sour starshine

CloudyBlueDay

consistently inconsistent
Original poster
LURKER MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
Posting Speed
  1. 1-3 posts per week
  2. One post per week
Online Availability
I check as often as I can.
Writing Levels
  1. Intermediate
  2. Adept
  3. Advanced
  4. Adaptable
Preferred Character Gender
  1. Male
  2. Female
  3. No Preferences
Genres
Fantasy, Realistic/Modern, Magic, Scifi, Romance
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Maybe this is it.

There should have been a limit on the amount of times a man is allowed to have that thought. But if there was, Mickey would have reached it long ago.

It was a damnable thing, to be in the Wasteland, unable to run. Unable to run long, or far, but, y’know. Able to run a little bit, if it really counted. Though it usually didn’t ever count enough. Still, he tried. He pretended whatever speed he could muster would save him. He pretended any agility was going to be enough to evade them. He pretended that he had any chance of avoiding the horde of ferals he’d conjured up behind him.

It was supposed to be a routine scavenge. Something Mickey only dared to do every few months - when supplies got abysmal, when his skin became too pale from lack of vitamin D, when he was about to go crazy from lack of stimulation. When that time came, he’d suit up as best as he could. Goggles, bandana, gloves, flashlight. A small reserve of stimpaks in an otherwise nearly empty bag. Besides the few small pieces of armor he’d either fashioned himself or scrounged up on another trip, and a long metal rod he used as both a weapon and walking stick, Mickey traveled with next to nothing. Any more weight, and he wouldn’t be able to book it back home quick enough with whatever he’d found. He wasn’t weak. He was cautious, alone, and his prosthetic always slipped. It was hard to get around, and every outing was a battle just to get by quietly.

Usually, he managed. His luck was abysmal. Things went wrong, but Mickey was a survivor, so he survived. It wasn’t over ‘till he was out of stimpaks, crippled or unconscious. And usually, it didn’t get that far.

Usually.

Today, he’d been a little brave. Ventured into the dark, cold part of the mall that he’d never dared to explore before. He’d been to this place twice now, but only kept close to the exits, expecting something to lunge out at him. Now that it’d been a while since he’d visited the place, he hoped whatever had been here had moved on since then. Either that, or someone else had already picked it clean. He was too low on supplies not to try.

Shining his flashlight around had, blessedly, revealed two crates of expired canned goods. The box was wet, but the cans were intact. It was murky down here, and the air was humid. Though Mickey was immune to radiation, he still wore his bandana over his mouth as he trudged through the dense air.

It was silent until the clicking of a feral ghoul broke through. Quiet, curious. Almost inquisitive. Sometimes, Mickey swore there was a consciousness in there, waiting to be brought out from the dark depths of whatever curse laid on their psyche. Now, though, he didn’t have time to muse on those ideas. He just froze, and held his breath, and prayed for dear life.

Apparently, he prayed a little too loud. The next thing Mickey knew, he was doing the best sprint he could out of the stupid mall.

After enough years in the wasteland, one becomes accustomed to the sounds of feral ghouls in the distance. Someone like Mickey, who listened to ghouls as if they were bird calls, could sometimes hear minute differences. The hoarse tone of an old feral - the high-pitched cry of one freshly turned. And the gruesome, foreboding rumble of a irradiated feral.

Radiation wasn’t a problem for Mickey. He’d discovered this quickly after escaping his cult-like commune, and putting the pieces together from there was rather easy. It had certainly helped his survival rates in the wasteland. But immunity to radiation didn’t save one from the hulking, overpowered form of an irradiated creature. Especially a hungry one.

The opportunity to hide was long gone, and he could hear more than just the irradiated feral. There was only one phase left to this fight - the chase. Definitely Mickey’s worst.

Maybe this is it. That thought rang in his head, rattling as he huffed and puffed. A world where ferals were faster than him was a terrible one, and that reality was becoming clearer every second. Maybe this is it. I made it this far, and maybe it was far enough. His leg was flaring. He was toppling anything he could in his wake, mannequins, shelving. It didn’t matter. Those heavy pants, the hungry snarls, they were getting closer every second. And as something slobbering, hungry, glowing sickly green crashed into him from behind, Mickey thought only one string of words.

Maybe this is it. The irradiated feral chomped down into his shoulder, pulling away a terrible chunk. Maybe this is it. Mickey swung his metal staff, knocking the feral off. Maybe this is it. He scrambled back to his feet, but barely got far. A small cliffside, with maybe a twenty foot drop. Convenient. Maybe this is it. The irradiated feral snarled, barely dissuaded. It lunged. God, why did it lunge? He fell again, hitting something hard, skidding to the edge. It went for his neck this time, clever bastard. Blood sprayed, Mickey gasped, gurgled, reached, flailed. Fell.

It wasn’t that far to fall at all. He could’ve shrugged it off. Except the pile of rebar at the bottom and the sprawling arms of metal made a horrible landing pad, and Mickey let out a single, pained breath as he felt himself be impaled, right through the abdomen.

Beside him, the irradiated ghoul was jabbed in three different places, pinned and immobile, though miraculously, still kicking. The two lay tangled together, inches away from each other, the feral hissing and sputtering and trying helplessly to get to him. Mickey almost laughed.

He thought he saw a face. A terrible, ghoulish face. Hanging over him, like a mask of death. Antlered.

“So, this is it.” Mickey gurgled. And all became black.
 
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  • Hit Me in My FEELS
Reactions: rissa
It’s always gotta be a glowin’ one, tearin’ into folks who don’t need tearin’ into.

Sigh.


Noah knocked and let loose another arrow, dropping the seventh and final feral circling the luckiest man in the world. Or perhaps it was the glowing one they were after, impaled just like the unconscious and bloody body beneath it. She’d already put three arrows into the left eye of the irradiated feral, its snapping jaws just mere inches from the man's face, yet unable to move any farther.

Unable or perhaps unwilling to die by her arrows.

She cursed, not wanting to get any closer, not until the glowing one was dead at least.

Only gotta couple RadAway’s left and it looks like that poor guy’ll need ‘em.

Cursing again, Noah stashed her bow and took a few doses of Rad-X, choking down half a canteen of water afterwards to curb the oncoming thirst. She took a deep breath and strode forward slowly, unsheathing her blades as she went. This part was never easy. At least since her banishment. Children of the Fen hunted together, side by side, back to back, with no weaknesses to exploit. A lost child was a dead child.

What does that mean for a banished one?

Noah stepped through the ring of ferals, looting a few caps and a funky looking staff before turning her eyes to the irradiated one. Its jaw clicked open and shut, teeth against teeth against teeth. Noah swallowed, easing ever forward. The snapping sent chills down Noah’s spine, the hair on her arms rose. They were close enough to kiss, the man and the glowing one, teeth against teeth against teeth.

Noah took a step forward. Her boot broke an already broken glass bottle and the glowing one screeched.

It blasted Noah back, almost onto her ass, the staff she stuck into the back of her belt saved her balance and she whipped around as a feral with an arrow sticking out of its eye lunged for the back of her neck. Machete tore through ghoulified flesh with ease and Noah turned and ducked, ready for another lunge.

It came lower than expected.

A gnarled broken hand grabbed her by the ankle, pulling her down.

