[ She gets worried that his silence stretches on so long, and she's not comforted by the friends who tell her that it doesn't matter and it's to her advantage if he never contacts her again, since she'll never have to repay her debt. When the reply finally comes, her own response is very quick. ]
I did. Thank you. I wouldn't have gotten out without you. It was just like you said, all of it. How are you? Can you talk on an audio channel, or is it a bad time?
[ Ari works twelve-hour shifts routinely, but eighteen sounds like a particularly harsh punishment to her. And his fingers! Even after all she's been through, that's still enough to horrify her. A terrible thought occurs to her then. ]
It does. I'm so sorry you went through that.
I didn't say a word about you. Not even the slightest hint. Word by contract, on the honor of the Tradelines, I wouldn't have.
[ The result of her stubborn silence is that she still has several healing ribs, one arm in a sling, and a couple of new teeth growing in, but she's hardly going to complain about any of that now. ]
This line will stay secure. Call me when you're able to.
[ No jobs tomorrow. No responsibilities, no quests, no assholes to beat up or folk to save. Len didn't realize how much he needed the breathing room until he had it, too swamped by the desire to pick up other people's pieces for them to notice he was dropping fragments of himself along the way. Put out the word with his little "family" that he was taking at least twenty-four hours of R&R, and got some snide but appreciated comment back from Raúl about how he looked like he needed it.
The bags under his eyes are starting to show and so he plans for a night in, an event to which Rico Dredd invites himself and Len doesn't have it in him to argue about it. He half-expects things to get as rowdy as they usually do, too, but the only ambient sounds over the Sinatra playing softly on the radio come from the suite's kitchenette, where Rico is busying himself with...something.
From his leggy sprawl on the sofa Len lolls his head to one side, watching the man's back as the soft clatter of dishes, the muted thuds on the cutting board, and the sizzling of something that smells fucking incredible drag his attention from the book he's only partly reading. Rico looks good like that, all domestic, a towel thrown over one shoulder while he works. Concentrating on something that isn't tearing somebody open or building a bomb from scratch.
He looks good like that too, mind, but the novelty here is what makes it interesting. ]
[In Rico’s opinion, cooking isn't all that different from making explosives when you really get down to it. You need to mix up exact quantities of just the right ingredients, follow a specific order of operations, add a little heat... and if you do it right, somebody eats it.
Mm. No. That joke is definitely staying in the mental workshop for a while longer.
It's a more relaxed atmosphere in the room tonight. Len's been looking particularly ragged around his edges for... a variety of reasons. For one thing, he hasn't seemed to notice that his curls are looking increasingly more on the 'bedraggled' side than what you could call 'naturally-tousled' by the day. And with the more obvious addition of the dark circles, it's no surprise that Len decides he's taking a day off. So yeah, Rico elbows his way into Len's plans with one of his own in mind.
If he happens to look particularly domesticated standing around in his boxers, it’s far from his mind. He barely registers Len's question, he’s so intensely focused on dicing the absolute shit out of some potatoes he'd gotten from Westside - and a smattering of some other not-too-irradiated produce, as thanks for helping out with repelling some Fiends with a friendly shotgun while he happened to be there. Truth be told he'd spent more caps by using the ammo he did than he would have if he'd bought it all straight, but you just can't put a price on goodwill. That's how he got a lead on getting the (pretty fucking expensive) half-used, secret string of dried chiles laying out on the counter, after all. Efficiently eviscerated, then hand-ground into a blood-red, wet paste.
Kind of like what happens when we work together, Rico thinks. Heh. The corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile as he looks down at the counter.
...Wasn't Len saying something? Right.]
You'll see. [To cover up his lapse in attention, he tosses the potato he's holding lightly in his hand before catching it.] You're gonna love it. It's to die for, and well... technically, somebody already has.
[He pauses.]
I'm not cooking people, just to be clear. The farmboys over at Westside handed me an extra bag of potatoes for using some of my new fletchette rounds on very short notice. They work great, by the way.
[Chit-chatting about how the day went. It's kind of nice?]
[ It is nice, a sensation Len is still getting accustomed to on the rare occasion it raises its head. He's never been a remotely domestic person in spite of enjoy a number of domestic things, but he likes the smell of home-cooking and it's oddly charming to see Rico wandering around a hot stove shirtless. Might as well start the internal timer now to see how long it takes before some hot oil spatters on his chest.
Len lowers the book in his hand to his stomach, turning his head to get a proper glance at him. A little sweaty but clearly competent with a knife in his hand, even when he's not outright cutting somebody open. He's infuriatingly good-looking, even like this. Especially like this. Len's gaze tracks down the line of his neck where it meets his shoulder, over a bicep tightening and releasing as he moves, sliding askance to his collarbone. A good sign, perhaps, that his libido is returning home from the war after the last few days of being too exhausted to even consider sex. ]
I'm lookin' forward to it.
[ It's sincere, anyway. There's a familiar peppery scent he can't quite put his finger on, but he'll cotton to it soon enough. He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, still achy and tired in spite of the sleep he got last night. Can't possibly be helped any by the latent radiation sickness after some recent exposure, and he knows if he stretches himself beyond capacity again Arcade is going to put him under house arrest, and nobody wants to see where that ends up. ]
Hey. [ His voice cracks, scratchy, and he says again: ] Hey. I'm gonna make a drink, you want anything?
Sure thing, sweetheart. [Rico's low rasp of a voice sounds pleased. The stove radiates heat just this side of uncomfortable, a small pot bubbling away with the lid closed, and he puts down the knife to check on the spitting skillet. He doesn't usually make a habit of cooking in his underwear, even if he's not particularly fazed by errant sparks for obvious reasons.] Give me a - fuck, ugh. Yeah, just uh, mix me up a cocktail or whatever. Surprise me.
[He scowls and rubs the sting from a tiny spit of oil that's landed alarmingly close to his nipple with the corner of his towel. Glances sidelong at Len to see if he'd caught that, hoping he's too busy staring at something else instead. Like his book. Or more hopefully, glued to Rico's ass. Come on, it's right there.
No such luck. Oh well. Hope springs eternal.
While Len might venture off to fulfill that particular mission, Rico barely notices when one song quavers to a close and another fades in.
...and when I looked, the moon had turned to gold...
