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withoneheadlight · 3 years ago

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| billy & will + pre-harringrove | full fic in spanish |

There’s an in-between. The high school and the middle school. A bare piece of land, yellowed from the lack of grass and the rough kiss of the sun and, right in the middle, an old shack.

It's a shabby thing that accumulates lack of re-paintings and excess of humidity but that’s out of sight, in that way of things that are just there but no one wastes time looking at anymore are.

That's where they meet.

Billy lights up a smoke. Slides his ass up an ancient, long retired desk, pasture now of the damp and rot, and leans against the peeling wood. Front and back-row seat to the long column of trees the wind’s rippling along on the other side of the wire fence. The ember warms up his lips as he inhales a deep puff and exhales a,

“You’re getting soft, Billy Hargrove”

He leans his head back and closes his eyes, ears on that ceaseless chirping of the bids that sews together the slow-passing hours of the days and nights of Indiana, and on the delighted screams from the middle-schoolers, remembering that, somewhere in there, there's a bunch of kids who will still be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. That maybe even Max could be one of them, if Billy hurries. That maybe he will too, if Billy is able to control that instinctive reaction that pulls his skin inward and screams at him to stopstopstop, that the soft skin shreds, falls apart so easily.

But maybe it can be both of them, if Billy manages to clench his teeth hard enough and keep on softening.

‘Cause soft skin hurts when it breaks but,

"Hey!"

Sometimes it’s worth it.

Will’s smiling wide. Stops running, abruptly, and then just stands in there, panting. He’s got a funny nose and giant eyes. The kind of bangs that make you wanna blow them out of his eyes even though what they're is too short, actually, and Billy’s always thought he'd do better in life if he didn't. Notice things. If he didn't see that widewidewidewide smile and could read it so easily.

"I've been dying to show you this!" Will kneels down into the grass, chopping out the words in between exhalations. Pulls at the zipper of his backpack, chest heaving, and he doesn't realize he's going to get dirt on the knees of his jeans or that Billy can read it. His relief. Of finding him in here and not just an empty desk. Of how for a kid every single day more means 'You care’.

(About me)

It was early December. Friday right after last period and one of those silly things that only happen in movies. Something so like scripted and choreographed that Billy nearly considered looking up at the ceiling to make sure John Hughes wasn't silently watching them, taking notes from above. They crashed in the middle of a corner. Billy sped up ‘cause he was in a hurry and the only way to catch Max in time lately was to intercept her right out of class. Will ‘cause he's always going like that, Billy knows now. Always a thousand miles per hour. Always verging on time-jump speed to then being the kind of kid who seems so quiet it's scary. They crashed. Hard. In the middle of that corner. Papers flying all over and a curse (Will) and a muffled groan (Billy) and they ended up pulling at the same paper one from each corner. A drawing. Trolls and wizards and a castle and an emerald-green light. A star in the distance, auguring bad omens. Billy forgot to be frightening and Will must have forgotten he was supposed to be frightened when he blurted out a,

"Fuck, Byers. This is frikin’ fantastic."

No fear or reticence or that way he sometimes has of bumping into words and stumbling, just a "Really?" eyes huge and bangs brushing against his eyelashes as he blinked when Billy also forgot he was also supposed to― well, supposed to be Billy Hargrove.

"’Got more?"

So now he skips English instead of Algebra, every Tuesday and Thursday. Sneaks off to that in-between place he knows no one wastes time looking at anymore to light up a smoke, same time as Will has his recess. And the kid doesn't always manage to shrug off of his flock of nerds but he’s lucky, some days.

And he brings the drawings.

Orcs and goblins and enchanted mountains on the northwest and it seems to Billy that there are more princes than princesses and that if there are any, they’re almost always sorceresses, almost always queens and that your attention gets hooked on their burning eyes, not in the clothes they’re missing and Billy feels like it's a small grain of sand, this thing they’re doing. Knows that someone’s already keeping a solid ground under Will's feet ('Joyce' he says it’s her name. And it stings, the way he manages to fit so much love, into such a tiny word). But it also seems to him that maybe it doesn't take much more, for Will, just a few grains of sand, to replace those that being a strange kid in a small town sick with apprehension for what it finds strange, takes every day away from him.

So Billy’s gotta have to clench his teeth ‘till his gums start bleeding ‘cause is that, or let his skin toughen up again. Is that. Or fucking everything up.

And ave María, Billy doesn’t want to fuck it all up again.

So he sucks on his cigarette. Hooks up an eyebrow. Waves his hand to hurry the kid up.