A lost child is a dead child.

There was a cacophony of growls and Noah smiled, feeling the tension against her ankle release. She trusted her children to handle the ferals at her back and running forward, Noah took both blades and drove them through the base of the irradiated ferals neck. It shrieked as it died, body twitching and writhing in its death throes, oozing irradiated blood onto the man beneath him.

The man was unconscious and thankfully so, as the next words out of Noah’s mouth would ring true.

“This is gonna hurt. A lot. Try not to die on me, it’s bad luck you know.”

And then lifted him off the rebar.

☄​

Meelo helped lift the man onto Milo’s saddle and for good measure, Noah secured him gently with rope, extra clothes folded for pillowing and padding and with a few droplets of water to wet his lips, Noah hurried home.

Days passed with little change. There was only a slow pulse and shallow miserable breaths. Noah wished she could do more, but she was no doctor. Nor had she ever got hurt like this. She changed the bandages around his throat as often as she dared, and the others as often as he’d allow in his silent unconscious struggle. After the third day, Noah changed the bloody bedding beneath him and wrapped him up in furs warmed by the fire.

She used so many stimpacks and Med-X’s she was worried he’d wake up addicted, but when she woke up on the dawn of the second week his breathing was deeper, just slightly less pained. When his heart stopped the next day, she japped a stimpack into it and cried for a while, even promised she’d kick him if he died and made her waste all those stims.

That was a few days ago, before she made a quick trip north, to get more water and maybe more stims. No such luck there, but she did find a few more Med-X’s and the little toy in the room next to it reminded her of Brady’s beacon, which she clicked on as soon as she got home.

Today was a good day though, as she’d gotten Brady’s confirmation and the gash around the stranger's neck was starting to close up.
 
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  • Sweet
Reactions: CloudyBlueDay
Drifting.

Mickey was no stranger to this vortex. The swallowing, inky blackness that rippled and churned, wrapping you up tight when you were ill. It was a painful state of being where your body burned you from the inside out, hurting and grinding while being put back together. Like a shattered puzzle piece. So many times had Mickey writhed under swathes of wet rags, tight covers, glass thermometers. So many times, in fact, that the presence of that sweaty, looming, dangerous beast, the shadow of death that followed him like a lost pet, was beginning to have a sort of familial comfort to it. A twinge of recognition that came each time Mickey was here. Aching.

Though he wasn't truly awake, he could feel the outside world like imprints in a long dream. And those touches were different than the soul-swallowing, shivering sleep he was oh-so familiar with. Someone touched him kindly, worried over him deeply, and he could feel it like he'd never felt before. Well, that wasn't true. He'd felt it from one person, a long time ago. That childlike concern had both healed him and harmed him so many times over and over. And though it was long gone, in his addled ind, the body that fretted over him reminded him so much of her.

Juniper?

The mere impression of her being gave him a new kind of hell. Beneath Noah's care, Mickey struggled to hold on. Because the idea of seeing his sister had been one he toyed with for a long, long time, and in the days where it was touch and go, Mickey longed to be with her so bad that his anatomy empathized. The yearning burned his bones. His wounds didn't heal, his body was in a constant state of fever. Everything Noah did to save him just didn't seem to take. It was fighting a losing battle.

The decision to heal didn't come until Noah had already spent weeks of effort on him, stimpaks and sweat alike. It didn't come until after his heart had stopped, because when it had, he'd been ready to go. In that moment, when his beaten body was finally truly silent, a fluttering, distant sound made him change his mind. A sound that was suddenly so clear and crystalline in the absence of his own heartbeat. The sound of someone crying. In that sound, he found the tears of his sister on the waking side of the world, rather than the one that beckoned and called him so temptingly in his fragile state. It was enough to make him turn back around.

Then, the uphill battle began. Wanting to wake up. It took days to even near the concept of drawing a conscious breath, but now he was curious. And when Mickey was curious, he was unstoppable. So he climbed. Noah doted. Mickey swam to the shore, and with all his might, broke the surface.

But all that floaty, spiritual bullshit ended the second he cracked a grey eye open. Sucking in air was like swallowing an anchor that dragged him all the way back to the bottom of the sea, and this was no otherworldly darkness. This was just good old human drowning. Drowning deeply under the pain of the vessel he inhabited, and god was it sunken. He inhaled, and all that curiosity was pushed to his subconscious, buried by the present matters; the searing ache in his side, his shoulder, his neck. The unfamiliar ceiling. The furs he was swathed in. That curiosity had done its work for now, bringing him back to life. Now it was time to let preservation take over.

Slow. Mickey thought to himself, and he clung to that word like a lifeboat. Slow. One painful inhale, and he managed to turn his chin. One more, and he could blink to clear away the fog. Another, and he could crane his neck, far enough to see a girl in the corner, asleep between two yao guai's like they were stuffed animals.

Somewhere deep inside his mind, Mickey knew this was the girl that had cried for him, labored over him. That fact confused him in a way that was almost painful to consider. It had been so long since anyone had cared for him. Why? Did she know he was valuable? Did she want something from him? To keep such a deeply dying man alive was in the interest of no extortionist. But there she was, saddled between what should have been two ferocious beasts, and yet she made them look like pets. He was so dazed and nauseous. Maybe he would fall back asleep, and discover he'd hallucinated it. Her. But Mickey's hallucinations were not often so imaginative. Nor were they so kind.

"H..." He rasped, and his voice was sand and gravel. Mickey pushed on stubbornly, sweat collecting at his brow as he forced his cobwebbed vocal cords to do what they'd forgotten. A shaking hand lifted towards her. "He...y.... wake... up." I need to.... I need to see if you're real.
 
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  • Hit Me in My FEELS
Reactions: rissa
Noah drifted. Days and weeks came and went in a feverish blur, up and down and up again, never a full rest, never a full sleep. She and stimpacks became close friends and Med-X’s became her lover of the night, soothing the labored and ragged breathing of her stranger into something smoother, less haunting. Noah slept only when he did, roused so easily by his pained moans, plagued by his whispering heartbeat.

She combated the plague with thoughts of his eyes and what his face looked like when he smiled or frowned or really needed to poop. Noah even tried reaching out to his psyche, to the centermost point of his subconscious that allowed her to root in and plant seeds of control. It didn’t work though and it made her head ache something awful. But whenever she closed her eyes for too long all she saw was the snapping of the glowing one’s jaws, its teeth ever so close. They were always snapping at her though, and Shiloh and Milo were always too far out of reach to stop the inevitable.

Noah drifted, floated along a thousand different dreams within her subconscious— some that weren’t even her own— until she heard something… unfamiliar. Though it did remind her of Tobacco Palm, an old and withered Fen who made a living making crackjaw venom, far past the heart of the swamp. The weird familiarity made Noah peel her eyes open in bewilderment, wondering how the blind, one-legged man had known where to find her. She was instead met with her strangers— grey! —eyes, woozy and pain-filled, open and looking right at her.

Noah beamed, scrambling forward in a rush. Stopping just shy of the bed and his outstretched arm, nearly vibrating with excitement, Noah grabbed it gingerly and squeezed ever so lightly, just to make sure this was actually real. When she was sure of it, she slid back, threw her hands up and shouted in joy.

