PTCD - Chapter 3 pt 2
Title: PTCD
Summary: Staying Classy.
Fandom: Fallout 3
Pairing: None
One more. One more client.
Snowflake leaned against the dirty marble of the hall, trying not to focus on the empty inhalers by the dirty mattress he’d crash on. It wasn’t as if he was addicted or anything, not really. Jet was just a recreational thing, something to do to pass the time in this pit. And being without felt more like an itch, something annoying but not extreme. If Jet was stronger then it'd be different, like that stuff he'd sampled before, now that was strong. But Ahzrukhal hardly ever got Ultrajet in stock, and when he did it was more caps than his salary could afford.
Still, he was bored out of his mind here and having some would really take the edge off.
He glanced over as his friend got up. Patchwork had passed out on his mattress last night after they were kicked out of the Circle. Which meant he’d had to use the cold, dirty floor, which was just not cool. Especially when some other drunk tried to take a piss by his head.
Patches sober was a thing to see, for one he could actually hold a conversation. It was kinda bizarre seeing his friend not drunk off his ass. He looked paler than usual too, probably cause he'd gotten pretty shit-faced as usual before. Which had led to an...interesting convo.
"Ghoul strippers," Snowflake muttered under his breath, trying not to laugh and failing. Patchwork turned at the noise, watching him fiddle with a box of matches from his pocket before setting them on the table near the knives.
"What?"
"Nothing! Nothing." His voice was a little higher than usual while he picked at his clothes next, trying to find anything to occupy his hands.
"Then why are you, why are you smiling?” Snowflake stood quiet, shaking his head and Patches dropped it for another topic. “Hey, I need money."
"Well shit, so do I," he joked, though he really was running short on caps. No one here needed a barber. But he needed at least one more client to bother going to the Circle. Shouldn't have bought Patches those drinks the other day, was just trying to be all ‘genial’ and look where it got him. "You know, you owe me man!"
The drunk continued, pretending to not have heard that last part. "You sure you don't need like...any favors...done?" He'd come uncomfortably close to Snowflake at that point and the barber couldn't help but notice all the stray hairs clinging so pitifully to the ghoul's forehead. Not like Patches would care, guy didn’t care about anything if it didn’t mean he’d be getting a drink. Most of Snowflake's job involved cutting off the skin, guess some ghouls just got tired of the bits and pieces. If only he were back in Rivet City, he'd be able to create instead of just cut away like some bootleg surgeon. Just one more client.
"Nah, I'm good." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, debating whether to smoke one or not. Things were expensive, and they tasted horrible. Like Jet but without the fun part. And besides, what the hell would Patches do anyway? Sharpen the knives? "You still owe me!"
Patches had turned away by then and at his outburst threw back a half-hearted wave. Freaking leech, that'd be the last time he'd buy him rounds! He turned the pack over in his hands, following the dirty grooves of the cardboard, could always sell them... He’d be ripped off but he’d have Jet.
Same shit, different day.
His back eventually started to ache from leaning for so long and he made to push off when he caught sight of her. That was right, Winthrop had brought the smoothie back in after she’d been kicked out. Damn the girl was short, and kinda fat too, with a full head of hair.... He almost felt hopeful but it wasn’t like smoothies ever bothered letting him give them a cut in the first place. After all, he’d probably get some pieces stuck in the strands or some other bull they told themselves.
The girl looked nervous, which wasn’t unusual when smoothskins were surrounded by ghouls. She looked back behind her and--oh. Oh man.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he moaned to no one in particular. He’d never seen something like this; he could practically feel it running through his fingers. Like sand. Like water. Black, no, obsidian. Smooth like polished marble and the darkest glass. It was a veil, flowing past her thighs. It was a chain woven by angels. It was smoke, spiraling at the end in wisps. Each strand was the silk of a spider and soft like velvet, like a kiss. It was a dream, something straight out of his fantasies.
Just. a. touch.
She turned toward the barber as he reached out to feel it, leaning away from him and blocking that beautiful mane from view. He hadn’t even noticed how close he’d gotten.
Sir?
He reached out again, a voice in the back of his head was warning him about personal space but why would anyone care at a time like this? His fingers touched gold this time and it was just like he’d imagined; it heated wherever it touched. A black flame. His hand was quickly slapped away as she stumbled backwards. Wait, what was he doing? She’d disappeared into the Circle by then as he just stood there, shocked by the sheer awkwardness that had just occurred. Pawing at a stranger’s head hadn’t been one of his better ideas...
Snowflake walked over to the spot where he’d dropped the smokes, picking them up and pulling one from the pack. He slipped it between his lips before letting out a pent up sigh. Those dark tresses were forever burned into his memory now.
