avery sad state of affairs
Mar. 1st, 2022 09:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sidewaysCross-posting / lightly updating some old Avery materials that remain relevant, mostly for centralised storage, and partly to make up for his lack of a convenient liveblog narrative.
*
[...] 31 years old, 6’2”, and 141 lb; at full stretch Avery tends to loom and he’d be the last person you’d want to run up against in a dark alley if it weren’t for the fact he’d likely scream and recoil first. Mostly he huddles and hunches, with shoulders drawn up and limbs kept close. He will, however, start to wave his arms around when very involved in a conversation - a sometimes hazardous habit, since he often has a cigarette pinched between his fingers. His long legs go a fair way towards making up for his average endurance (not to mention gradually lessening lung capacity), and while he’s notorious for nervous skitters and jerky gestures, he can cross a room in two stiff strides and will adopt a steady, loping gait over longer distances.
He defaults to moody at the best of times, and even those he’s friendly with will have to deal with sullen turns and snide remarks, though anyone he likes can usually be assured of a mumbled apology down the track - he’s not at all unaware that he can be difficult company. Much of his snappishness can be attributed to the fact he sits on the high-strung end of the scale, where nothing is easily shrugged off and restful sleep is hard to come by. On a more positive note, he’s both intelligent and educated, meaning his frequent rants are at least articulate...and ultimately, at heart, he’s a kind person. He’s (quite deliberately) Larkin’s foil; she uses smiles and charm to pursue self-centred goals, while Avery has a prickly, abrasive exterior that doesn’t always do much to hide how easy it is to tip him over with a sob story. Being smart enough to know when he’s being manipulated just makes it worse.
In defiance of the usual jumble of orphans and single parents, Avery’s immediate family are all still alive, and his maternal grandmother was around up until his late teens as well. This includes his mother (Marilyn Bayswater), his father (Ismael Munir), and his elder sister (Holly Bayswater).
Munir Snr was from Vault 7, containing an auditorily invasive experiment its occupants survived across the generations by means of adopting surgical deafness, and is a gentle, enthusiastic man who works as a bookkeeper / scribe / eventual OSI archivist. Marilyn, on the other hand, was born in Redding to a miner's wife who moved to the Hub following the accidental death of her husband; said mechanic grandmother is the base for some of Avery’s repair skillset. Marilyn is NCR loud and proud, both a competent and popular officer, and though she paused her career long enough to have the kids, she’s very much the military mom.
There are three years and infinite personality differences between Holly and Avery, and despite her being much shorter you will never mistake her for the younger sibling for long. With their mother away so often, Holly was used to taking care of her erratic brother and it’s a dynamic that still hangs around in their adulthood. She’s not as charismatic as the mother she so deeply admires, but she’s a dependable soldier with a canny streak and successful in her station.
Avery wasn’t as drawn to army life as his mother and sister, and it was a muddled mix of perceived family pressure and a genuinely sharp eye that lead to him flopping uncertainly into service in his early twenties. His exit was even less graceful; I still need to settle on the details, but whatever the specifics, it was definitely Avery’s fault. No Bitter Springs here, no questionable orders or scapegoating - he fucked up, plain and simple.
Through his sister's intervention he very narrowly avoided the dishonourable discharge. Instead, he was promptly and punitively dropped from his unit and reassigned to a lonely, boring border station out where the radscorpions roam: the Mojave Outpost. Surrounded by unknown NCR troopers who know just enough to class him a failure and rangers who range from the cold to the terrifying, surviving from day to day until someone releases him from purgatory is the name of the game. The only break in the monotony is the civilians who pass through; travelers, caravans, and the occasional courier hauling packages from one territory to the next.
tl;dr: a sad, sarcastic scarecrow with a sniper rifle who lives at the Mojave Outpost.
