritably tapping the box of cigarettes against his palm, and he didn’t dodge when she sidled in close to slide her arm back through his.
“You’ll like it,” she told him. "It’s way better than broiling in a tent and pretending to sleep."
The low grunt was resentfully doubtful in the extreme, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Outside the shadow of the canvas there was no mistaking the shadows under his eyes for anything but his own, and there was a pinched look about him, a downward turn to lips and shoulders.
Julie patted his arm sympathetically, pleased to find her gut as trustworthy as ever, and when she tugged at his arm he resisted for only a second or two before taking grudging steps forward. Barely a token show of pettiness, by Munirian standards. Either he was too tired to continue fussing, or he was starting to grow a little curious about her mystery enticement.
That he just didn’t want to be kicked some more was also on the table, admittedly.