He scrapes the potatoes straight into the skillet, adding a fresh sound to the existing sizzle of nightstalker tail. The rattle sliced off, pinkish meat stripped clean of scales and searing nicely in tender chunks. Expensive and relatively rare to find on offer anywhere, on account of absolutely no sane person wanting to venture into a nightstalker den on purpose. Nobody except for Rico, that is. Culinary novelty’s in short supply around an irradiated desert, and rangy Freeside rat meat wasn't going to cut it for a special occasion to these standards. Good thing all he actually had to do was talk to Red Lucy and kill it himself. Crazy girl.
Time for the crowning touch. The second the sauce hits the pan, Rico's eyes water. Gives it a good stir, then slams a lid on it. That'll be a few minutes. No better way to deliver the coup de grâce to a bout of radiation sickness than putting this into your system and sweating the rest out.]
[ Len glances briefly over at Rico at the swear, but his attention is pulled back to his liquor cabinet before he can witness any evidence of cooking-inflicted burns. Sweetheart comes without strings, this time. Normally there's a sarcastic edge to it, taunting or mocking, teasing him for his softness. Times like these, Len doesn't know whether to take it at face value.
He probably should. He knows Rico Dredd well enough at this point to be able to tell when he's angling for something, and while there's probably an ulterior motivation threaded in there somewhere, the gesture feels genuine enough. Almost like they're actually dating.
At present he isn't of the constitution to be able to withstand tequila, so Len opts for an older bottle of gin that he's held onto - both because of its immense age, and because the vaguely chilling taste of it, in moderation, helps to soothe a queasy stomach. Having been told not to self-medicate his way out of this particular mess, Len is at least doing his best to adhere to professional advice from the only doctor in a fifty mile radius who gives him a dressing-down every time he asks for a bandage.
He tops the gin off with a little splash of some prickly pear juice, tart and sweet. Meandering back to the kitchenette with two glasses in hand, Len blows an errant curl out of his eyes as he sidles up to Rico and presses a tumbler into his waiting palm. That familiar peppery smell is stronger now, like some long-lost scent from his childhood, and he frowns a little as he attempts to identify it in earnest. A bright-red paste smears across the bottom of a nearby bowl and Len indelicately dips his pinky into it, sniffing lightly before touching it to his tongue.
Recognition hits him like a deathclaw in a full sprint. His eyes widen, looking from Rico to his finger to the pot on the stove. Len forgets himself just long enough to ask, incredulous: ]
[Len comes back late, last night. Late enough for the red sun to crown the distance, warm light crawling through the windowsill and illuminating the empty half of the bed. Off-schedule by more than eight hours, after being gone on some adventure with the doc he’d been far too cagey about.
Might not have had the smoothest parting. But he knows it has to be related to his plans for the Mojave, the violent upheaval on the horizon. So he lets him go. And he’s here now. Half-asleep, Rico hears the elevator doors opening with a creak from the bedroom, the thump of his pack hitting the floor. Watches Len walk into the room with exhaustion in every line of his body. He crawls into bed without a word smelling like road dust and sweat, and a faint metallic tang that makes Rico know he had reason to use his hunting knife at some point in the last few days. And he knows what he needs from him, even before he settles in.
Then he’s finally in his hands, where he belongs. On his back, naked and pressed into the bed under Rico's weight, stripped down to his suntanned skin and scars on display, old bruises pressed into the bones of his wrists where Rico’s hands settle so habitually. He feels the sweat-damp heat of his body under his palm, Len looking up at him with those half-lidded eyes and lips bitten to hell. A thing of the desert like him doesn't really belong in the ghost of the old world, laying on top of these sheets. Rico drags a blunted fingernail up Len's thigh, playful with vicious possessiveness as his breathing runs ragged with excitement. It’s a knife that doesn’t split his skin apart, but a kind of knife all the same as he harrows that red welt into him. Clear as a line drawn on a map, territory taken and marked - what's his and whose it isn't, for all it matters in the end. Len should know by now it’s affectionate. In his own way.
Neither of them would've been what they are now, two hundred years ago. Funny to be glad for the bombs, but there’s one reason he wouldn’t have it any other way. His trailing hand settles under his knee, hitches his leg higher so he can lean in closer.]
If you want me to fuck you, why don't you ask for it?
[So maybe he’s still feeling jilted, who knew? Still playing, his other hand flexes harder around his throat, cutting off anything he could say while he teases him by sliding his cock against him, already slick with spit and lube both.]
[ Len comes back late and can feel the ache in his bones. Spread thin, still unsure about whether the connections they made out in the desert were worth the message they'll be sending to the NCR, whose trigger-happy strategy in the Mojave largely consists of "shoot anyone who doesn't look exactly like a friend." All told he feels more like the outreach in itself was a means of helping Arcade get some kind of closure - Hell, he doesn't know how useful the remnants will be when it comes time to sally forth. Maybe it doesn't matter, so long as they have some say in the last vestiges of their own reputation. Either way, he hadn't left things too comfortable with Rico upon taking his leave to Jacobstown - not telling a partner exactly where one is going has a way of doing that - and so his slinking back to bed is a combination of exhaustion peppered with something akin to guilt.
He isn't left alone long to ruminate on it all. Sometimes the only way back to normalcy is a language they both speak, a prologue opened by the the sensation of Rico's palm sliding over his hip beneath the sheets, unfastening his belt.
Sex like this always feels like a fever dream, the air between them hot and damp, the kisses sharp and dragging. The unadulterated want with which Rico approaches him is always a little overwhelming, a ragged sort of fury in it that reeks of desperation and a desire to scrawl his name onto something just to prevent others from having it. He's settled comfortably between Len's thighs and Len feels another wave of heat roll over him as a thumbnail scrapes up his skin, his own fingers squeezing the wrist just above his throat. He's hard. They're both hard. Opening his mouth just to say something petty, brattish, the words are bluntly torn from him as the hand pinning him to the mattress tightens and Len gives him a dirty look. The implication is clear: motherfucker.
Without a whole lot of leverage to his name Len's heels hook around the backs of Rico's thighs, determinedly tugging him closer in a bid to tempt him to forego patience, forego the game. The head of his cock slips artlessly against him and Len manages a small groan of frustration, one hand fumbling up Rico's chest to wrap around the back of his neck, curling thick and tight into his dark hair. The man knows what he wants, he just delights in being an insufferable prick about it and without the ability to speak the best Len can do is pull, hard. ]
[Rico just laughs like the jackass that he is, just as slow and languid as the roll of his hips as he ruts up against Len. He clearly loves Len’s hands on him and all over him, drawing him closer, tempting - and it really almost works. But giving him a kick isn’t gonna get you riding any faster, cowboy.