“Mmm. That’s how good you think it is, dickwad? ‘C’mon, got my next class in twenty”

Will flies over the papers. Head nodding and fingers skimming fast. Finds what he’s looking for and yanks it out, raises it up triumphantly in his hand. It’s the sword in the stone and he carries it up to Billy with wet knees and just a little mud-staining. It’s February and the sun’s burning brightly over all the wetness the night’s spent crying. The drawing is a huge dragon, wings made of leather and cartilage, spread out in eclipse in front of the moon, only a few silver rays illuminating the dark knight in front of it. Blue eyes lined in black, blond curls cascading down his back and Billy was clenching his teeth but they part now, ‘cause the figure looks too much like him to be a coincidence. A smile devours his whole mouth. Soft. A joke itching on the tip of his tongue. He grunts a,

“I’ve been called many things. But never this, Byers”

Only half his expression’s visible, eyebrows covered with those thick bangs, and Billy has to once again fight the impulse to blow them out.

“¿Hum?”

“Knight” he says, drawling the teasing tone out “In shining armor”

And It’s such a loss, all that hair. Because it’d pass unseen, if you don’t know him. The way his eyebrows spike up underneath and it burrows in between them, the eagerness of teasing back. But Billy’s lucky, ‘cause it’s been more than two months like this and Billy―

Knows him. Well enough at least. So it doesn't pass unseen to him.

“You know the drill, William. Spit it out. Can see you’re holding it up from miles”

Will purses his lips out tight. Looks like he’s trying but. Nah.

“Wouldn’t be that shiny '' scrunches his nose. Throws a meaningful glance at Billy’s disheveled looks. More thoughtful than not, way more intentional. But that's something he'll figure out when he grows up.

Billy cackles. Will's smile widens, satisfied. Hops onto the desk next to his. Billy offers him the cigarette.

“And―this?” Will shrugs inwardly. Glances up at him. Then down, at the exchange between their hands. Takes the cig in between two fingers and it doesn’t burn but he barely presses them against the filter, anyway, as if he’s afraid it would, all of a sudden.

"Retaliation," Billy half grunts, half laughs, and Will huffs, but swallows a deep breath to gather strength. Exhales. Takes a tiny puff and―

"Argg," coughscoughscoughs "This is. Ugh. It's awful. I don't know how you―” almost throws the cigarette back to him "Ufff, what a―" he hesitates "Yuck"

Billy snorts. Thinks about Max inhaling deep, no more than two weeks ago, eyes pining his in place. Breaking into a violent cough only a second later.

Billy pats Will’s back too.

“That’s good” he says “You better not like it” Will scrunches his whole face “And this too” Billy adds, shaking the drawing a little “This is good, too. Amazingly good, man”

Will. Stares. At him. One. Two. Three long seconds. And Billy hurts a little. With every single one. Three sharp stabs with that newly freed sword. A different kind of ' you care' each one: 'it seems so impossible to me (that you care)'. 'If you think so, maybe it's true (and I do care, that you think it)’. 'Thank you (for caring)'. And then. Those hidden eyebrows. Will’s cheeks puffing out a little when he bites the tip of his tongue and―

"Billy?" his eyes glint, heavy with ill-contained malice.

"Uh?"

"You're the dragon"

"You fucking ass―!"

Billy shoves him sideways. But Will just sways. He doesn't lose footing on that firm ground he’s standing on. Looks back at the drawing, hunches a shoulder up.

"But you’re the knight, too"

He says it in a tone that cuts straight through Billy’s chest Thank you he thinks, even though his soft skin is hurting. And he still doesn't blow hard on that bowl fringe from where it covers Will’s whole forehead but―

Stirs up all his hair instead.

“Eh!!”

“Hey, shitbird. Wanna see the one I’ve made?”

Will nods quickly. All contained-speed and reverberating and sometimes Billy doesn't know how so few people can see it, how big he is for his own skin and he thinks I wish, wish he'd accumulate enough grains of sand to raise up that firm ground under his feet, and get really, really high.

“Sure!”

He keeps it tucked away in the breast pocket of his jacket. Folded in upon itself. Same way he keeps everything else. Folds and layers and at the bottom of pockets no one ever looks at but.

He unfolds it to show it to Will Byers.