Where the hell were those matches?
Summary: Staying Classy.
Fandom: Fallout 3
Pairing: None
One more. One more client.
Snowflake leaned against the dirty marble of the hall, trying not to focus on the empty inhalers by the dirty mattress he’d crash on. It wasn’t as if he was addicted or anything, not really. Jet was just a recreational thing, something to do to pass the time in this pit. And being without felt more like an itch, something annoying but not extreme. If Jet was stronger then it'd be different, like that stuff he'd sampled before, now that was strong. But Ahzrukhal hardly ever got Ultrajet in stock, and when he did it was more caps than his salary could afford.
Still, he was bored out of his mind here and having some would really take the edge off.
He glanced over as his friend got up. Patchwork had passed out on his mattress last night after they were kicked out of the Circle. Which meant he’d had to use the cold, dirty floor, which was just not cool. Especially when some other drunk tried to take a piss by his head.
Patches sober was a thing to see, for one he could actually hold a conversation. It was kinda bizarre seeing his friend not drunk off his ass. He looked paler than usual too, probably cause he'd gotten pretty shit-faced as usual before. Which had led to an...interesting convo.
"Ghoul strippers," Snowflake muttered under his breath, trying not to laugh and failing. Patchwork turned at the noise, watching him fiddle with a box of matches from his pocket before setting them on the table near the knives.
"What?"
"Nothing! Nothing." His voice was a little higher than usual while he picked at his clothes next, trying to find anything to occupy his hands.
"Then why are you, why are you smiling?” Snowflake stood quiet, shaking his head and Patches dropped it for another topic. “Hey, I need money."
"Well shit, so do I," he joked, though he really was running short on caps. No one here needed a barber. But he needed at least one more client to bother going to the Circle. Shouldn't have bought Patches those drinks the other day, was just trying to be all ‘genial’ and look where it got him. "You know, you owe me man!"
The drunk continued, pretending to not have heard that last part. "You sure you don't need like...any favors...done?" He'd come uncomfortably close to Snowflake at that point and the barber couldn't help but notice all the stray hairs clinging so pitifully to the ghoul's forehead. Not like Patches would care, guy didn’t care about anything if it didn’t mean he’d be getting a drink. Most of Snowflake's job involved cutting off the skin, guess some ghouls just got tired of the bits and pieces. If only he were back in Rivet City, he'd be able to create instead of just cut away like some bootleg surgeon. Just one more client.
"Nah, I'm good." He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, debating whether to smoke one or not. Things were expensive, and they tasted horrible. Like Jet but without the fun part. And besides, what the hell would Patches do anyway? Sharpen the knives? "You still owe me!"
Patches had turned away by then and at his outburst threw back a half-hearted wave. Freaking leech, that'd be the last time he'd buy him rounds! He turned the pack over in his hands, following the dirty grooves of the cardboard, could always sell them... He’d be ripped off but he’d have Jet.
Same shit, different day.
His back eventually started to ache from leaning for so long and he made to push off when he caught sight of her. That was right, Winthrop had brought the smoothie back in after she’d been kicked out. Damn the girl was short, and kinda fat too, with a full head of hair.... He almost felt hopeful but it wasn’t like smoothies ever bothered letting him give them a cut in the first place. After all, he’d probably get some pieces stuck in the strands or some other bull they told themselves.
The girl looked nervous, which wasn’t unusual when smoothskins were surrounded by ghouls. She looked back behind her and--oh. Oh man.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he moaned to no one in particular. He’d never seen something like this; he could practically feel it running through his fingers. Like sand. Like water. Black, no, obsidian. Smooth like polished marble and the darkest glass. It was a veil, flowing past her thighs. It was a chain woven by angels. It was smoke, spiraling at the end in wisps. Each strand was the silk of a spider and soft like velvet, like a kiss. It was a dream, something straight out of his fantasies.
Just. a. touch.
She turned toward the barber as he reached out to feel it, leaning away from him and blocking that beautiful mane from view. He hadn’t even noticed how close he’d gotten.
Sir?
He reached out again, a voice in the back of his head was warning him about personal space but why would anyone care at a time like this? His fingers touched gold this time and it was just like he’d imagined; it heated wherever it touched. A black flame. His hand was quickly slapped away as she stumbled backwards. Wait, what was he doing? She’d disappeared into the Circle by then as he just stood there, shocked by the sheer awkwardness that had just occurred. Pawing at a stranger’s head hadn’t been one of his better ideas...
Snowflake walked over to the spot where he’d dropped the smokes, picking them up and pulling one from the pack. He slipped it between his lips before letting out a pent up sigh. Those dark tresses were forever burned into his memory now.
Where the hell were those matches?