He presses his thumb against the divot of his jaw under his ear, forcing the other man’s head to the side so he can admire the secret proof of his claim, the long-healed cut ripped open to get to the core of him. His grip tightens in warning with a little spark in his eye - playful, always dragging that line of playful, and pulls Len into a temptation of his own, placing both tongue and teeth, nestled where he’s vulnerable. He can feel his pulse ticking underneath his calloused palm and mouth, thumping erratically, ratcheting up as he keeps him pinned to the bed and breathless, teasing him with shallow thrusts that frustrate both of them. Choking off the ability to make even that small, frustrated sound, the barely-there gasp, pressing in to fill the space of everything he takes from him until the entire world narrows down to Rico’s presence and the places they touch. It’s that same sound when Rico fucks him open with his fingers. Had fucked him, actually.
He isn’t sure how long he does this. The seconds he can count, until Len’s eyes roll back, but not the minutes like this, falling into each other. He could do this forever, and also not. His self-control is always a tenuous thing that just as always snaps violently.]
Didn’t sound like please to me. [he says eventually, in a voice as raspy as his stubble against his skin.] Should we try again?
[ Len's patience is rarely tried with such effort, such unmitigated frustration. Fingers tighten around his jaw and throat, pressing into the soft skin under his ear, the sensitive space where Rico once cut a jagged little scar. It's long-since healed now and the tissue is stiff, an old reminder that only strikes at him when he has the wherewithal to rub at his own neck. Just another place on his body where Rico's left a permanent love note, of sorts.
The tension and teeth pry him open as his supply of oxygen runs short, a pleasant sort of haziness swimming around him while his eyes lid. That disquiet is only punctuated by the clicking of Rico's canines, the intermittent pain dulled by toying with asphyxiation. There's a head high there, where the edges of his vision grow dark and his blood thunders in his skull. Every attempt at an inhale feels like being buried in sand and his fingers loosen from Rico's hair just as he's given the space to breathe, sucking in air while his chest inflates.
The exhale is just as raspy coming out again, half-registering Rico's commentary. Another shallow thrust makes him shiver and Len's eyes crack open. He tongues at his lower lip and takes a beat, feeling the damp heat of Rico's breath on his skin, the edges of his mouth pulling in a wry smile.]
[Conner had stepped on the wrong snake. She was too smart not to be aware of it as she was taking the job. The Tops new casino boss was no Benny wannabe. He was his own predator, mutated and forged by the Wasteland sun. The offer from his opposition hadn't been particularly compelling though they had been smart enough to put up enough drugs, ammo and caps to make Conner's palms itch. That and her contrary streak, wide and ugly as a brahmin's backside, had gotten the better of her because, well, fuck that guy.
Consequences were expected though she had relied a touch too heavy on her own reputation and the frequent, chaotic power exchanges on the Strip to act as buffer. When the frequency of bullets flying past her head went from normal to goddamn it Conner took the hint and packed up for a stroll (running be damned) to New Laughlin.
She clocked him on the second night. A bulky outline amongst the rocks that might have made anyone else think their luck had run out. With no time to marvel at her unexpected jackpot Conner changed course keeping the spring out her step even as the blood hummed in her veins and her heart beat loud and urgent in her ears.
When the Rob Co building became visible on the horizon she felt twitchy, restless and being a good junkie she might have compared it to Psycho withdrawal except this wasn't a come down. No, she was jonesing and for once in her life it wasn't for drugs.]
[Rico knew where there was money to be made - any good career merc did - and a shakeup in change of management was always a case and a half. When not a single one of House's securitrons lifted a single metal articulated arm during or after Benny's "retirement" by a newcomer, he'd known then and there who the rulership backed. A new hire hand-picked by the boss and tacitly approved; and as soon as that happened, no matter how much any dissenters in that former tribe didn't like or trust an outsider to waltz in and step into that checkered suit jacket, he knew no amount of complaining, backed by guns or not, would - or could - change that.
But Connie's weird bitter distaste for The Courier with a capital C seemed to have blinded her to that reality, and she'd bet on the losing dog in a rigged fight deliberately. Either way, when he finally had a job in hand, he'd almost busted a gut laughing when he'd been told the name. He'd laughed even harder when he'd been told that there were others available, if he didn't want to do it. "Oh, no. You don't want to do that," he chuckled. "If you send anyone else, they're gonna come back crying with their balls cut off."
Assuming anybody managed to get that close to her hunting knife. Much more likely, they'd be rotting in the Mojave sun with their heads half-eaten by radroaches by the time anybody came across them. He remembered each time he'd gotten a front-seat view of a face being blown apart by a matter-of-fact .308, thanks to his often-partner's twitchy trigger finger. And on one memorable occasion, when he'd found himself on his back with a screaming, half-naked Fiend on top of him, he'd been close enough to taste it. He'd turned his head to narrowly avoid the edge of a rusty cleaver, and a far-off glint in the distance snagged his eye. Had just enough time for his face to split into a grin, before the Fiend's cheek popped like a balloon and spewed blood all over him. Already knowing the mumble of curses sweet little Connie was probably spitting under her breath at that moment, he'd given her a thumbs up, just to tempt her into shooting him too. Ha ha.
They didn't know her like he knew her. Nobody did. Five feet and six inches of an animal, and with a more vicious bite than that fucking cyberdog that sometimes followed at her heels. And so, this is what Rico said about Courier Number Five to Courier Number Six, with a bright, big, gleaming smile, tasting blood on his teeth where there wasn't - sending Freeside gangsters with delusions of competence after Conner Cairo, whether it was to kill or catch her, was a waste of time and money. But more importantly... she was his.