The animals in the room, the two stunted yao guai and the black hound, followed her cue, standing on their hind legs and twirling on the spot. It was a cacophony of noise, happy shouts and snarls and howls, the clanging and shattering of reclaimed plates and pots, even herbs, strung up and drying, fell down in the celebration of life.

“You’re alive!”

Noah kept shouting it.

She grabbed Shiloh, kissed her on the snout, and said, “He’s alive, ahaha, can you believe it? We did it, Shi, he’s alive!”
 
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  • Bucket of Rainbows
Reactions: CloudyBlueDay
She was bright. Like the sun, beaming and scrambling and reaching towards him. Raining down on him a warmth he didn't deserve. Her hand did indeed meet his, smaller fingers grabbing hold of his larger, rougher hands. For a moment, he reveled in that touch. More than he'd reveled in anything in a long time. Though her hands were not untouched by the callouses of the wasteland, they were much softer than his. It wasn't just the physical difference that shocked him, though. It was the care in her touch; the awe that mirrored his own. She was just as shocked to see him moving, and it was that innocence, that sympathy, that stunned him. When she slipped away, his hand stayed aloft just a second longer, wishing she'd have held on a little more.

But she broke away, and began to jump. For joy. Over him. Mickey watched with wide eyes, because her victory was like a dance, and her shouts were like a song. He was becoming more and more convinced that he was hallucinating, as her animals began to howl and dance with like circus animals, swaying with her. A repeating motif banged against his brain. Over him. She was celebrating over him.

Against his better judgement, Mickey pushed himself upright against the headboard of the bed. Just that movement was hellish, but despite the rejoicing in front of him, Mickey could feel there was something wrong. He was alive, and that was more impressive than anything, but as he shifted upwards, he could feel his side scream in protest. However long he'd been out, it hadn't been enough to finish the job, and though he had certainly been lovingly wrapped in furs, even bandaged pretty impressively, the wound felt open.

Mickey glanced at her again. She was kissing the snout of her dog, and while it was adorable, her celebration felt a bit out of place to him now. He had made it to a clearing, but he wasn't out of the woods. Mickey's mind clung to medicine from a young age. He'd wanted to know all that had been done to him, at least when he was lucid enough to understand it. With an impressive new resoluteness that allowed him to push forward, Mickey began to unravel the bandages wrapping his torso.

He'd grown accustomed to the sight of his own, messed up body. This was ugly, but familiar. She must have been fending off infection with stimpaks, which was great (and expensive, so he definitely owed her a debt, or maybe a thousand debts), but the wound wasn't going to close without help.

He was struggling to cling to consciousness already. But Mickey was stubborn, more stubborn than ever. A man didn't fight his way out of the underworld to lose to an unstitched wound. Besides, there was finally someone who... who seemed to want him around. Insane as it was. A hand gently resting over his now exposed wound, he looked to her again, the corners of his eyes clearly creased with pain, but jaw level and firm. It would be clear to Noah, who had watched him suffer unconscious, that awake, he was better at hiding what ailed him.

"I'm alive," Mickey echoed with that rasp of his, trying to offer a grateful smile. "But this..." He sucked in a shaky breath. "This wound has to be sewed before it can close." And I'm assuming, since you haven't done it already, I'm going to have to do it myself. Though he didn't do much more to press the urgency, Mickey's breath was lilting. He seemed prepared to do it himself, determined, even, but it was clear how much effort he was exerting just to stay awake.

"I'm sorry to ask more of you." He whispered, his voice becoming thin. "B-but I need a needle and thread."
 
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  • According to Plan
Reactions: rissa
Noah stared, the joy long gone from her eyes. It was replaced with something akin to fear or perhaps disgust— more than likely it was a mixture of both swirling around her expressive face, and the ever-protective Milo let out a rumble of discontent at her projection of uncomfortability. Light blue eyes widened, realizing her mistake, and dulled the connection immediately. She gave him a soft pat on his flank and nodded, trying to peel her eyes away from the pale and mangled flesh of the stranger.

For a moment that felt entirely too long, all Noah could do was stare. Watch the man scrutinize his own wounds with an uncanny and clinical precision that made her lightheaded. He was hurt, desperately so, and yet his hands barely shook and his eyes— his eyes were filled with a strength and determination she’d only ever seen twice before. Once, when her mother killed a snapjaw when she and her sisters were children and once more when a former Micco talked her way out of a gunfight with a raider, synth, and super mutant.

She didn’t own a needle, not really, but she had many and more fishing hooks that she used for the same purpose. Noah brought her three favorites, all in varying sizes. She tried not to look as he chose, nor did she look when he threaded it through. Her stomach gurgled and Noah bit the insides of her cheeks until she tasted blood. Shiloh let out a grumbly whinny, lying her head against the foot of the bed as Noah played fetch. If he needed anything, Noah retrieved it. When she could no longer stand the sound of threading flesh, Noah spoke.

Slow and steady, almost measured. Though only because she was holding back vomit.

“I dunno why the stims didn’t work. They always just— closed up, ya know?”

She shook her head. “Names Noah by the way. I’d shake yer hand but… yer kinda busy keepin’ yer g-guts intact so I understand.” I should not have said that. I think ima actually puke now.

Noah tried not to turn green as she asked, “W-what can I call ya other than ‘stranger’?”
 
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  • This Gives Me Plot Bunnies
Reactions: CloudyBlueDay
He'd put out the light in her eyes. For that, Mickey felt truly and surely ill for the first time since awakening, a sickness not from his wounds, but in his heart. An ache that had struck him anytime his dour mood had infected Juniper's, and an ache he hadn't felt in a very long time. His own expression tightened severely, having to hold on to that determination more than anything now to stop from kicking himself in chastisement. A light like that couldn't ever afford to be put out. Unfortunately, Mickey was often a strong howling wind. Brutal, consuming. Light didn't last long in his presence.

Shoving his self disdain in a box that was already overflowing, Mickey knit his brows as he watched her interaction with the yao guai. His noise of displeasure seemed to mirror her own queasy look, and he marveled at the connection that seemed to run so deep between her and her animals. Something was strange about her, that was for sure, but he couldn't spare the brain power. He could only watch in awe and confusion, until that line of thought was replaced with a box of fish hooks before him.

Well. Mickey thought, taking the cleanest, sharpest looking one he could see. That'll be a new story for me. Sewn together with a fish hook. Bait and all. Her attentiveness was not lost on him - with her speedy supply deliveres, he'd disinfected and threaded it within minutes, and each second was crucial for Mickey as he hung to his consciousness with a grip so white hot it could have burned. As soon as he was able, he began to sew.

Mickey didn't look at her as she spoke, his concentration tied to the knots he was creating in his flesh, but he did allow himself to hang onto her words the way someone could listen to music when in deep focus. The worry in her tone, though it tainted the summery, carefree lilt, only added to his admiration and puzzlement. How could anyone be so scared for a stranger? It must have been days before he'd awoken. Possibly weeks. She was at the edge of his bed like he was a dear member of her family. Someone as light as her shouldn't have had all this love to spare. Where was her family? And how had their loss not tainted her?