“Wow” Will says, and smiles up at Billy like Two months since we crashed against each other and I feel like I know you a little too, Billy Hargrove and Billy hit rock bottom but now at least Max and him sing AC/DC in chorus on the rides back home and Will's voice sounds like 'You're good' as he runs his fingertips over the graphite outlines of the skull and repeats, "Wow"

“Gonna have it done” Billy inhales a deep drag of Marlboro and 'Four Months to Eighteen' and for a moment it’s like he could feel the smoke curl up inside his lungs before blowing it out. The image is as pretty as it’s stupid. He glances at the open jaw of the drawing and thinks maybe he'd like a drag too "Have it healed for summer and―"

“What’s happening here?”

Steve.

Harrington.

Hand on his hips, preppy pastel polo lapels up, Ray-Bans holding up that way his hair swirls without really taming it. The twelve o'clock sun is shining sideways from his back and he's pretty. Painfully pretty. And Billy’s sure it's impossible that this redneck raised on corn and money amassed in dubious moral business is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen but sometimes he forgets. That it is impossible because. Fuck. It so seems like it. Light flicking on the ends of his hair where it curls. Under his ear. In the long curve of his neck. And the world doesn't halt and the birds don't stop chirping and the clouds don't part and no preternatural shit happens because this is the black hole where all the world's shit goes, Indiana. But. It so seems like it and,

Billy.

Knew how to breathe but that’s another thing he keeps on forgetting. Every time Steve Harrington passes him by.

He’s gotta force himself. To nod. To stop choking. When Will looks up at him with those big eyes. Questioning.

Apologizing.

Billy Hargrove, from freshly crowned local terror to―

“I was―” Will starts. Inhales. Presses his lips together right before blurting out the truth ‘cause he knows it's the only real way out "Showing Billy my drawings. Sometimes we―"

―the softie whose pride goes high up in his throat every time an eleven-year-old kid says 'Billy, this is good. It's very. Very good, Billy’.

"Sometimes we. Uhm. We―"

Will's already huge eyes get bigger, rounder. As if he’s just realizing that where he's stuck his foot keeps getting muddier, trapping himself all the way in. And Billy smiles lightly at him, sideways, so it’s hidden. From Steve Harrington. From all the world beyond. ‘Cause of that thing about facades and how hard they’re to maintain, when on one side is pressing what you're supposed to be and on the other, relentlessly, what you're hiding.

But Steve’s asking,

“Sometimes―what?” and Will’s eyes are fixed on Billy, two wide-open I’m sorrys and Billy thinks Fuck it, Hargrove. C’mon. Stop hiding.

So he’s the one who says,

“We share our drawings, Harrington”

And Steve.

He’s got those eyes.

They're like a troubled ocean in the heart of winter, those eyes. Hard, hard, hard. Imposing. But soft. So fucking soft. When something catches him off guard. Rolling stones in the breaker. And Billy wants to get swept up in them, like falling along the curve of a wave. Steve looks at him, and at the drawing in his hand, his eyes a swirl and, when he looks up, the calm. And Billy feels as those times when it seemed to him the waves wanted. To wrap around him. To catch him. Soft as the reflecting clouds. And Billy feels as those times when he’d let them. Carry him. Drag him to the shore. Safe and sound.

“Is that yours?” Steve frowns. When he does that. He looks the prettiest. And Billy's heart breaks. In tiny tiny pieces. Thinks This is what it takes, thinks Fuck, thinks, This is how things hurt when you let your skin get soft.

What you don’t have. What you want. What you could―

Fuck.

What you could love so bad you'd rip your own skin off, so they could touch your heart right with their own hands.

Billy nods. Will smiles. Steve’s frown softens and― waveswaveswaves. On an autumn morning. Waves lapping at the surface of an ocean of calm.

And now. Billy sings AC/DC with Max. His heart taking on water when his voice falls off-key and she clutches at her lungs, choking on laughter. Now, he sits in the back of an old shack halfway between who he is and who he should be and so, so very carefully turns at the pages of Will Byers' sketchbook.

And Billy Hargrove hit rock bottom one day in late October. Hit rock bottom and beat into pulp that pretty face he can't stop seeing in his dream. When he's asleep. When he's awake. Hit rock bottom and that's where he's going to stay. It's either that. Or risk coming up to the wrong surface. And it's easier, here at the bottom. Easier to see what matters, when you look up.

Here, Billy takes a breath. Deep. Deeper. Holds onto that air so he has something keeping him alive underwater when Steve snatches the drawing off his hands. Studies it carefully. Says,

"It's―Uhm. Well―" Grins "It's not. Beautiful. Like, conventionally." He eyes cut back to Billy and something in them breaks into whitewater, into that softness he can't help, as if everything else is as much of a lie as 'Billy Hargrove' and all those imaginary walls "But―"

He says ‘But’ and then. The bell goes off.