With his bike under repair, it's a flask of rebound strapped to his left thigh that carries him through, a predator on her trail. A thrill running through him that wasn't just the chems, but the giddy fun of this game. He knew when she'd clocked him, and now they both knew that they were playing. She slips into a crumbling RobCo building like a wraith, out of sight, and Rico follows. Footsteps in the pitch black - it's a playground just for them; a dusty atrium, corridors, cubicles, abandoned tools, the dim glow and buzz of broken terminals, fucked-up tag, rounding each corner with a growing bubble of anticipation that rises as the cusp of a laugh in his chest. Who knows what'll happen when their distance closes and snaps like a string of a tripwire - whether he's cornering her, or if she's leading him into a trap, seconds away from bursting the tension with a frenzy of violence - his teeth are a slash of anticipation, the same deadly cant as the knife in his boot as Rico Dredd "plays" with the same joy of a child.]
[Conner was finding it hard to concentrate. The junked-up remains of yesteryear's robotics factory was too full of options. Boot up a securitron just to be a pain in the ass? Cobble together a party favor with all the fission batteries laying around? Find a hidey-hole and literally pop a cap in his ass? No, no, no. This wasn't their every day game of Fuck You. The rules had changed, the unspoken demented guardrails had been removed and there wouldn't just be blood, there'd be bloody chunks of meat carved off the bone.
Conner felt the jagged impulses of impatience in her head smooth over as her thoughts came together coalescing into a plan, malleable but something she could turn into action. Conner's hellish smile was mercifully lost to the dark as she fired a few rounds down the hall, the Wasteland version of Marco Polo.
She kept the sound of Rico's boots at a comfortable distance, pausing when they fell silent.
Hell.
Throwing caution to the wind Conner kicked open the door to the warehouse the smell of dried oil and dead radroach tickled her nose as she scurried up the catwalk ladder. The rain of rust her sudden movements had caused barely had time settle before Rico's hulk-like shadow appeared below her.
Leaning casual-as-you-please over the railing, Conner held out a box of ammunition, tipping it over to let the bullets fall and bounce off Rico's head.]
[Muzzle flash and just a few deafening gunshots. Fun. The opening volley of light and noise briefly lights up the building, and Rico's delighted laugh is lost between the echo as he briefly ducks back. Conner decides to fuck subtlety with aplomb, and he takes up the challenge. He spots the fresh rust delicately resting over the concrete floor in a freshly-laid pattern, and he looks up just in time as Connie goes and takes a casual metaphorical dump on him from above. And the white of his grin is visible, his face tilted up as bullets rain down on and around him, bouncing off his broad shoulders and pauldrons with 12.7mm pistol in hand. That would've been much more annoying if he didn't have his helmet on.
Rico catches one of the bullets out of the air as the rest shower down at his feet, brass casings chiming as they scatter and roll in all directions. Fucking tease. Women, honestly.]
Hey sweetie. Nice to catch up, it's been a while.
[His little joke. As he breaks the silence of two days, his cracked-gravel larynx sounds like an especially deep rumble in his chest. Or is that just a strange new undertone to his words, an eager hunger turned to her instead of their typical victims? Rico's gloved thumb sweeps the rim, some part of his always-working subconscious guessing the calibre in the dark.]
Are you pulling my pigtails? [It's an accusation he's delighted to make. He wiggles the bullet at her.] This could've been a grenade, and you know it.
[By comparison Conner's voice is thin, raspy, falling flat and lost to the air before it has a chance to echo. She tilts her head eyeing him with the same dead-eyed gaze he's seen countless times before when she was contemplating the odds, playing out the kill in her head before she took her shot. Except. Her pupils are dilated and her mouth isn't set in it's usual hard line, no, her lips are slightly pulled back in what most would call growl or a grimace though Rico would know her awful, rarely seen smile better than anybody.]
You tryin' to tell me you wanted chocolate instead of flowers?
[He was bigger than her. Stronger too. Much as her hands ached for the instant satisfaction of an all out brawl (the dull thud of skin-on-skin contact, blood mixed with sweat and and PAY ATTENTION CONNER) the odds of Conner coming out ahead in that scenario were slim. He was better armored too, Conner preferred the light "recon shit" (as Rico called it) and while she had expected him to be dressed for the occasion it was something she had to think around.]
Don't worry, sunshine. I got you.
[In her other palm, a frag grenade. Looking downright demented Conner lets the pin slide out and the grenade fall. There wouldn't be an explosion, she had disarmed it earlier. All Conner needed was a moment of distraction to activate the Stealth Boy on the inside of her wrist. The race for first blood was on.]
[You know, Rico was having a perfectly fine Thursday morning. Until he'd been told by an out-of-breath resident that respectable and much-beloved local proprieter Sonny, the eponymous owner of Sonny's Sundries and a long-time cornerstone of the community under Rico's net of protection, had been murdered, and a probable jethead wearing a bloody vault suit had fled the scene with stolen goods, leaving behind two bodies and a mess that he needed to deal with. Fuck. Now he was pissed.
Slightly hungover, he'd put on his jacket and boots - the steel-toed ones, so people knew that Rico Dredd was about to grant some motherfucker the worst day of their lives - and walked down to the store. Sonny's murder was large enough of an upcoming problem to his reputation that he needed to be seen publicly and personally handling the issue himself.
A couple of his boys and girls were already posted at the entrance and inside tallying up the store inventory as he'd ordered, deterring the milling crowd of curious onlookers from trampling the scene. Or stopping them from looting the shelves, if they'd like to be more honest. Rico whistled sharply as he approached and a bobble of faces turned to him, expectant. "I'll look into this", he'd said, smiling humorlessly as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, telling them all to get fucking lost. "I'm hunting a young woman in a vault suit - spread the word."
Word started spreading. He talked to the shell-shocked customer, tearful as she clutched her bag and avoided eye contact with the barrel in the corner. Everybody loved Sonny, after all. Especially Rico, when he'd received rent on the first of every month like clockwork for years. Rico had taken a moment to console her... but more importantly, confirm the eyewitness account for himself. He gave her a handful of caps for her time, sent her packing with one of his boys to escort her safely back home, and made sure she left through the front door. He'd circled back to the two bodies and the scene, his real interest. Sonny's naked corpse still freshly dumped in the can, dead within the same hour as the unidentified man sprawled out on the floor wearing his clothes. Rico had nudged the latter with his boot, frowned, then knelt to take a closer look. One shot to the gut, gun in his hand. Most likely a squabble between him and vault girl, a fourth-rate Vikki and Vance who couldn't agree on how to split the take. Or the trigger pulled by a chem-fueled, paranoid delusion on the second day of a bender. It tended to be with situations like these. She’d just been quicker on the draw.