Those questions, and her voice, kept his mind busy enough to get the job done. His hands, practiced in the act of cobbling himself together, worked seamlessly and steadily. In, out, in, out. It even took him a while to register that the conversation had turned to him, and for a moment, the question didn't land. It took a few seconds for Mickey to pause in his work, look up at her with his clear, grey eyes, and nod in greeting.

"Mickey," He murmured, and he sounded a little better than before, which was impressive for someone who had now actively turned to puncturing the sorest point in his body. After the sharing of names, he returned to his work, though his dry lips continued to speak. "It's alright. Most don't know that for a wound this big, you've got to help it keep shut for the stims to do any real work. You probably saved me from infection, though, which is the reason I'm awake."

When it was done, Mickey tied three surgeon's knots and asked her for a fresh roll of bandages. He was painfully aware that his backside was still open, but looking at Noah's squeamish face, he knew it was useless to ask her to stitch it. Hopefully, with the front end closed, and a few more stimpaks, it would begin to seal on its own.

Mickey fell back against the headboard, panting softly. Only now did he let his fatigue enter his psyche, but he still resisted the urge to let his eyes fall shut. His job wasn't done. He looked to Noah, catching her eyes firmly again, and with a small quiver in his lip, bowed his head gratefully.

"You saved my life," Mickey said softly. "You did more than that, you... you kept me alive. I don't know for how long, but what you did for me, I can never even repay you, much less... begin to deserve it." His fists clenched and unclenched, and though his breathing was steady, it seemed to be taking him some effort to keep it that way. As he spoke, and emotion betrayed his evenness, his breath became a little more shallow, a touch more audibly weak. He was going to need more from her, and he hated it. But there was nothing he could do, and hopefully her kindness, or whatever she truly wanted from him, would continue to allow it.

"Thank you. I-I don't know why you did it, and whatever I have to do to reimburse you, I will, but just... th-thank you."
 
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  • Hit Me in My FEELS
Reactions: rissa
Noah decided his voice was just as entrancing as his breathing, shallow or full-bodied, it laced through her ears on a decisively strong breeze, filled the recesses of her mind as his voice crunched through the letters, scraped against the lilts and the lows— the dragging friction of his gravelly voice simply left no room for her mind to wander off. She quite liked it.

The sound of another’s voice.

She reached for his hand, to hold, to shake. Noah nodded, a silent affirmation. “You ain’t gotta thank me for doin’ somethin’ I wanted to do anyways. Sure is nice to hear though. And ta’ hear you!”

Scooting towards the end of the bed so she could scratch Shiloh behind the ear and calm the unsettled nerves she herself had so unceremoniously projected, Noah tilted her head and glanced sidelong at Mickey, somewhat in thought, “Reimburse. That’s what yer people call life debts? Where are you fr—”

Wait a second.

As Noah went to rest her head against the soft mattress, she felt no resistance from her antlers and no antlers meant—

“Oh fuck. You can see my face. You saw my face! Oh fuck, I don’t even have my antlers on.” Noah cried, face flushing crimson as she shied away from his sight in order to grab her heirloom antlers.

They were right to banish me. I can’t even keep my damn mask on in front of a stranger—

Her left foot came down heavy as she slid on her headpiece, realizing Mickey wasn’t quite a stranger, even if this was their first time conversing. He’d been here a few days shy of a month now, if her math was correct (which, truthfully, usually wasn’t, but she had 33 stimpacks, looted and traded and accumulated over the years before she brought him home, and there were only a handful left) and he already felt like a friend.

Symbols but no masks are fine between friends. Mama does with Brady!

Noah turned around, eyes aglow unbeknownst to her, subtly soothing the animals under the roof as they roused, sensing her panic. Sometimes (like they were right now) the runes Old Jebidiah carved in the antlers would glow too, the same color as her eyes, though no one had quite figured out how (or why).

“You should get some rest,” Noah said softly, settling back down against the side of the bed, outright ignoring her outburst as furs were thrown beneath her. “Since I dunno what I want for my life debt, er, Reimburse, why don’t ya just get better? Hang around for a while.

“Ain’t had any company… ina long while.”

Eventually, all three of the animals would migrate over and Noah would find herself resting against Meelo, her light blue eyes watching him sweetly as she began to drift, half wondering if this was a dream after all. An elaborate ruse to conjure up a friend. She didn’t quite mind it, even if it was.

“We should get some rest.”
 
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Mickey felt like they were past the point of handshakes, but in a weird way, he knew they weren't. While it was true that they'd really only properly just met, this girl had nursed him back to health. Cared for him while he was unconscious, seen intimate parts without his knowledge. The thought, as he lingered on it, did begin to skeeve him out a bit. No one had been close to him in years. And even then, his sister had been just a child. How close had she really been to him? How deeply had anyone ever really known Mickey?

He did shake her hand, albeit a bit hesitantly now, just because he was suddenly freaked out by the idea that this girl must have changed his underwear at least once, among other things. Weaker than he would've liked, too, because he didn't really have the strength to spare for a bold handshake. She did gloss over the term life debt, which Mickey cringed at, but he supposed he should've expected it. He didn't have much time to linger on it, though, because she went into a tizzy.

Mickey watched in confusion as Noah seemed to have a mini breakdown, looking for something he hadn't known she lost. "Why wouldn't I see your face...?" He mumbled confusedly, sinking down in the bed slightly with a small grunt, watching as she retrieved something from the corner of the room. Oh. Then it began to make sense. She was Fen. Fen were weird swampy people with a weird moral codes, who wore masks and didn't show strangers their faces and apparently didn't know what reimburse mean. But Fen travelled in groups. And she was all alone.

But just as soon as things had begun to clear up for him, he became confused again. As she put on the antlered mask, it began to glow. With that glow, he could see her circus menagerie of animals react. Calming. She controlled them? He'd heard of mystic abilities from the Fens, but never seen it in action. What was a powerful psychic like her doing alone? Caring for a stranger, away from her people? Was she trying to indenture him?

His mind swirled with theories and it was clear that his grey eyes, though half muddled with a painful fog, were occupied by ideas. Notions about her, questions and concerns and things he couldn't yet voice, but ran around in his head, wondering who she was. His savior, his debtor. Despite all that he saw of her, all the incredibly impressive, intimidating things, she folded herself with her animals at his side like a lap cat, and he felt none of the fear he thought he should feel. Instead, he looked at her with a gentle admiration. As much as he tried to get his preservation skills to kick in, to stop himself from trusting her, there was just... something about her. Something that lulled him into a calm - that cooed comfortingly, and told him that it was alright to rest. Mickey never let himself rest. Maybe it was the weeks he'd spent in her care, subconsciously watching her labor over his every wound, spending stimpak over stimpak. Awake, he might not have known it fully, but his heart did. And that was new for Mickey. New and warm.

Despite himself, he nodded, and sunk back down fully to lay on his back, letting out an exhale of relief. Why don't ya just get better? Such a simple question was almost lost on him, but Mickey would remember it in his dreams. Strange, that he'd managed to nearly die in front of the only Fen in the world who was just as lonely as he was. Strange and... oddly lucky, for the first time in Mickey's life. Luck and Mickey Glass did not go together. Maybe it was all the pain meds that made him so optimistic, the delirious nausea, but he didn't have time to argue with it, and he didn't even want too, because it was the only thing that gave him relief from inhabiting this fiery, burning vessel. So he carried that sliver of peace into sleep with him, and let go.