*
Avery before: Early to late twenties. Trooper and occasional marksman in NCR squad. Hero’s son who fears inadequacy, and an introvert who craves inclusion. Hides self-conscious nervousness beneath sardonic witticisms; receives praise with a telling hesitance. Self-deprecating but always rises to the bait when picked at by another. Capable of friendly banter, though struggles with not taking it personally. Reliably a pessimistic naysayer while clinging stubbornly to idealistic morals; far too inclined to deliver passionate argument to ever seem politically aloof. Not brave (hates risks, hates taking one for the team, loathes gung-ho behaviour) but loyal, and takes official remonstrations hard. Has an endearing sweetness underneath the posturing; terrible at hiding concern for friends, gives a shit about the idea of making a difference, and shows gentleness with vulnerable civilians. Better at encouraging others than himself. Tries not to be bothered by killing and doesn’t really succeed. Reads, smokes, writes letters, and gripes about his tent-mates’ dirty socks and always being the one who has to fix the generator.
Avery during: Early thirties. Newly an exile to the Outpost and reduced to storm clouds and broken edges; he is grieving a tragedy of his own making and there is no comfort for that. Misery is oppressive and all-consuming, dragging him down at every turn. Basic functioning uses most of his energy, leaving little room for niceties. Swings frequently between deep, disconsolate depression and hair-trigger tantrums; the middle ground is sharp, self-defeating, and unpleasant. PTSD is apparent; startles more easily, for less reason, with clamminess and gasping breath to show for it. Sleeps very little (insomnia and nightmares), eats very little (lack of interest), socialises even less. Appears to subsist largely on cigarettes and anger. Keeps his trembling breakdowns to himself as much as he can; familiar with shadowed corners and supply closets even before he starts having sex in them. Not necessarily suicidal, but trapped in an unhappy present with nothing of value visible in the future; drags himself from one bleary grey day to the next with the numb resignation of someone who can’t see any other paths to take.
Avery after: Early thirties and beyond. Freeside mechanic. Cranky old bastard who a) doesn’t have a lawn to shake his stick over and b) isn’t even old. Loud temper, but slower to the boil and quicker to regret and thus better about admitting to fault. Can take a joke, sometimes. Hard-pressed to stop thinking about how he’s being perceived and responds poorly to public embarrassment, but sets more realistic standards for himself. Buries insomniac frustration into work and is generally only driven to a complete standstill by fits of tired sadness. Still complains a lot, but greater self-awareness and a healthier mindset strips a fair bit of the old petulance / bitterness out of it – does half his whining for fun. Tentatively open about things from his past; will still slam that door shut hard if he senses mockery or judgment. Shows a shrewd understanding of others’ feelings, and will prompt conversation. Freer with smiles and able to laugh, even if he still has a bit of a jerk’s sense of humour. Has goals, keeps busy, and figures he’s allowed to be happy now and then.
These may be the starkest examples of Avery’s main points (excluding Child Avery, Teen Avery, and Actual Old Man Avery), but obviously these are spread out over a number of years and there’s bleeding between them. Later years Avery Before, for example, has started to pick up some of the unhealthy traits; he smokes more, sleeps less, and has gotten noticeably more jumpy and biting in his criticisms. Conversely, Avery During mellows out gradually into someone closer to Avery After throughout his time at the Outpost; starts to consider the world outside the context of his unhappiness, dials back the aggressive self-sabotage, develops some better coping mechanisms, and finds the mood-swings slowly easing.
There are also a number of traits that don’t really change: he’s always hierarchal, and always likely to end up deferring to someone of a dominant nature as he honestly doesn’t want to be in charge unless he’s very confident he knows what he’s talking about (hence he can run his own business while sleeping with someone like Wyn). He always needs a bit of time to himself, and dislikes people getting up in his personal space without invitation (yes, even Wyn; she does eventually earn something of a standing invitation, but back in the day her habit of constantly leaning in towards him put him endlessly on edge). He’s always melancholic, melodramatic, and a bit wordy. And you can pretty much always twist his arm if you’re genuinely in need and he knows, deep down, that helping is the right thing to do.