Rico stood back up, and that was the moment where he'd been told exactly what had been taken. Addictol, and the power fist from the window display. Rico had to laugh. Fucking addicts.
He catches up to his little person-of-interest as she enters the Atomic Wrangler, thanks to an enterprising street urchin with quick legs. He leaves behind two of his underlings to guard the door, and heads in alone. As if he needs the muscle. Tilts his head when he sees the colbalt blue jumpsuit (and the suspiciously power fist-shaped outline pressed into the bag slung over her shoulder) and walks up next to her at the mostly-empty bar. Busy with wiping down a glass, Shotgun Jeff glances up briefly and locks eyes with him, and backs away. Rico grins as he leans slightly against the bartop and turns to her, all pearly-whites. A heart-shaped face, big doe eyes, and blood all over her front. Rico almost finds himself charmed.]
Hey, stranger, I haven't seen you before. Came to say hello, but I see you have some, ah... [His gravel-rough voice deepening slightly in faux-concern, his head tilting playfully.] ...blood on you. Is that yours?
[Lucy's skin itches. Her teeth grind together; her spine is the wrong shape. Maybe addictol has a delayed reaction-- maybe it expired two hundred years ago. Her whole body vibrates with need, and her fingers itch to get it for her. This is a want greater than ethics or virtue. Shame is locked somewhere in the pit of her mind, she stole, she stole from a dead man. But the majority of her thoughts are stuck on a relay begging for more.]
[She barely sees this new person talking to her, his voice a buzz tone whining just above her want.]
Huh? Yes. Oh. [She scratches raw skin under her left ear. Her eyes lock on this man, with a jawline straight out of Grognak The Barbarian.] Everybody's got a little blood on them here. [Though hers hasn't dried yet.]
[Rico laughs like she's said something hilarious. Which, to him, she has. Vault Girl's looking more through him than at him, so who knows how much of this is going in one ear and out the other. Chems tend to wrap you up from the rest of the world like that, through use or withdrawal. But good thing Rico likes enough of the sound of his own voice that he doesn't necessarily mind talking just to hear himself talk.]
Guess so. Most people at least try to wash up, though. We're civilized here.
[Metaphorically and literally, sure. Even he has some still, in the crevices of his boots. It's why he wears black. Elbow on the counter, he plays a guessing game in his head as he smiles; Psychosomatic itching is a bitch and a half. Psycho, jet, buffout, pick your poison. What's every other thought in that pretty little head grasping at? In a voice dripping with sympathy;]
People here are pretty dirty. Literally. They have dirt on them. [It's a correction she wouldn't usually make, something she's only retrospectively aware of. Where did her control go? It's impolite to call people dirty.]
[She really is still stuck like this. She needs to fix it-- find more drugs, or more addictol. No one will help her if she asks nicely. That's not what the surface is like.]
[And how did this guy know? She looks down, embarrassed, before the need for stimulation has her looking up again.] I think it was busted. I guess I- I look like somebody who'd need some addictol, right?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Are you there? It's Tayrey.
no subject
So you got out? Congratulations.
no subject
I did. Thank you. I wouldn't have gotten out without you. It was just like you said, all of it. How are you? Can you talk on an audio channel, or is it a bad time?
no subject
I’ve been recovering from having my fingers broken, if that answers your question.
I'm about to get back on the streets and make the rounds. Not a good time to chat right now. My shift's over in eighteen hours, we'll talk then.
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It does. I'm so sorry you went through that.
I didn't say a word about you. Not even the slightest hint. Word by contract, on the honor of the Tradelines, I wouldn't have.
[ The result of her stubborn silence is that she still has several healing ribs, one arm in a sling, and a couple of new teeth growing in, but she's hardly going to complain about any of that now. ]
This line will stay secure. Call me when you're able to.
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it’s canon <3
oh wow that is just brilliantly dystopian, poor guy
the whole canon is v brilliantly dystopian. also, aww poor ari
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I love the drive-by image :D
lol ikr
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kiss kiss
The bags under his eyes are starting to show and so he plans for a night in, an event to which Rico Dredd invites himself and Len doesn't have it in him to argue about it. He half-expects things to get as rowdy as they usually do, too, but the only ambient sounds over the Sinatra playing softly on the radio come from the suite's kitchenette, where Rico is busying himself with...something.
From his leggy sprawl on the sofa Len lolls his head to one side, watching the man's back as the soft clatter of dishes, the muted thuds on the cutting board, and the sizzling of something that smells fucking incredible drag his attention from the book he's only partly reading. Rico looks good like that, all domestic, a towel thrown over one shoulder while he works. Concentrating on something that isn't tearing somebody open or building a bomb from scratch.
He looks good like that too, mind, but the novelty here is what makes it interesting. ]
Whatcha makin'?
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Mm. No. That joke is definitely staying in the mental workshop for a while longer.
It's a more relaxed atmosphere in the room tonight. Len's been looking particularly ragged around his edges for... a variety of reasons. For one thing, he hasn't seemed to notice that his curls are looking increasingly more on the 'bedraggled' side than what you could call 'naturally-tousled' by the day. And with the more obvious addition of the dark circles, it's no surprise that Len decides he's taking a day off. So yeah, Rico elbows his way into Len's plans with one of his own in mind.
If he happens to look particularly domesticated standing around in his boxers, it’s far from his mind. He barely registers Len's question, he’s so intensely focused on dicing the absolute shit out of some potatoes he'd gotten from Westside - and a smattering of some other not-too-irradiated produce, as thanks for helping out with repelling some Fiends with a friendly shotgun while he happened to be there. Truth be told he'd spent more caps by using the ammo he did than he would have if he'd bought it all straight, but you just can't put a price on goodwill. That's how he got a lead on getting the (pretty fucking expensive) half-used, secret string of dried chiles laying out on the counter, after all. Efficiently eviscerated, then hand-ground into a blood-red, wet paste.
Kind of like what happens when we work together, Rico thinks. Heh. The corners of his mouth turn up in a tiny smile as he looks down at the counter.
...Wasn't Len saying something? Right.]
You'll see. [To cover up his lapse in attention, he tosses the potato he's holding lightly in his hand before catching it.] You're gonna love it. It's to die for, and well... technically, somebody already has.
[He pauses.]
I'm not cooking people, just to be clear. The farmboys over at Westside handed me an extra bag of potatoes for using some of my new fletchette rounds on very short notice. They work great, by the way.