Darkness quickly began to cloud the corners of his vision, but he kept his eyes on her until the picture faded away completely. And he rested.
 
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  • Hit Me in My FEELS
Reactions: rissa
Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and before she knew it, Mickey Glass had been sleeping in her bed for almost a quarter of the year. He could walk now, a little hunched over and not too far in one go but… it was nice, seeing his health continue to improve. Shiloh was happy too, to have another person to play fetch with. Rarely did she leave his side, especially during the nights Noah would leave to go scavenge— for food or stimpacks or entertainment. It took Noah awhile to realize it was her own projection causing it, the need to get close to him, to make sure he was safe and not regressing.

By then, Shiloh was curling up at his feet every night, warding off the chill.

“We’re a bit low,” Noah said one afternoon, lacing up her traveling boots extra tight, weaving in bits of rusted metal and carved bone. “On, well, everythin’. Ima take the twins and go scavengin’, prolly hunt on the way back. Day or three at tops. W-will you be aight?”

Lacing his hands through Shiloh's fur, watching the way that it stuck up between the interdigits of his fingers, Mickey nodded, albeit reluctantly. "I hate that you have to go alone," He said softly, the hand not being dragged through Shiloh's coat going to rest on the nearly healed wound on his stomach. It was so much better, but not all the way there, and a three day trip would be pushing it for sure. His eyes traveled up to meet hers, softening with a question that had been on his mind a long time now. "Has it... always been like this? You, alone?"

Noah made a face. “I won’t be alone, I got the twins.”

She pondered on her response, fighting against the frog swelling its way up her throat. Noah finished lacing up her other leg and tied another leather pouch to her waist before responding. “No. I was- I was banished four years ago. Thereabout. I don’t keep track of da time so well anymore.”

"Okay, not alone, just... without other people," Mickey murmured, internally cursing his mistake already. He knew better by now to imply that she was without company when she was without her animals. But that wasn't what he'd meant.

He pondered his response for a long time, too, wondering if there was any point to pressing this information out of her other than to sate his own curiosity. In the end, he decided there wasn't. He trusted her, even if her people hadn't. So he just hung his head a little ashamedly. "Soon, I'll be able to go with you. And start making up for all the supplies I've been using."

Noah shrugged lightly, "It's why we get 'em," she said with a naïve finality, "To use 'em."

She smiled then, leaning over his bedside to scratch Shiloh behind the ears and plant new seeds. She whinnied softly but curled up against him, brown eyes wide and knowing. "Some canned beans n' stuff ova there if you get hungry. I-I'll be back soon."

Without being conscious of it, Mickey pulled Shiloh closer to him, watching Noah go with the same expression of a wounded dog, and not even the one beside him. A quiet prayer trailed after her. “Stay safe.”

And safe she stayed, as though his parting words were some kind of Micco blessing, protecting every footfall and hasty decision she made during her three day journey north. Usually she did not think about every action or reaction she took on scavenging trips. She entered every little dilapidated suburb she stumbled across without a care in the world, eager to find hidden treasures buried beneath the rubble of time. Now? Now she measured every footfall and every turn around a dark corner knowing there was someone to return to. Someone who needed her, even if he didn’t want to need anyone.

The haul this round was low, save for one precious thing— stimpacks. A whole container filled with them at the bottom of some pantry, stuffed with cloth scraps that simply disintegrated when moved. The old part of her wanted to continue, to bring back as much as she could, but Noah crawled back home on the dawn of the third day. She nearly collapsed onto his chest when she got there too, as it didn’t look like he was breathing.

“Gah! Don’t be scarin’ me like that!” Noah scolded, her eyes misty and antlers so lopsided it was a wonder they didn’t fall off.

Mickey jolted awake, the weight on his chest startling him as he looked down, realizing it wasn't Shiloh, but Noah. Relief began to trade places with the adrenaline, and he leaned back down, draping his arm over her as his lips stretched into a smile. "Welcome back," He said assuringly, righting her antlers with his other hand. "What I'm hearing is that... I'm not a snorer. Pretty good, no?"

Woulda known you were alive if ya’d been snorin’.

Noah smiled and fell onto the furs beneath the bed, unlacing her boots and gathering the odd bits and ends she always weaved in. “Suppose so.

“Prolly gunna have to leave again soon though,” Noah said rather sadly, tiredly, “Only found a can of beans and this. Made sure to hurry back with it.”

Noah tugged out the small metal container filled with stimpacks and laid it gingerly on the bed, her smile sleepy and content. “Day or two, I think, then I’ll go hunt.”

Mickey watched her take out each odd and end with that same care she always did, and his gaze was filled with a quiet admiration. He liked the way she paid attention to all things small, and her ingenuity was something he'd never seen before. His smile bled away when she spoke sadly after that, his expression mirroring her displeasure for her findings. Not because he wasn't happy with the haul, but because she wasn't happy with herself.

"We could sell the stimpaks," Mickey offered, trying to encourage her. A can of stimpaks, while not edible, was worth more than a hundred cans of beans. "I don't need them anymore. And if you're going out again, I'm coming with you. I'm ready."

“No.”

Noah softened the blow with a sleepy smile, curling up into the furs and stretching. She and the twins had traveled all night beneath the bleeding stars and it felt good to come home and sleep safely. Comfortably. Furs warmed by the fire, ears lulled by another’s breathing.

“Ain’t that I don’t wantcha to but, yer still slow on that leg o’ yers. And you still tweak to the left a bit. Back still hurts huh?” Noah frowned slightly as she continued, “Don’t wanna sell the stims. I got chems aplenty I rarely use, bout the same price too.”

Mickey winced. He’d seen it coming, obviously, and he also hated the fact that it impressed him. Her resolve, her stubbornness. But he was at the end of his rope, and tired of falling deeper into her debt. Not because he didn’t want to be here. Because it drove him mad that she was going out, alone, dangerously, for him.

“Noah,” Mickey began, knowing he’d have to try and monologue out of it. Did he already know her so well? “I’m always slow on the leg. I got by on my own for years. You need… to let me help you. And I’m helpful out there, I swear it.” He also pointedly ignored the comment about his back. Something was always hurting him, it hadn’t really been a factor that stopped him before. No, it was just a factor that nearly got you killed…

Mickey sat up, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not letting you go out there alone for me anymore.”

Noah giggled as she drifted off to sleep and would not remember the next few words out of her mouth when morning rose once more and she was roused from a comforting departure from consciousness.

“No? Then I’m goin’ out there ‘alone’ for us. Shuttup ‘bout it.”

Heat came to his cheeks. Both of anger and of a heart that beat faster in the name of the word us. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "No, I won't shuttup 'bout it! I'm serious, I know how to navigate the wasteland and I did it years before I got myself sticked with a piece of rebar, alright, so next time we're going out together, and I--"

An egregiously loud snore came from the body atop him. One that, if Mickey hadn't known her for months already, he would have called fake. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Noah had been asleep for his entire protest.