*
Avery had first cigarette at age 16, when one of Connie’s working partners offered it to him half as a joke and half as an attempt to be friendly with the boss’ twitchy grandkid; Connie, who promoted righteous abstinence with all the fervour of the former addict, was Not Impressed and proceeded to get on Avery’s case any time she smelled smoke on him. Avery guiltily continued with the habit anyway, though he sought to keep it hidden from his parents and sibling as well and it was more of a weekly than a daily thing back then. Just something to do quietly by himself on nights he couldn’t seem to get to sleep, or a social challenge he could actually rise to when spending time with the other Hub youths.
By 17 he was smoking more regularly, cravings having crept up on him, but a pack of 20 cigs could still easily last him a fortnight. It was when Connie died, rather suddenly, of a stroke that Avery’s habits became more open and frequent; it was something of a coping mechanism, and something of a defiant, angry gesture to the dead woman for daring to leave: you’re not here, so you can’t stop me now. Neither Holly nor Ismael particularly approved, but Holly was away at work too frequently to really protest, while Ismael just asked him to keep it outdoors. Marilyn actually liked to have a smoke when she drank, but would only partake then, and so her concern would have been more for the fact Avery was addicted had she been present enough to notice.
Many people smoked in the army, and though the medics would grumble no one was going to cut a soldier off as long as they were still passing physicals. One’s fellow trooper was in truth more likely to actively encourage the habit, because little black market circles would spring up in places where rations were low, and it made for a fun bet in card games. Being a smoker could even be said to have helped Avery in socialising with his peers, since it was a familiar and personalising quirk, and showing willingness to lend a spare or a light was an easy gesture of friendliness to make.
He was by far and away The Smoker on his squad, though Detrick and Julie were also known to have a puff; Detrick tended to have one or two cigarettes in the evenings from brands quality enough that it was widely suspected he smoked them just to prove he was capable of acquiring such things, while Julie would have a cig here and there as it took her fancy, a tendency that aggravated Avery to no end both for her lack of an addictive shackle and the fact it was invariably his stock she’d pinch from. As much as his smoking drew the occasional grousing complaint, the squad was for the most part cheerfully willing to enable their marksman in one of the few things that could better his mood.
Towards the end the habit worsened in parallel with his mental health, and by the time he ended up at the Outpost he was chronic, cramming four or five cigarettes into fifteen minute breaks just to get through the next two hours at his desk. What little conscious thought went into the activity were grey and bitter; even if he could have scraped together the internal resources to push through withdrawal side-effects, he saw no point in trying. The small shreds of comfort once attached to the routine were long gone, turning it into little more than a ward against feeling even worse. Once again it became something done quietly by himself, in cold corners of the yard when he couldn’t settle enough to sleep, with no one invited to stand with or share in the ritual.
*
One of the things Avery struggles with most post-army is getting used to having things. It’s extra difficult because he’s never had such a comparatively large place that is all his before - the house/workshop isn't huge, but it’s still somewhere that fits furniture with plenty of room to spare, and he’s never even owned furniture before, really?
He’s lived at his childhood home, he’s lived in workers’ common houses, he’s bunked in a crowded domesticity with some not-quite-friends, and of course he’s slept in an endless parade of barracks and tents. His Freeside place is the first to be his.
For the first month or two the priority is on getting it fully functional - patching holes, ensuring the plumbing and electricity is working, making sure every door and window can be both opened and closed, dragging in the necessities (a mattress to sleep on, the equipment he needs to make his living, a fridge I guess). After that, though, he’s kind of at a loss.
Between Wyn the renovation fiend and his own vague memories of the nicer places he’s been through, he’s aware his home is a bit spartan, but like? He has what he needs, what else is he supposed to stuff in here? The idea of mounting a molerat head on the wall or fashioning some lovely wind chimes out of shitty tin cans is not really his aesthetic.
He gets a clock, first. Partly because it’s far harder to keep track of the time when it’s not broken into scheduled blocks for you, partly out of desperate determination to stick something on his wall. It gets fretfully placed in a half dozen different spots before ending up in its final positioning near the kitchen sink because it’s easiest to see there from almost any point in the house. It’s still mostly a functional acquisition, but it has timber framing instead of chipped Nuka Cola plastic and a quiet tick.