[Chit-chatting about how the day went. It's kind of nice?]
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Len lowers the book in his hand to his stomach, turning his head to get a proper glance at him. A little sweaty but clearly competent with a knife in his hand, even when he's not outright cutting somebody open. He's infuriatingly good-looking, even like this. Especially like this. Len's gaze tracks down the line of his neck where it meets his shoulder, over a bicep tightening and releasing as he moves, sliding askance to his collarbone. A good sign, perhaps, that his libido is returning home from the war after the last few days of being too exhausted to even consider sex. ]
I'm lookin' forward to it.
[ It's sincere, anyway. There's a familiar peppery scent he can't quite put his finger on, but he'll cotton to it soon enough. He reaches up and rubs at his eyes, still achy and tired in spite of the sleep he got last night. Can't possibly be helped any by the latent radiation sickness after some recent exposure, and he knows if he stretches himself beyond capacity again Arcade is going to put him under house arrest, and nobody wants to see where that ends up. ]
Hey. [ His voice cracks, scratchy, and he says again: ] Hey. I'm gonna make a drink, you want anything?
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[He scowls and rubs the sting from a tiny spit of oil that's landed alarmingly close to his nipple with the corner of his towel. Glances sidelong at Len to see if he'd caught that, hoping he's too busy staring at something else instead. Like his book. Or more hopefully, glued to Rico's ass. Come on, it's right there.
No such luck. Oh well. Hope springs eternal.
While Len might venture off to fulfill that particular mission, Rico barely notices when one song quavers to a close and another fades in.
He scrapes the potatoes straight into the skillet, adding a fresh sound to the existing sizzle of nightstalker tail. The rattle sliced off, pinkish meat stripped clean of scales and searing nicely in tender chunks. Expensive and relatively rare to find on offer anywhere, on account of absolutely no sane person wanting to venture into a nightstalker den on purpose. Nobody except for Rico, that is. Culinary novelty’s in short supply around an irradiated desert, and rangy Freeside rat meat wasn't going to cut it for a special occasion to these standards. Good thing all he actually had to do was talk to Red Lucy and kill it himself. Crazy girl.
Time for the crowning touch. The second the sauce hits the pan, Rico's eyes water. Gives it a good stir, then slams a lid on it. That'll be a few minutes. No better way to deliver the coup de grâce to a bout of radiation sickness than putting this into your system and sweating the rest out.]
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He probably should. He knows Rico Dredd well enough at this point to be able to tell when he's angling for something, and while there's probably an ulterior motivation threaded in there somewhere, the gesture feels genuine enough. Almost like they're actually dating.
At present he isn't of the constitution to be able to withstand tequila, so Len opts for an older bottle of gin that he's held onto - both because of its immense age, and because the vaguely chilling taste of it, in moderation, helps to soothe a queasy stomach. Having been told not to self-medicate his way out of this particular mess, Len is at least doing his best to adhere to professional advice from the only doctor in a fifty mile radius who gives him a dressing-down every time he asks for a bandage.
He tops the gin off with a little splash of some prickly pear juice, tart and sweet. Meandering back to the kitchenette with two glasses in hand, Len blows an errant curl out of his eyes as he sidles up to Rico and presses a tumbler into his waiting palm. That familiar peppery smell is stronger now, like some long-lost scent from his childhood, and he frowns a little as he attempts to identify it in earnest. A bright-red paste smears across the bottom of a nearby bowl and Len indelicately dips his pinky into it, sniffing lightly before touching it to his tongue.
Recognition hits him like a deathclaw in a full sprint. His eyes widen, looking from Rico to his finger to the pot on the stove. Len forgets himself just long enough to ask, incredulous: ]
¿Qué es esto?
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you know... ;)
Time to get their nasty on 🔥
Might not have had the smoothest parting. But he knows it has to be related to his plans for the Mojave, the violent upheaval on the horizon. So he lets him go. And he’s here now. Half-asleep, Rico hears the elevator doors opening with a creak from the bedroom, the thump of his pack hitting the floor. Watches Len walk into the room with exhaustion in every line of his body. He crawls into bed without a word smelling like road dust and sweat, and a faint metallic tang that makes Rico know he had reason to use his hunting knife at some point in the last few days. And he knows what he needs from him, even before he settles in.
Then he’s finally in his hands, where he belongs. On his back, naked and pressed into the bed under Rico's weight, stripped down to his suntanned skin and scars on display, old bruises pressed into the bones of his wrists where Rico’s hands settle so habitually. He feels the sweat-damp heat of his body under his palm, Len looking up at him with those half-lidded eyes and lips bitten to hell. A thing of the desert like him doesn't really belong in the ghost of the old world, laying on top of these sheets. Rico drags a blunted fingernail up Len's thigh, playful with vicious possessiveness as his breathing runs ragged with excitement. It’s a knife that doesn’t split his skin apart, but a kind of knife all the same as he harrows that red welt into him. Clear as a line drawn on a map, territory taken and marked - what's his and whose it isn't, for all it matters in the end. Len should know by now it’s affectionate. In his own way.
Neither of them would've been what they are now, two hundred years ago. Funny to be glad for the bombs, but there’s one reason he wouldn’t have it any other way. His trailing hand settles under his knee, hitches his leg higher so he can lean in closer.]
If you want me to fuck you, why don't you ask for it?
[So maybe he’s still feeling jilted, who knew? Still playing, his other hand flexes harder around his throat, cutting off anything he could say while he teases him by sliding his cock against him, already slick with spit and lube both.]
🔥🔥🔥
He isn't left alone long to ruminate on it all. Sometimes the only way back to normalcy is a language they both speak, a prologue opened by the the sensation of Rico's palm sliding over his hip beneath the sheets, unfastening his belt.
Sex like this always feels like a fever dream, the air between them hot and damp, the kisses sharp and dragging. The unadulterated want with which Rico approaches him is always a little overwhelming, a ragged sort of fury in it that reeks of desperation and a desire to scrawl his name onto something just to prevent others from having it. He's settled comfortably between Len's thighs and Len feels another wave of heat roll over him as a thumbnail scrapes up his skin, his own fingers squeezing the wrist just above his throat. He's hard. They're both hard. Opening his mouth just to say something petty, brattish, the words are bluntly torn from him as the hand pinning him to the mattress tightens and Len gives him a dirty look. The implication is clear: motherfucker.