"Oh!" Will bounces on the spot "I have to―" he yanks the backpack shut "Class!"

He takes off. Running. Turning around right before the corner of the shack to wave at them, flashing one of those smiles Billy has involuntarily categorized as 'the good ones', wide and already almost panting again, before disappearing at the speed of light towards school and to, Billy hopes, be one of those few kids who are still going to be laughing just as hard, just as happy, a few years down the road. If they’re lucky.

(If Billy’s lucky)

Steve Harrington is still there, planted in front of him when the alarm stops.

"Can I bump one of those?" he asks, chin pointing to the smoke Billy's squeezing between his fingers. In the drift of his hair the Ray-Bans stay afloat, capsizing.

Billy bangs the base of the pack against his thigh, pops out a cigarette. Offers it to him. Scrapes his thumb along the wheel when Steve takes it to his lips, leaning forward and― It's broad daylight but in the thin glow of the flame it almost feels like it’s that exact instant when the world begins to fade, darkness turning wide-open spaces into narrow little universes: Steve Harrington and his red lips around the smoke and a small ache in the pad of Billy's thumb from keeping alive the fire and from wanting things with a bigger kind of ache, his heart cauterizing from holding inside the rage of knowing he's never, ever going to have them but―

"But?" Billy asks.

Steve grabs his wrist. Hollows out his cheeks. Inhales deep. Takes him a moment when he pulls away. To let go. Long enough that his fingers could read the way Billy's pulse is raging in his wrist, if he wanted to.

“But” And he’s smiling. Lopsided. He slips into Will's seat and stretches his neck toward the sky. Prolongs the wait. Exhales. "It's cute."

And then his gaze cuts down and he’s searching for him, with those eyes of his. For Billy, who can never stop looking at him so, when he finds him, finds him looking back already.

And Billy―

Billy.

"Cute?"

Billy. Blinks. His hand stops halfway from getting his own cigarette to his mouth. Stops his heart and it feels like time’s stopping too, in this narrowness Steve's presence has reduced the moment into. And he’s smiling big now. His eyes soft. Soft. So fucking soft. And Billy thinks,

You're getting soft too, Billy Hargrove. You want to let him shred off your skin, when Steve says,

"You," snorting a soft laugh, sun melting in his eyes like honey "With Will. Drawing."

Billy wants him to never stop looking at him like that. Wants to lean in, and kiss him.

"Shut up and smoke your fucking cigarette, Harrington" he growls.

And Steve rolls his eyes in a way that screams 'Gotcha, Hargrove', but leans his back against the peeling wood of the shack.

And does as he’s told.

(Next Tuesday, it's not just Will who shows up, when the bell starts ringing)

i just finished translating this and, since i had originally written this part as and stand-alone thing. here it is. idk if it's worth the work of translating it whole, or if i really feel like it but, we'll see!. i've been at war with life and writing this past few weeks but i've been missing you so much, fandom <3<3<3. hope you've been doing well.

also billy + will + drawing is one of my fav hcs and there are a few tiny things more that i wanna write? hopefully i will 🌟

#harringrove #billy hargrove #will byers #steve harrington #stranger things #billy x steve #steve x billy #billy & will #xharringrove

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keelywolfe · 5 years ago

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Drabble: Last Minute Gift (baon)

Summary: A prequel to the main series, Sans has some thoughts about the Gyftmas season.

Note: One last short for the holiday season. Warnings for Kustard and for Mature Content, plus some very slight consent issues. Red and Sans, really? This is what you give me for the holiday?

Tags: Kustard, Pre-Spicyhoney, Angsty, Definitely before Sans finally decided to go to therapy.

Read it on AO3

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was their second winter on the surface, them and the skeletons who were and weren’t them, and Sans’d gotten pretty used to his particular brand of the clone war hanging around the house. Paps wouldn’t have wanted it any other way; he took particular delight in their unexpected family and he always invited them over for all the holidays, but especially this one.

Gyftmas in Snowdin hadn’t ever been quite this crowded. All of them sitting around the tree in a nest of torn wrapping paper, sipping their eggnog and going for that holiday joy.

Well, almost all of them.

The house was loaded with happy cheer, fa la la la la, and his bro was the coolest, no question, throwing the best Gyftmas party in town and yet, Sans couldn’t exactly blame Red for needing to take a minute for himself.