His hand, which had been raised in gesticulation, fell atop her back again. And with a sigh, he wiggled around a little, to have her fall into the crevice of his arm and allow him to hold her head under his chin. "We're continuing this talk tomorrow," Mickey promised her sleeping form, but found his resolve disappearing as he gazed at her peaceful face nestled in his arms. He stared for a little while, marveling at the fact that he was holding someone. Holding her. How much it made his heart swell and how scary it was to care so much for her that it hurt. But he also marveled about how lovely she looked, how the moonlight adorning her face from the window made her eyelashes sparkle, and how perfectly she fit against him, like a puzzle piece he'd been missing all his life.

"...Alright." He whispered, allowing his eyes to droop closed, taking so much comfort in the fact that she was back beside him. "You win."

Two days came and went and Noah couldn’t tell if saying goodbye was getting easier or harder. Shiloh curled up beside him when she started her lacing routine, weaving in bits of bone and rusted metal, an extra layer of protection against teeth and claw and the hazards of the wastes.

“A few days maybe,” Noah said as her goodbye, waiting without it being too obvious for him to impart his good luck blessing. When she finally left, Noah traveled northwest, towards the tangled and irradiated coast. Beach towns were always the best to loot in her estimation, stocked up and out of the way and always full of life; be it creatures or raiders that wanted to take a bite out of you.

That was nearly four days ago and she was now ladened down with a fortune of goods. She had a whole pouch of holotapes (Personal log - 073, Protectron manual #3, Turret override program, turret override.exe, and Zeta Invaders: The Cosmos Strikes Back) that she would stash away for her baby sister, several different types of rations, nearly a handful of Jet that’d come in handy in a pinch or sell for a good price, and so much fresh meat she was worried she’s attract the attention other scavengers.

She needn’t worry though, two more fruitful days came and went and she was finally nearing her home. The last couple miles were the worst, walking on foot because both twins were strapped down with extra odds and ends: cotton candy bites, InstaMash, dandy boy apples, sugar bombs, melons, iguana bits, several radroach steaks, enough tatos to make a stew, mirelurk eggs and meat aplenty, and a few chunks of squirrel bits. She even found three Nuka Colas.

We're gunna die like Kings, me and him.

She chanted it on repeat. One leg after the other.

The chill had settled into the evening before Noah, nearly delirious with exhaustion, knocked on her own door to announce her arrival.

I’m back. Yer still alive right? Still here?
 
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  • Bucket of Rainbows
Reactions: CloudyBlueDay
Mickey had come to dread the sight of Noah lacing up her boots. He'd been pavlov'd. Shiloh would march to his side like a guard dog on duty, and Mickey would feel his heart sink to his stomach, knowing it would be days before he’d see her again, and those days would be spent in agony, wondering if she would come back. The sight of her boots started the gut sinking feeling. Just like the damn bell. He pushed that all away for now though, as it would certainly come back later, and in this moment, she was still in front of him.

“Be careful.” Was the charm he wrapped around her for this journey. He said it while holding her eyes, as he always did. Mickey never shied away from speaking to her crystal blue, in fact, he lingered in her gaze more than anything, perhaps committing it to memory, or saving it away in a place that time could not take it away from him, lest she disappear. How cruel such a thing would be. Mickey left alone, in a house that screamed the identity of someone else. A stranger in the home of a ghost of someone he knew fully, but at the same time, barely.

She's still here, idiot. Mickey told himself. And he stared at her harder, as she finished tying her bits and bobs in her boots. When she waved goodbye. When her figure faded in the distance. And then, she wasn't there anymore. And he was allowed to think all his harrowing thoughts.

Shiloh pushed her snout into Mickey's hand. Mickey sighed, giving her a pat as he put himself back to bed. "Don't worry too much about me, girl." He told her gently. And he tried to mean it.

So while Noah scoured the earth for something to sustain them, Mickey began a routine he had begun to develop in her absence. Or, perhaps, he was reunited with his old routine. Mickey was no stranger to a self-imposed lockdown. It was just different when there was someone out there that you wished were in here. But when her fading figure had disappeared, Mickey set off to find the things that occupied his mind, and tried to tell himself that they were still just the same as they were when he'd been in his own bunker. (They were not.)

At his request, Noah had given him plenty to do. Paper, pencil. Holotapes, trinkets to be fiddled with, broken machinery, even some woodcarver's tools. Again, Mickey had to push away the thought that he was a child left with toys. Shiloh was getting oddly good at spotting when his brow furrowed in a way that denoted a particularly unkind thought had enraptured him, and pushed her way into his lap until the notion had gone away. With her help, he was able to keep busy. He'd never woodcarved until Noah had presented him with the tools, but his detailed metalworking skills translated easily. He made a few chess pieces. He read plenty of holotapes, combing through a carefully curated selection that seemed to be for someone other than Noah. Mickey would have to ask. He even mused a bit in the journal that Noah had procured for him. And he tried to draw her. It didn't look great.

At first, he could remember Noah's absences only through the haze of his half-coma. For so long he had been in and out. The fact that he'd woken up to stitch his wounds was frankly astounding. But with Noah's vigilance and Mickey's spare moments of surgical consciousness, he'd come back to life. And suddenly, his life was completely new. Yes, he was still... trapped like he had been before. That wasn't different. But the circumstances were. Waiting for her. Watching her go. Being with her when she came back. Waking up to her eyes pouring into his. Experiencing someone worrying over him, making sure he was fed, taking care of him. Getting to learn about her. Dancing around what he thought she might not like, trying to memorize what she did. Mickey was an academic. He liked to study. And his new subject was her.

Luckily, he was patient. Mickey never pressed. He never asked unless he felt he had to. He never pushed unless it was necessary. He could study in her absence, too, because she was still in the things that were left in the house behind with him, the trinkets adorning the walls, the way she organized her supplies. Even Shiloh, Mickey thought, was perhaps some extension of Noah's psyche. Constantly surveilling him. On one hand, all his research into her life, subtle as it was, seemed to bring more questions than answers. He wanted to ask her, truly, why she was doing this. Why she'd saved him, and continued to save him. To feed him, heal him, care for him. But deep down, he felt like he knew the answer. So the game that he played, sifting through his idea of her psyche, was just, really, to bide time. Because some things couldn't be rushed.

He understood that. And yet, as the seventh day drew to a close, Mickey thought he just might burst. "It's been too long." He told Shiloh, who was laying down in front of him, and gave him a sympathetic whine. Amazingly, Mickey had strength enough to pace back and forth in front of her. So he did. "It's been too long, hasn't it? Maybe I should go look for her. Is seven days the limit? A week is too long. She said only a few. And that could mean a lot of things, Shiloh!"

That seventh day bled on. Noon, afternoon, dusk. As the sky turned to black, Mickey truly faced the idea of going after her. It was terrifying, and he cursed himself. Had he become so weak that he was scared to go outside, or was he always like this, and there had just been no one depending on him? Did he really feel healthy enough, or was he lying to himself? He'd been laying in bed so long, even walking on his prosthetic was suddenly a cruel reminder of the outside world. What if he couldn't do it? What if he fell right into a ditch all over again without her? Was he capable? Could he save her?

Shiloh barked. Noah didn't even have to knock for Mickey to know she was home. And he'd flung open the door before she even got to her third.

He hugged her. It was instinctual, and that shocked Mickey, because he didn't know that he even had the instinct to hug in him. But he grabbed her weary form, pressed it against him, and held on tight for a long time, squeezing her until he was satisfied. He was stronger. There was color in his cheeks, and life in his bones. And it was clear in the way that he grinned at her once he pulled away, not using words, but rather a rare, broad smile, that he was so glad she was back.