Less justifiable is a painting he pays more than his feeble budget really recommends, but the sunset sits over a landscape that could be anywhere from the Mojave to California and has a soft warmth that colours but does not wash out his otherwise fairly dark interior, and for literal weeks he pauses at random to just stand and gaze on it for a while. It’s calming when the lights of Vegas are a little too bright or the noises on the streets a little too loud.
He acquires books, and a shelf to put them on. A radio. Two lamps and candles for when they fail. A broom. A small table and two chairs. A doorbell, despite his protests. A client trades him three plants for his services - he learns, very quickly, the value of bartering in Freeside - and he kills two of them through anxious overwatering before Wyn saves the last with a lecture on proper plant-care. The survivor goes on to propagate some seedlings of its own, one of which he gives back to the client with a defensive sort of pride.
Holly writes him regular letters, and his father writes slightly more erratic ones. His mother even sends a postcard, once. He puts them on the fridge with scribbled memos, a fading bundle of receipts and trade-in pledges, and a photograph Holly passes on that was meant for him in the first place.
He’s not masochistic enough to hang an NCR flag anywhere, but one day Sid presents him with a truly awful wood carving that is nonetheless recognisable as a two-headed bear, and it lives on the windowsill with the plants ever after. He flips an eager young street peddler the caps for a crow-feather good luck charm to hang near his door, keeps binoculars hanging from a hook, and resignedly adds Sid’s comics to his shelves. He makes himself a better toolbox, better tools, and has enough projects that it becomes rarer to not have something on the go. One day he makes a commission of Angelo on the Strip, and the first night his sign flickers to life in the dark is a good night. He gets rid of the ashtrays.
And all the while little bits of Wyn keep sneaking in: articles of clothing, books and magazines, a succulent with strict instructions, what sure seems like fifty sentient hair ties, and a shovel at least once. She has caches all around the Mojave, he knows, but this one is something more than a simple survival kit.
So it is that some six, seven, eight months in, Avery looks up in the middle of nothing-in-particular and realises that this is what it looks like when he builds a home. A little more eclectic than he might have expected, still a lot more functional than someone with true design flair would put together (even accounting for limits in space and funds and interest), but the place looks lived-in, and it looks lived-in by him.
*
[...] 31 years old, 6’2”, and 141 lb; at full stretch Avery tends to loom and he’d be the last person you’d want to run up against in a dark alley if it weren’t for the fact he’d likely scream and recoil first. Mostly he huddles and hunches, with shoulders drawn up and limbs kept close. He will, however, start to wave his arms around when very involved in a conversation - a sometimes hazardous habit, since he often has a cigarette pinched between his fingers. His long legs go a fair way towards making up for his average endurance (not to mention gradually lessening lung capacity), and while he’s notorious for nervous skitters and jerky gestures, he can cross a room in two stiff strides and will adopt a steady, loping gait over longer distances.
He defaults to moody at the best of times, and even those he’s friendly with will have to deal with sullen turns and snide remarks, though anyone he likes can usually be assured of a mumbled apology down the track - he’s not at all unaware that he can be difficult company. Much of his snappishness can be attributed to the fact he sits on the high-strung end of the scale, where nothing is easily shrugged off and restful sleep is hard to come by. On a more positive note, he’s both intelligent and educated, meaning his frequent rants are at least articulate...and ultimately, at heart, he’s a kind person. He’s (quite deliberately) Larkin’s foil; she uses smiles and charm to pursue self-centred goals, while Avery has a prickly, abrasive exterior that doesn’t always do much to hide how easy it is to tip him over with a sob story. Being smart enough to know when he’s being manipulated just makes it worse.
In defiance of the usual jumble of orphans and single parents, Avery’s immediate family are all still alive, and his maternal grandmother was around up until his late teens as well. This includes his mother (Marilyn Bayswater), his father (Ismael Munir), and his elder sister (Holly Bayswater).
