The sniper shrugs, and scratches the back of his head, again. “You heard me.”
As if it weren’t bad enough that the General had left Danse in the Castle with this barely-organised rabble, she’d left him in charge of arranging guard duty. He’d drawn up the rota, distributed roles fairly and evenly, and tried to ensure that the skills of those on duty were complimentary.
Unfortunately, that meant that more often than not, he ended up with MacCready. The sniper who never seems to stop talking.
Now, of all things, he’s talking about hair.
“Look,” says MacCready. “It’s just something that comes up sometimes. What does the boss do with all those typewriters. Is that a supermutant breaking down the gates or is it Deacon’s newest disguise. What does Danse’s hair actually feel like. You know. Idle conversation.”
“People talk about that?” says Danse, bewildered. “It’s just hair.”
MacCready pushes his hat up his forehead to look him right in the eyes. “Trust me,” he says. “It’s never justhair. Not with these guys, anyway.”
Danse shakes his head, and focuses back on the mainland. There’s been almost no movement there for days. Weeks, even. A whole Commonwealth, full of dangers, and this is where he’s stuck.
“C'mon,” says MacCready.
“No,” says Danse.
“Please?” says MacCready, a wheedling tone in his voice.
Danse ignores him.
“You know I won’t give up,” says MacCready.
Danse closes his eyes, counts to five, and opens them again. “If I say yes,” he says, “will you stop talking?”
The sniper grins. “Maybe. Alright, yes. At least until the end of the watch.”
Danse sighs. “Fine. Do it quickly.”
The sniper reaches up and touches his hair, first with one hand, then with both. “Oh wow,” he says, running his fingers through it more vigorously than Danse had expected. “That’s better than I imagined. How’d you get it so… springy?“
Danse avoids his eyes, and folds his arms. “This may well be the most humiliating thing I’ve endured since entering the Commonwealth.”
“Come on,” says MacCready. “Lighten up. At least there’s nobody around to see it.”
“A small mercy,” says Danse.
MacCready whips off his cap, runs his fingers through his own hair, and stands expectantly before him. “Okay, do me.”
Danse stares dumbly at him.
“Go ahead,” says MacCready.
“Why would I want to?” asks Danse.
“It’s only fair,” says the sniper. “And you mean to say you’ve never felt the urge? Man. The boss was ruffling my hair within minutes of meeting me.”
“She was what?” says Danse, his brow furrowing. “And you let her?”
“Sure I did,” says MacCready, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “She was paying me. Besides, who doesn’t like having their hair touched? I know she does.”
Danse shoots him a warning look, which the sniper completely misinterprets.
Danse lets out an exasperated sigh, and reaches out a hand. Despite its filthy appearance, the sniper’s hair is smooth, and soft, like a cat’s.
“Curious,” he says. “It’s…”
He stops, hearing an odd noise coming from beyond the wall. A rattling sound. Danse frowns in its direction, trying to work out what it might be, but there’s nothing there.
Or is there.
A faint shimmer in the air resolves into the shape of Deacon, holding a can of water. A striped plastic straw sticks out of it.
“Busted,” he says, with a grin.
Danse pulls back his hand as fast as he can.
MacCready just nods. “Hey Deeks,” he says.
“Deacon,” says Danse, trying to recover his composure, “this is a very frivolous use of a Stealth-Boy. ”
“Frivolous?” says Deacon. “Hardly. Getting to witness the coming together of the two finest heads of hair in the Castle, perhaps even the Commonwealth? Worth every percentage point of the increased risk of psychosis.”
“That’s absurd,” says Danse.
“C'mon, Deacon,” says MacCready, snorting with laughter. “Go easy on us. Nobody needs to know.”
The dregs of Deacon’s drink make a loud rattling noise as he drains the last from the can. “Nobody needs to know anything,” he says. “But whether I tell them anyway is a completely different matter.”
Request: (from anon)
U meet Dan on the train for the first time! :))
Send us requests:)
It was getting close to rush hour. Close enough that trains were busy but not quite so close that getting on a train would mean becoming another sardine in a tiny tin can, and you just wanted to get home. You had gone into tescos on your way to the station to get a few bits but as usual, a few had turned into a lot and by now your arms were getting tired from holding the shopping bags. Just as you were about to put them on the platform to give your arms a break, your train pulled in. Typical, fucking typical, you thought to yourself as you stepped onto the tube. Just as expected there wasn’t a single seat spare.