Without a whole lot of leverage to his name Len's heels hook around the backs of Rico's thighs, determinedly tugging him closer in a bid to tempt him to forego patience, forego the game. The head of his cock slips artlessly against him and Len manages a small groan of frustration, one hand fumbling up Rico's chest to wrap around the back of his neck, curling thick and tight into his dark hair. The man knows what he wants, he just delights in being an insufferable prick about it and without the ability to speak the best Len can do is pull, hard. ]
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He presses his thumb against the divot of his jaw under his ear, forcing the other man’s head to the side so he can admire the secret proof of his claim, the long-healed cut ripped open to get to the core of him. His grip tightens in warning with a little spark in his eye - playful, always dragging that line of playful, and pulls Len into a temptation of his own, placing both tongue and teeth, nestled where he’s vulnerable. He can feel his pulse ticking underneath his calloused palm and mouth, thumping erratically, ratcheting up as he keeps him pinned to the bed and breathless, teasing him with shallow thrusts that frustrate both of them. Choking off the ability to make even that small, frustrated sound, the barely-there gasp, pressing in to fill the space of everything he takes from him until the entire world narrows down to Rico’s presence and the places they touch. It’s that same sound when Rico fucks him open with his fingers. Had fucked him, actually.
He isn’t sure how long he does this. The seconds he can count, until Len’s eyes roll back, but not the minutes like this, falling into each other. He could do this forever, and also not. His self-control is always a tenuous thing that just as always snaps violently.]
Didn’t sound like please to me. [he says eventually, in a voice as raspy as his stubble against his skin.] Should we try again?
[Let’s try again.]
😘
The tension and teeth pry him open as his supply of oxygen runs short, a pleasant sort of haziness swimming around him while his eyes lid. That disquiet is only punctuated by the clicking of Rico's canines, the intermittent pain dulled by toying with asphyxiation. There's a head high there, where the edges of his vision grow dark and his blood thunders in his skull. Every attempt at an inhale feels like being buried in sand and his fingers loosen from Rico's hair just as he's given the space to breathe, sucking in air while his chest inflates.
The exhale is just as raspy coming out again, half-registering Rico's commentary. Another shallow thrust makes him shiver and Len's eyes crack open. He tongues at his lower lip and takes a beat, feeling the damp heat of Rico's breath on his skin, the edges of his mouth pulling in a wry smile.]
Fuck you.
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Consequences were expected though she had relied a touch too heavy on her own reputation and the frequent, chaotic power exchanges on the Strip to act as buffer. When the frequency of bullets flying past her head went from normal to goddamn it Conner took the hint and packed up for a stroll (running be damned) to New Laughlin.
She clocked him on the second night. A bulky outline amongst the rocks that might have made anyone else think their luck had run out. With no time to marvel at her unexpected jackpot Conner changed course keeping the spring out her step even as the blood hummed in her veins and her heart beat loud and urgent in her ears.
When the Rob Co building became visible on the horizon she felt twitchy, restless and being a good junkie she might have compared it to Psycho withdrawal except this wasn't a come down. No, she was jonesing and for once in her life it wasn't for drugs.]
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But Connie's weird bitter distaste for The Courier with a capital C seemed to have blinded her to that reality, and she'd bet on the losing dog in a rigged fight deliberately. Either way, when he finally had a job in hand, he'd almost busted a gut laughing when he'd been told the name. He'd laughed even harder when he'd been told that there were others available, if he didn't want to do it. "Oh, no. You don't want to do that," he chuckled. "If you send anyone else, they're gonna come back crying with their balls cut off."
Assuming anybody managed to get that close to her hunting knife. Much more likely, they'd be rotting in the Mojave sun with their heads half-eaten by radroaches by the time anybody came across them. He remembered each time he'd gotten a front-seat view of a face being blown apart by a matter-of-fact .308, thanks to his often-partner's twitchy trigger finger. And on one memorable occasion, when he'd found himself on his back with a screaming, half-naked Fiend on top of him, he'd been close enough to taste it. He'd turned his head to narrowly avoid the edge of a rusty cleaver, and a far-off glint in the distance snagged his eye. Had just enough time for his face to split into a grin, before the Fiend's cheek popped like a balloon and spewed blood all over him. Already knowing the mumble of curses sweet little Connie was probably spitting under her breath at that moment, he'd given her a thumbs up, just to tempt her into shooting him too. Ha ha.
They didn't know her like he knew her. Nobody did. Five feet and six inches of an animal, and with a more vicious bite than that fucking cyberdog that sometimes followed at her heels. And so, this is what Rico said about Courier Number Five to Courier Number Six, with a bright, big, gleaming smile, tasting blood on his teeth where there wasn't - sending Freeside gangsters with delusions of competence after Conner Cairo, whether it was to kill or catch her, was a waste of time and money. But more importantly... she was his.
With his bike under repair, it's a flask of rebound strapped to his left thigh that carries him through, a predator on her trail. A thrill running through him that wasn't just the chems, but the giddy fun of this game. He knew when she'd clocked him, and now they both knew that they were playing. She slips into a crumbling RobCo building like a wraith, out of sight, and Rico follows. Footsteps in the pitch black - it's a playground just for them; a dusty atrium, corridors, cubicles, abandoned tools, the dim glow and buzz of broken terminals, fucked-up tag, rounding each corner with a growing bubble of anticipation that rises as the cusp of a laugh in his chest. Who knows what'll happen when their distance closes and snaps like a string of a tripwire - whether he's cornering her, or if she's leading him into a trap, seconds away from bursting the tension with a frenzy of violence - his teeth are a slash of anticipation, the same deadly cant as the knife in his boot as Rico Dredd "plays" with the same joy of a child.]
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Conner felt the jagged impulses of impatience in her head smooth over as her thoughts came together coalescing into a plan, malleable but something she could turn into action. Conner's hellish smile was mercifully lost to the dark as
she fired a few rounds down the hall, the Wasteland version of Marco Polo.
She kept the sound of Rico's boots at a comfortable distance, pausing when they fell silent.
Hell.
Throwing caution to the wind Conner kicked open the door to the warehouse the smell of dried oil and dead radroach tickled her nose as she scurried up the catwalk ladder. The rain of rust her sudden movements had caused barely had time settle before Rico's hulk-like shadow appeared below her.