Munir Snr was from Vault 7, containing an auditorily invasive experiment its occupants survived across the generations by means of adopting surgical deafness, and is a gentle, enthusiastic man who works as a bookkeeper / scribe / eventual OSI archivist. Marilyn, on the other hand, was born in Redding to a miner's wife who moved to the Hub following the accidental death of her husband; said mechanic grandmother is the base for some of Avery’s repair skillset. Marilyn is NCR loud and proud, both a competent and popular officer, and though she paused her career long enough to have the kids, she’s very much the military mom.
There are three years and infinite personality differences between Holly and Avery, and despite her being much shorter you will never mistake her for the younger sibling for long. With their mother away so often, Holly was used to taking care of her erratic brother and it’s a dynamic that still hangs around in their adulthood. She’s not as charismatic as the mother she so deeply admires, but she’s a dependable soldier with a canny streak and successful in her station.
Avery wasn’t as drawn to army life as his mother and sister, and it was a muddled mix of perceived family pressure and a genuinely sharp eye that lead to him flopping uncertainly into service in his early twenties. His exit was even less graceful; I still need to settle on the details, but whatever the specifics, it was definitely Avery’s fault. No Bitter Springs here, no questionable orders or scapegoating - he fucked up, plain and simple.
Through his sister's intervention he very narrowly avoided the dishonourable discharge. Instead, he was promptly and punitively dropped from his unit and reassigned to a lonely, boring border station out where the radscorpions roam: the Mojave Outpost. Surrounded by unknown NCR troopers who know just enough to class him a failure and rangers who range from the cold to the terrifying, surviving from day to day until someone releases him from purgatory is the name of the game. The only break in the monotony is the civilians who pass through; travelers, caravans, and the occasional courier hauling packages from one territory to the next.
tl;dr: a sad, sarcastic scarecrow with a sniper rifle who lives at the Mojave Outpost.
*
Avery before: Early to late twenties. Trooper and occasional marksman in NCR squad. Hero’s son who fears inadequacy, and an introvert who craves inclusion. Hides self-conscious nervousness beneath sardonic witticisms; receives praise with a telling hesitance. Self-deprecating but always rises to the bait when picked at by another. Capable of friendly banter, though struggles with not taking it personally. Reliably a pessimistic naysayer while clinging stubbornly to idealistic morals; far too inclined to deliver passionate argument to ever seem politically aloof. Not brave (hates risks, hates taking one for the team, loathes gung-ho behaviour) but loyal, and takes official remonstrations hard. Has an endearing sweetness underneath the posturing; terrible at hiding concern for friends, gives a shit about the idea of making a difference, and shows gentleness with vulnerable civilians. Better at encouraging others than himself. Tries not to be bothered by killing and doesn’t really succeed. Reads, smokes, writes letters, and gripes about his tent-mates’ dirty socks and always being the one who has to fix the generator.
Avery during: Early thirties. Newly an exile to the Outpost and reduced to storm clouds and broken edges; he is grieving a tragedy of his own making and there is no comfort for that. Misery is oppressive and all-consuming, dragging him down at every turn. Basic functioning uses most of his energy, leaving little room for niceties. Swings frequently between deep, disconsolate depression and hair-trigger tantrums; the middle ground is sharp, self-defeating, and unpleasant. PTSD is apparent; startles more easily, for less reason, with clamminess and gasping breath to show for it. Sleeps very little (insomnia and nightmares), eats very little (lack of interest), socialises even less. Appears to subsist largely on cigarettes and anger. Keeps his trembling breakdowns to himself as much as he can; familiar with shadowed corners and supply closets even before he starts having sex in them. Not necessarily suicidal, but trapped in an unhappy present with nothing of value visible in the future; drags himself from one bleary grey day to the next with the numb resignation of someone who can’t see any other paths to take.
Avery after: Early thirties and beyond. Freeside mechanic. Cranky old bastard who a) doesn’t have a lawn to shake his stick over and b) isn’t even old. Loud temper, but slower to the boil and quicker to regret and thus better about admitting to fault. Can take a joke, sometimes. Hard-pressed to stop thinking about how he’s being perceived and responds poorly to public embarrassment, but sets more realistic standards for himself. Buries insomniac frustration into work and is generally only driven to a complete standstill by fits of tired sadness. Still complains a lot, but greater self-awareness and a healthier mindset strips a fair bit of the old petulance / bitterness out of it – does half his whining for fun. Tentatively open about things from his past; will still slam that door shut hard if he senses mockery or judgment. Shows a shrewd understanding of others’ feelings, and will prompt conversation. Freer with smiles and able to laugh, even if he still has a bit of a jerk’s sense of humour. Has goals, keeps busy, and figures he’s allowed to be happy now and then.