As the trained wobbled its way along the tracks, you wobbled too and with nothing to hold onto given the bags you were carrying, you fell backwards right into someone. You quickly turned around to see a tall guy, about your age, clad in black from head to toe. He looked pretty hot if you were being honest. “Oh my god I’m so sorry I am so sorry I didn’t mean to I-” “Hey don’t worry about it,” the brown haired guy replied. “Oh my g- I’m sorry” you said as you fell into him once again. “Why don’t you hold onto something?” he asked. “Bags,” you shrugged. As the train bustled along, you almost lost your balance again until the nameless guy caught your arm. “I’m so-” “Don’t its fine,” he laughed. “Where are you getting off?” “Ruislip,” you replied, looking up to the map to see that it was another 5 stops away. “Oh same, here give me some of those,” he said, motioning towards your bags. “Um.. okay?” you said, handing over some of your shopping. “I’m Dan by the way” “[Y/N]” Dan. It suited him.
“I guess the alternate universe story isn’t gonna hold, either,” says Deacon, putting his hands behind his head.
“No,” says Danse. “You exhausted that one several days ago. Try the truth, as alien a concept as that might be to you.”
“Oh,” says Deacon. “Nice work, weaving the alien reference in there. I am still hurt, though. For the record.”
The big guy folds his arms, and adopts Serious_Expression_2. That’s a powerful one, and probably should earn him at least a bit of an explanation.
“It’s a long story,” says Deacon, “involving a bottle of Bobrov’s finest and a set of cards. Of course as the responsible adult of the group, I did not partake in any alcohol. No sir. Some elements, however, may have over-indulged. I’m naming no names, though.”
Danse’s head turns to one side, as though he’s heard something behind him. But, deciding it’s not as interesting as the hot naked guy relaxing in his bed (obviously), he returns his attention to Deacon. “How did you get in here?” he says. “I lock the door for a reason.”
“Locking the door,” says Deacon, wiping an imaginary tear from his eye. “That’s adorable.”
“Start talking,” says Danse, “before I march you out into the courtyard as you are.”
“Kinky,” says Deacon. In response to the deepening frown, he holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Alright, fine. We suggested a game of poker.”
“We?” says Danse.
“There was a group of us,” says Deacon, vaguely waving his hand. “The General said she didn’t know how to play, so we said we’d teach her.”
At this, Danse closes his eyes. A pained expression crosses his face.
“Ohh,” says Deacon. “There’s a story, isn’t there? I knew she was a serial offender. Anyway, long story short, she cleaned us out, in fairly emphatic fashion.”
Then he pulls aside the blanket with a flourish.
Danse slaps a hand over his eyes. “For God’s sake, Deacon.”
“C'mon, Danse,” says Deacon, gesturing toward his boxers. “I’m not that bad at poker. Unlike some.”
This time, whatever noise Danse hears is loud enough for Deacon to detect as well. It’s coming from the wardrobe, set against the opposite wall of the room.
It’s a snort of laughter.
Danse pulls open the door of the wardrobe. Inside stands MacCready, stark naked and with a drunken grin on his face.
“Hi,” says the sniper, somehow managing to slur a two letter word.
“Robert Joseph MacCready,” says Danse, “put some clothes on.”
“Can’t,” hiccups MacCready. “She’s still got ‘em.”
“Well…” Danse starts, and stops, and lets out a sigh. “You’re in a god-damned wardrobe, use your imagination.”
MacCready smiles vacantly.
“Of all the places in the Castle,” says Danse, turning to Deacon, “why my room?”
“It was the obvious choice,” says Deacon, reaching under the bed, pulling out his jeans, and starting to drag them on. “We figured she’d come here eventually.”
A smile creeps onto the side of Danse’s mouth.
Transparent. As previously mentioned.
“And maybe she’d take pity on us and return our clothes,” continues Deacon, swinging his feet to the floor, and into his shoes.
MacCready staggers out of the wardrobe, attempting to button up a shirt that hangs off his small frame like a tent. “Where’s my hat?” he says.
“That was the first thing to go,” Deacon reminds him. “You seemed pretty keen to get rid of it, actually.”
Danse frowns at Deacon. That means he’s thinking. Don’t worry, he’ll work it out soon.
Deacon puts an arm around MacCready’s shoulders. “C'mon, Mac. Let’s get out of here. We know when we’re not wanted, right?”
“Yeah,” says MacCready, leaning heavily against him. “Where’s my hat?”
“Aliens took it,” says Deacon.
“Oh,” says MacCready. “Okay. I better get a new one then.”
“Get out,” says Danse. “Now.”
Out in the corridor, Deacon leans Mac against the doorframe. “Wait there,” he says.
The sniper slides slowly, almost gracefully down it, landing on the floor with a bump. Probably didn’t hurt, though, judging by the serene expression on his face.
Deacon pats him on the head and goes back into the room. “'Scuse me,” he says, reaching past Danse and opening a drawer. He retrieves his t-shirt, and pulls it on over his head, almost dislodging his glasses which would have been really embarrassing. “Can’t believe I nearly forgot that. Comfortable bed, by the way. Might find me in there again, some day.”
“Lose the boxers next time,” says Danse, pushing him out into the corridor.
“Oh,” says Deacon, staring at the door that’s just shut in his face. “Good play. But now it’s really on.”