Then, his gaze travelled to the twins, and his mouth fell open at the sight of their backs and sides overflowing with cargo. "Are you kidding me?" He gasped, dumbstruck. "Did you loot a palace?! Get in here!" He began pushing her inside, Shiloh yipping and pawing at Noah's legs, welcoming her home.

And so began the royal feast.
 
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Sleep fled from her the moment Mickey wrapped her in a hug. Exhaustion reared back when he smiled at her— gratefully, as if to say he couldn't be happier she was alive. Noah blushed. At the hug. At his reaction to her. At the praise for the supplies she managed to procure. Noah smiled back, looking half blinded by his radiance and allowed herself to be ushered inside, heart aching as much as it was swelling. She unlaced her boots, shelving the odds and ends for now.

Unless there was another emergency, neither of them would need to leave for a while.

Maybe not ever, Noah thought suddenly, knee jerking the last bit of sleep away from her conscious mind. The thought was both comforting and unsettling, as the thought of never returning home had kept her awake for days in the past, cycling through depressed and ashamed and paranoid that no matter her accomplishments, nothing would be worthy enough to return home.

Despite any protests, Noah stayed awake. For a while longer, Noah would chant as she helped unload and haul inside the various goods she acquired. Just a bit longer, Noah would say as she bathed and changed into softer furs that had been warmed by the fire. She used everything at her disposal as a bargaining chip for more time. She deshelled a bunch of mirelurk claw meat, serving them raw as a treat for the twins and their job well done, as well as to Shiloh, who seemed to play her part just as stunningly. She stole away another few hours of his time by pressing the necessity of curing and preparing as much of the fresh meat as they could, lest it go rancid.

Noah was swaying on her feet when she finally agreed to sleep, to rest.

She curled up on her favorite furs, antlers forgotten and lopsided.

“The way you looked at me.” Noah said as she fell asleep, “It was nice. Real nice. Didn’t think I’d get to see somethin’ like that again. I don’t wanna sleep and…”
 
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Mickey was glad. And that feeling of relief and happiness that washed over him as she came back inside and made the place hers again was so foreign to him that it almost felt untrue.

As he helped her put away her loot, settle back in, clean or deshell or shelve whatever needed to be handled, he couldn't believe the joy radiating from deep in his gut. He hadn't felt happy in so long. Maybe there had been the happiness from a successful raid, completion of a build, even finishing a book. There had been peace in his bunker, quiet self-fulfillment. And it had kept him satisfied. But now that Mickey was dashing around the place with her, feeling the energy of her company coming back to life, animals and all, he was beginning to realize he hadn't missed his bunker. Not one bit. He felt excitement for her return like the pain of his phantom limb. Like he'd forgotten happiness had a place reserved inside his soul that had been collecting dust for so long, and her presence had cleaned up the cobwebs and set up shop in the chasm. His happiness hurt, just because it was new, strange and coiled around his gut like an unexpected visitor.

The thought was so jarring that he spent a lot of the time cleaning up around her with his brow pinched in deep thought. Strangely, though he didn't notice it, they moved in sync, even with their subconsciouses preoccupied with other concerns. Mickey, strangled uncomfortably by strangely warm and nice feelings, Noah fighting hard to fend off sleep, but the both of them working quietly in tandem as they put away the spoils, cleaned the cupboards, organized the items, and prepared dinner.

Eventually he pulled himself out of the chasm that was his endlessly doubtful brain, and was asking about her travels, curiously and inquisitively. That was about when he realized that Noah was dead on her feet. She never admitted to it, even when he tried to pry subtly, but he was beginning to see the exhaustion creep into just about everything that she did. His insistence was received by deaf ears. So, he began lulling her away by other means. A warm meal, a broth made from the bones of the meat she had packed away and grilled mirelurk, fresh on the fire rather than the preserved meat they would eat for months to come. He warmed the furs up by the fire - the same ones she had wrapped him in time and time again while he was feverish, dying. The bed was clean of his blood now. He didn't deserve to hog it anymore.

Finally she agreed, and he helped her walk over, because she was already swaying. Crazy girl. Days she'd gone without rest, carrying back the bounty. Why? Why didn't she want to collapse right when she walked through the door? Why had she stayed up for hours after? His mind swam with the question, not understanding until she finally laid down and spoke drowsily beneath the covers.

He managed to hold his blush until she slipped into dreamland. As soon as he pulled the furs up to her chin, he looked away, cheeks reddening madly. Mickey brought his hand up to his lips, biting his knuckles between his teeth as all the pieces fell together. Why she wouldn't go to bed. Why she marched the whole way back here without stopping. His heart thumped against his chest, almost eager to escape its cage, and Mickey rode the rollercoaster until it was slow enough to get off the ride. Then, when his emotions stilled, and he was sure she was fast asleep, he looked back at her sleeping form, committing it to memory too, just like she'd wanted to do with his look at her.

Even though he was better, she'd still sagged to sleep in the pile of furs rather than the bed he'd tried to make for her. With a small, dissatisfied grunt, Mickey scooped her unconscious form into his arms and deposited her on the bed.

She's going to drive me crazy.

As she slept, he paced again. He didn't know anything about her. What right did his heart have, leaping out of his chest in her presence? What logical thing had she done to deserve that? Oh, I don't know, Mickey, maybe rescue your far-gone ass, nurse you back to health, and go on death-defying trips to feed your invalid, still far-gone ass?

It turned out there was actually a surprising amount of evidence for his love sick soul. That actually worried him more than he expected. What did that mean? For him, for her, for them? What was she going to ask of him? Why didn't he care more about what she was going to ask of him? He'd been alone for so long. Wouldn't he hurt her? Wouldn't he ruin it? Did he even know how to do this? But god, here he was, playing house in her absence. Tucking her in, warming the fire, making her breakfast.

Oh. Yeah. He was making her breakfast without even thinking about it. He'd slept on the furs in front of the bed this time, finally, and it felt like at least some part of his debt had been paid, trading the bed with her. His stomach still twinged, but he didn't care. Mickey still woke up with an odd pep in his step, and began cracking mirelurk eggs into an omelette atop the sizzling skillet. In his mind, her words played on repeat like a favorite song as he poured, scraped and flipped. The way you looked at me... It was nice. Real nice. When he thought about it, he smiled a little. Giddy, like a stupid school boy. Sometimes, he paused to chastise himself. Settle back into steel. Cool, collected, guarded. Protected. But then, the song would come again. The way you looked at me. The way you looked at me. And he would flip the omelettes with a little more pizazz each time that melody wormed its way into his brain again. And he thought to himself, Damn. I didn't even know my look could make anyone happy. My ugly mug. My sharp-edged glare. And he thought maybe he'd try to do that again. Look at her just right. Prove to himself that it wasn't a one-off, a freak accident, a coincidental chance. Look at her real nice. And next time, he'd pay a lot more attention to her look back.
 
It was late morning and Noah rose from a blissful slumber with a small smile and breathy giggle from a dream that fled her consciousness the moment her eyes opened. She rolled around in the furs, stretching this way and that, tangling herself up in the process. There was an excited whinny and the sizzling of something that smelled good and Noah poked out of her fur-lined covers like a hound sniffing out quail.