Leaning casual-as-you-please over the railing, Conner held out a box of ammunition, tipping it over to let the bullets fall and bounce off Rico's head.]
Howdy.
[Fucking tease.]
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Rico catches one of the bullets out of the air as the rest shower down at his feet, brass casings chiming as they scatter and roll in all directions. Fucking tease. Women, honestly.]
Hey sweetie. Nice to catch up, it's been a while.
[His little joke. As he breaks the silence of two days, his cracked-gravel larynx sounds like an especially deep rumble in his chest. Or is that just a strange new undertone to his words, an eager hunger turned to her instead of their typical victims? Rico's gloved thumb sweeps the rim, some part of his always-working subconscious guessing the calibre in the dark.]
Are you pulling my pigtails? [It's an accusation he's delighted to make. He wiggles the bullet at her.] This could've been a grenade, and you know it.
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[By comparison Conner's voice is thin, raspy, falling flat and lost to the air before it has a chance to echo. She tilts her head eyeing him with the same dead-eyed gaze he's seen countless times before when she was contemplating the odds, playing out the kill in her head before she took her shot. Except. Her pupils are dilated and her mouth isn't set in it's usual hard line, no, her lips are slightly pulled back in what most would call growl or a grimace though Rico would know her awful, rarely seen smile better than anybody.]
You tryin' to tell me you wanted chocolate instead of flowers?
[He was bigger than her. Stronger too. Much as her hands ached for the instant satisfaction of an all out brawl (the dull thud of skin-on-skin contact, blood mixed with sweat and and PAY ATTENTION CONNER) the odds of Conner coming out ahead in that scenario were slim. He was better armored too, Conner preferred the light "recon shit" (as Rico called it) and while she had expected him to be dressed for the occasion it was something she had to think around.]
Don't worry, sunshine. I got you.
[In her other palm, a frag grenade. Looking downright demented Conner lets the pin slide out and the grenade fall. There wouldn't be an explosion, she had disarmed it earlier. All Conner needed was a moment of distraction to activate the Stealth Boy on the inside of her wrist. The race for first blood was on.]
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SORRY I AM HOME LATE. DINNER WILL BE READY IN FIVE.
🍳🔥😦 why is the kitchen on fire??
CHARCOAL BRIQUETTE IS A FLAVOR!
🥴 sure, sweetie........
No dessert for you!
my turn 2 apologize for the delay, work was 💀
WHY DOES WORK KEEP TAKING US AWAY FROM SEXY VIOLENCE.
😩
皿 rads 皿 (as discussed 😉)
Slightly hungover, he'd put on his jacket and boots - the steel-toed ones, so people knew that Rico Dredd was about to grant some motherfucker the worst day of their lives - and walked down to the store. Sonny's murder was large enough of an upcoming problem to his reputation that he needed to be seen publicly and personally handling the issue himself.
A couple of his boys and girls were already posted at the entrance and inside tallying up the store inventory as he'd ordered, deterring the milling crowd of curious onlookers from trampling the scene. Or stopping them from looting the shelves, if they'd like to be more honest. Rico whistled sharply as he approached and a bobble of faces turned to him, expectant. "I'll look into this", he'd said, smiling humorlessly as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, telling them all to get fucking lost. "I'm hunting a young woman in a vault suit - spread the word."
Word started spreading. He talked to the shell-shocked customer, tearful as she clutched her bag and avoided eye contact with the barrel in the corner. Everybody loved Sonny, after all. Especially Rico, when he'd received rent on the first of every month like clockwork for years. Rico had taken a moment to console her... but more importantly, confirm the eyewitness account for himself. He gave her a handful of caps for her time, sent her packing with one of his boys to escort her safely back home, and made sure she left through the front door. He'd circled back to the two bodies and the scene, his real interest. Sonny's naked corpse still freshly dumped in the can, dead within the same hour as the unidentified man sprawled out on the floor wearing his clothes. Rico had nudged the latter with his boot, frowned, then knelt to take a closer look. One shot to the gut, gun in his hand. Most likely a squabble between him and vault girl, a fourth-rate Vikki and Vance who couldn't agree on how to split the take. Or the trigger pulled by a chem-fueled, paranoid delusion on the second day of a bender. It tended to be with situations like these. She’d just been quicker on the draw.
Rico stood back up, and that was the moment where he'd been told exactly what had been taken. Addictol, and the power fist from the window display. Rico had to laugh. Fucking addicts.
He catches up to his little person-of-interest as she enters the Atomic Wrangler, thanks to an enterprising street urchin with quick legs. He leaves behind two of his underlings to guard the door, and heads in alone. As if he needs the muscle. Tilts his head when he sees the colbalt blue jumpsuit (and the suspiciously power fist-shaped outline pressed into the bag slung over her shoulder) and walks up next to her at the mostly-empty bar. Busy with wiping down a glass, Shotgun Jeff glances up briefly and locks eyes with him, and backs away. Rico grins as he leans slightly against the bartop and turns to her, all pearly-whites. A heart-shaped face, big doe eyes, and blood all over her front. Rico almost finds himself charmed.]
Hey, stranger, I haven't seen you before. Came to say hello, but I see you have some, ah... [His gravel-rough voice deepening slightly in faux-concern, his head tilting playfully.] ...blood on you. Is that yours?
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[She barely sees this new person talking to her, his voice a buzz tone whining just above her want.]
Huh? Yes. Oh. [She scratches raw skin under her left ear. Her eyes lock on this man, with a jawline straight out of Grognak The Barbarian.] Everybody's got a little blood on them here. [Though hers hasn't dried yet.]
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Guess so. Most people at least try to wash up, though. We're civilized here.
[Metaphorically and literally, sure. Even he has some still, in the crevices of his boots. It's why he wears black. Elbow on the counter, he plays a guessing game in his head as he smiles; Psychosomatic itching is a bitch and a half. Psycho, jet, buffout, pick your poison. What's every other thought in that pretty little head grasping at? In a voice dripping with sympathy;]
Addictol didn't work out?
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[She really is still stuck like this. She needs to fix it-- find more drugs, or more addictol. No one will help her if she asks nicely. That's not what the surface is like.]
[And how did this guy know? She looks down, embarrassed, before the need for stimulation has her looking up again.] I think it was busted. I guess I- I look like somebody who'd need some addictol, right?
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