These may be the starkest examples of Avery’s main points (excluding Child Avery, Teen Avery, and Actual Old Man Avery), but obviously these are spread out over a number of years and there’s bleeding between them. Later years Avery Before, for example, has started to pick up some of the unhealthy traits; he smokes more, sleeps less, and has gotten noticeably more jumpy and biting in his criticisms. Conversely, Avery During mellows out gradually into someone closer to Avery After throughout his time at the Outpost; starts to consider the world outside the context of his unhappiness, dials back the aggressive self-sabotage, develops some better coping mechanisms, and finds the mood-swings slowly easing.
There are also a number of traits that don’t really change: he’s always hierarchal, and always likely to end up deferring to someone of a dominant nature as he honestly doesn’t want to be in charge unless he’s very confident he knows what he’s talking about (hence he can run his own business while sleeping with someone like Wyn). He always needs a bit of time to himself, and dislikes people getting up in his personal space without invitation (yes, even Wyn; she does eventually earn something of a standing invitation, but back in the day her habit of constantly leaning in towards him put him endlessly on edge). He’s always melancholic, melodramatic, and a bit wordy. And you can pretty much always twist his arm if you’re genuinely in need and he knows, deep down, that helping is the right thing to do.
*
Avery had first cigarette at age 16, when one of Connie’s working partners offered it to him half as a joke and half as an attempt to be friendly with the boss’ twitchy grandkid; Connie, who promoted righteous abstinence with all the fervour of the former addict, was Not Impressed and proceeded to get on Avery’s case any time she smelled smoke on him. Avery guiltily continued with the habit anyway, though he sought to keep it hidden from his parents and sibling as well and it was more of a weekly than a daily thing back then. Just something to do quietly by himself on nights he couldn’t seem to get to sleep, or a social challenge he could actually rise to when spending time with the other Hub youths.
By 17 he was smoking more regularly, cravings having crept up on him, but a pack of 20 cigs could still easily last him a fortnight. It was when Connie died, rather suddenly, of a stroke that Avery’s habits became more open and frequent; it was something of a coping mechanism, and something of a defiant, angry gesture to the dead woman for daring to leave: you’re not here, so you can’t stop me now. Neither Holly nor Ismael particularly approved, but Holly was away at work too frequently to really protest, while Ismael just asked him to keep it outdoors. Marilyn actually liked to have a smoke when she drank, but would only partake then, and so her concern would have been more for the fact Avery was addicted had she been present enough to notice.
Many people smoked in the army, and though the medics would grumble no one was going to cut a soldier off as long as they were still passing physicals. One’s fellow trooper was in truth more likely to actively encourage the habit, because little black market circles would spring up in places where rations were low, and it made for a fun bet in card games. Being a smoker could even be said to have helped Avery in socialising with his peers, since it was a familiar and personalising quirk, and showing willingness to lend a spare or a light was an easy gesture of friendliness to make.
He was by far and away The Smoker on his squad, though Detrick and Julie were also known to have a puff; Detrick tended to have one or two cigarettes in the evenings from brands quality enough that it was widely suspected he smoked them just to prove he was capable of acquiring such things, while Julie would have a cig here and there as it took her fancy, a tendency that aggravated Avery to no end both for her lack of an addictive shackle and the fact it was invariably his stock she’d pinch from. As much as his smoking drew the occasional grousing complaint, the squad was for the most part cheerfully willing to enable their marksman in one of the few things that could better his mood.