She rubbed her eyes against the late morning light, surprised she slept so long and so comfortably.

Oh, well, that’s why. I’m in the bed. But… didn’t I fall asleep down there in the furs?

Noah pouted a bit, disliking the thought. He still wasn’t back at tip top shape, not in her estimate at least, and he deserved all the comfortness the old mattress could give. She stretched one last time, a small grunt escaping her lips as her shoulders popped. Shiloh whinnied at her from the edge of the bed and Noah leaned over, bumping her snout with her forehead. The dark brindle hound gave her a slobbery kiss and ran to the door.

Aight, I get it. You gotta go—

Shiloh ducked right through the metal flap in the wall beside the front door and disappeared. Noah jumped up, scared until realization took hold. Mickey had fixed the doggie-door! She glanced around and noticed the small repairs throughout the house, small improvements here and there that there were too numerous to count. Noah’s sleepy mind wandered as she unraveled the tangled blankets, reached for her antlers and something deep in her pockets.

Thankful that he was so engrossed in cooking, Noah crept up behind him and slapped a sticker on the metallic fitting of his prosthesis with a stifled giggle. She shoved her head through the space between his arm and his chest and got a good whiff at breakfast; a mirelurk omelet large enough for two.

“Oh, this smells good!”
 
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  • Bucket of Rainbows
Reactions: CloudyBlueDay
Mickey first let out a more comical than anything exclamation of pain, to let her know that she was jabbing him in the back with her antlers. But he did laugh a little after overcoming his flinch at the sight of Noah trying to worm his way through the most impossible spot as if she were the dog of this family, not Shiloh.

He craned his neck around to look at the point of impact on his prosthetic, and snorted aloud when he saw the sticker. "Where'd you find that?" Mickey said, rolling his eyes with a grin. "I had a better prosthetic than this, y'know. This one's my backup. After my other took a little dip in an acid pool..."

He sighed and nudged Noah away from him, so he could then proceed to do the most expert omelette flip she'd probably ever seen in her life. "It better," Mickey said with a hint of prideful confidence in his voice. He was showing off. "I'm not wasting fresh eggs on some crappy scramble."

Noah stuck her tongue out and pulled back, reset her antlers, and appreciated a master at work. Usually she cracked the eggs in the skillet once it was ripping hot, chopped up the least glowy mushroom she had, and sprinkled in any spices she was lucky enough to have. It usually tasted okay. Never smelled this good though.

"So yer sayin' I get the eggs and you cook 'em, huh?"

Mickey shot her a look, one of moderate disapproval. "I still haven't forgotten our last conversation, if that's what you were hoping." He said with a small humph, bringing out two plates and delivering the omelette to them with more flourish than need be. "You took seven days, Noah. Next time, you need back up. I'm more healthy than I've ever been!" He outstretched his hands, pan and all, as if to say, see? He almost whacked Meelo in the face.

There was a lazy, sleepy growl from Meelo as she ducked under the sizzling skillet. She'd been tracking it with her snout as Mickey gesticulated. With an audible huff, the smaller of the twins curled up in the corner by the window, quickly returning to her usual snore-filled slumber. Even she was still tired from the trip.

"Mhm," Noah said, torn on what to say. "Healthy as eva' huh? Sure. But before we go out together, you oughta do somethin' bout that," pointing to his shoddy back-up leg.

"And it took me that long cause I went a bit farther than I meant to. Had a good feelin' though, ya'know? And I always follow them. Glad I did, cause, ha, we brought back alotta stuff!"

Mickey inhaled regretfully, immediately putting down his pan-weapon and looking back apologetically at Meelo as she curled up in the corner. "Sorry, girl." He muttered, before grabbing two forks and offering one to Noah, taking his own plate and inhaling eagerly.

"You did bring back a lot of good stuff." He echoed, unable to deny the haul that she'd scored. "But I... all my other back-ups, they're not so ... I-It'd take me a while, to build another like the one I had. And I need more supplies, maybe from my place." A frown still tugged at his lips even as he took a bite of the omelette, despite it being absolutely delicious. He still hadn't managed to make a prosthetic that was actually comfortable and mobile. But he wasn't going to tell Noah that.

Noah stared at him for a long while, eye contact only broken to shovel food in her mouth. She ate as she tried to figure out what he meant. Build what exactly? Anotha' leg?

She waved her hand dismissively, wilding the fork in her hand like trident as they sat across from each other. "Soon, aight? Not just yet. There's enough supplies to last us 'til, ya' know, we can go out together."

They settled into their dining spots without prompting. Mickey found himself aware of the transition, and in awe of the ease of it - like it was a routine they'd been practicing for years. Everything felt oddly easy and settled with Noah. Like he'd never known another way in his life. It still boggle him, whenever he became conscious of it.

Her words gave him a bit of peace, and the edges of his frown ebbed away. At least she was going to relent and allow him to come. Mickey had honestly wondered if she'd try to hold her ground forever on that, but now that it was clear that wasn't true, he relaxed, and smiled, thinking of the bounty that they could last on for weeks.

Mickey smiled and ate quietly, enjoying the hum of the room, his free hand threading through Shiloh's fur as the hound slipped back into the house through the newly repaired door. They'd grown close in the weeks they'd been left alone, and Mickey appreciated her presence equally. He tossed her a piece of his omelette, and then smiled almost shyly at Noah, the showy exterior fading as he now, timidly and pleasantly, enjoyed their company.
 
"I oughta start growin' some of them ardent peppers," Noah said with a mouth full of omelet. She turned her fork on Mickey, her eyes serious for a moment, "Yer 'bout the best cook I've ever tasted, ya know. Back in the Fen, they got these peppers that'll make ya cry, and they taste so good with eggs. It was my favorite growin' up! My m-"

Noah shoveled another bite into her mouth, glancing off to the side sadly. Shiloh whinnied as Noah wilted, but she repositioned slightly, almost without thought, crossing one leg beneath her and resting the other against Mickey and Shiloh. Eating was comfortable in their shared living space, even if she had made things a bit awkward.

"Forgot about these," Noah said after awhile, leaning over to grab her bag. She pulled out two nuka colas, handed one over, and cleared her throat. The bottle cap was a struggle to get off, but she managed to in the end. After her first sip, she continued as if she hadn't finished her half of the massive omelet first.

"My mom would make this paste, ya know? Outta the ardent peppers. She'd only put a lil teeny bit in the big ole batches of food she'd make for everyone in the Crescent, but when she'd make eggs or roast meats over the fire at home she'd always put extra. My sisters hated it, well, Sap complained the most at least, but she always ate anyways."

Noah smiled, swirling her fork to make patterns on the empty plate. It hurt to speak of them. It hurt not to speak of them.

Her family.

She missed them with an ache in her soul that threatened to overwhelm her. The panic of never returning home or returning home too late or to something so inexplicitly different... that terrified her.

"I hope ya know, if you have family or anyone to return to, you can leave whenever. I-I mean not that I want you to leave. I don't want you to go but I mean you've already fixed so many things around here and--I can't ask you to stay forever-- but I mean... Do you have... anyone... anymore?"
 
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