Towards the end the habit worsened in parallel with his mental health, and by the time he ended up at the Outpost he was chronic, cramming four or five cigarettes into fifteen minute breaks just to get through the next two hours at his desk. What little conscious thought went into the activity were grey and bitter; even if he could have scraped together the internal resources to push through withdrawal side-effects, he saw no point in trying. The small shreds of comfort once attached to the routine were long gone, turning it into little more than a ward against feeling even worse. Once again it became something done quietly by himself, in cold corners of the yard when he couldn’t settle enough to sleep, with no one invited to stand with or share in the ritual.
*
One of the things Avery struggles with most post-army is getting used to having things. It’s extra difficult because he’s never had such a comparatively large place that is all his before - the house/workshop isn't huge, but it’s still somewhere that fits furniture with plenty of room to spare, and he’s never even owned furniture before, really?
He’s lived at his childhood home, he’s lived in workers’ common houses, he’s bunked in a crowded domesticity with some not-quite-friends, and of course he’s slept in an endless parade of barracks and tents. His Freeside place is the first to be his.
For the first month or two the priority is on getting it fully functional - patching holes, ensuring the plumbing and electricity is working, making sure every door and window can be both opened and closed, dragging in the necessities (a mattress to sleep on, the equipment he needs to make his living, a fridge I guess). After that, though, he’s kind of at a loss.
Between Wyn the renovation fiend and his own vague memories of the nicer places he’s been through, he’s aware his home is a bit spartan, but like? He has what he needs, what else is he supposed to stuff in here? The idea of mounting a molerat head on the wall or fashioning some lovely wind chimes out of shitty tin cans is not really his aesthetic.
He gets a clock, first. Partly because it’s far harder to keep track of the time when it’s not broken into scheduled blocks for you, partly out of desperate determination to stick something on his wall. It gets fretfully placed in a half dozen different spots before ending up in its final positioning near the kitchen sink because it’s easiest to see there from almost any point in the house. It’s still mostly a functional acquisition, but it has timber framing instead of chipped Nuka Cola plastic and a quiet tick.
Less justifiable is a painting he pays more than his feeble budget really recommends, but the sunset sits over a landscape that could be anywhere from the Mojave to California and has a soft warmth that colours but does not wash out his otherwise fairly dark interior, and for literal weeks he pauses at random to just stand and gaze on it for a while. It’s calming when the lights of Vegas are a little too bright or the noises on the streets a little too loud.
He acquires books, and a shelf to put them on. A radio. Two lamps and candles for when they fail. A broom. A small table and two chairs. A doorbell, despite his protests. A client trades him three plants for his services - he learns, very quickly, the value of bartering in Freeside - and he kills two of them through anxious overwatering before Wyn saves the last with a lecture on proper plant-care. The survivor goes on to propagate some seedlings of its own, one of which he gives back to the client with a defensive sort of pride.
Holly writes him regular letters, and his father writes slightly more erratic ones. His mother even sends a postcard, once. He puts them on the fridge with scribbled memos, a fading bundle of receipts and trade-in pledges, and a photograph Holly passes on that was meant for him in the first place.
He’s not masochistic enough to hang an NCR flag anywhere, but one day Sid presents him with a truly awful wood carving that is nonetheless recognisable as a two-headed bear, and it lives on the windowsill with the plants ever after. He flips an eager young street peddler the caps for a crow-feather good luck charm to hang near his door, keeps binoculars hanging from a hook, and resignedly adds Sid’s comics to his shelves. He makes himself a better toolbox, better tools, and has enough projects that it becomes rarer to not have something on the go. One day he makes a commission of Angelo on the Strip, and the first night his sign flickers to life in the dark is a good night. He gets rid of the ashtrays.
And all the while little bits of Wyn keep sneaking in: articles of clothing, books and magazines, a succulent with strict instructions, what sure seems like fifty sentient hair ties, and a shovel at least once. She has caches all around the Mojave, he knows, but this one is something more than a simple survival kit.
So it is that some six, seven, eight months in, Avery looks up in the middle of nothing-in-particular and realises that this is what it looks like when he builds a home. A little more eclectic than he might have expected, still a lot more functional than someone with true design flair would put together (even accounting for limits in space and funds and interest), but the place looks lived-in, and it looks lived-in by him.