For starters, even he was starting to get a little nauseated by the way Edge and Stretch kept up with the snarling flirtation, circling each other like dogs in heat. Be a relief when the two of them finally caught a clue and shacked up, but until then, it left the rest of them vicariously stuck in their mean little seduction cycle, listening to every tease disguised as an insult, every snipe that begged for a kiss.

Yeah, if that was his bro, Sans would’ve taken a smoke break, too.

All the others were getting into a loud, cheerful argument over whether to watch a holiday movie or trying again to play Pictionary, hopefully this time without any damage to home or furniture, hell, they only had three fire extinguishers. Most of ‘em were, anyway, Stretch was looking a lot like he wanted a smoke break of his own, but Blue had confiscated his ciggies after his fourth one for the night, because long-term avoidance was only allowed for the family member who was the least house-trained and might damn well bite if anyone went for his nicotine.

Couldn’t be allowed for the whole night, though, and Sans gave Red about twenty minutes before he went after him, partly to get his own minute of peace but also, if he didn’t then Edge would and that was likely to start another ‘whose a shittier brother argument’ with him and Stretch. Seriously, he’d seen enough foreplay between those two for the day, thanks.

No one gave him so much as a glance as he slipped out the front door to the strains of Bing Crosby and amicable squabbling. The cold winter air felt good against his overheated face and Sans took a minute to breathe it in before trying on his Sherlock Holmes. Not that Red was too hard to find. A lack of extra footsteps through the snow led him to the cleared area between the house and the garage, and he could see the dim glow of Red’s cigar, smell the bitter musk of the smoke.

“done hiding out here?” Sans asked. “only, i think your bro is noticing a you-shaped hole in there, might want to fill it for him.” His own cigarettes were in his pocket, but he didn’t reach for them. Only watched Red exhale a pale cloud, his gaze flicking over Sans and who knew what indecencies Red was reading off his bones; Sans could read into the souls of anyone at all except his own and maybe that’s why Red’s was inscrutable to him.

No need to think about any of that shit right now, though, was there? Nope. All he was doing was making sure his bro’s party went off without a hitch and he wasn’t gonna let Red’s shitty attitude ruin it.

Red stuck his cigar between his teeth, grinning around it, “except you’re the one who joined the search party. wassamatter, miss me already?”

“what i’ll miss is not having a steady stream of bullshit in the air,” Sans scoffed. “but it’ll keep your bro quiet and my bro happy. you can call it a late gyftmas present.”

“yeah?” Smoke was trailing from Red’s eye sockets and it only emphasized how much his eye lights burned like coals. “but you didn’t get me a present, did ya, sansy?”

“guess i forgot. should’ve gotten your list to santa a little earlier,” Sans said lightly. “but then, i got a pretty good idea of how naughty you were this year, don’t i.”

Sans was pretty sure he didn’t mean to say it like that, as an unintentional goad. A reminder of how they’d fucked around a coupla times this summer while they were overseas. Ain’t much to the story, a drunken handjob once or twice at night when they were sick to their souls of playing nice around the Human politicians. Not here, though, never here at home, that shit was for strange places and times, any bitchy port in a shitstorm. So he wasn’t expecting the hands that reached out, grabbing a vicious fistful of his hoodie to swing him around, wasn’t expecting to get slammed into the house and Red pushed hard against him, holding him face first against the siding. Instinct was to shortcut, stifled sharply enough that he felt the burn of aborted magic, tasted it raw at the back of his throat.

“maybe i’ll take my present,” Red said roughly. He crowded in against Sans’s back, heavy against him, all the layers of his thick coat and clothes meant nothing as he ground their hips together, one hand reaching between Sans’s legs and cupping his crotch with rude intensity. “maybe this’s the gift i’ve been waiting for.”

“do i get a say in this? asking for a friend, just curious if i’m allowed to say no.” Absurdly petulant, strengthless and useless, like every other fucking thing in his life. As if his cock wasn’t already throbbing like a wound, bound by frustrating layers of fabric between it and Red’s hand.

“you sayin’ it?” Hot breath against his cervical vertebrae and that hand didn’t move, holding perfectly still even as Sans’s hips got sick of waiting for permission and tried to lurch into his grip.

Yeah, about that. Sans squirmed halfheartedly against the weight hemming him in and didn’t say a damned word. Too fucking late, his body was offering a strenuous, mute protest at the very thought and he was already het up on the giddiness of risk; anyone could come out here, Edge on a mission to find his bro, Stretch sneaking off for a cig, even his own brother finally missing him. But the momentum was already skittering dangerously out of control. Maybe it had since Sans took his first step out the door.

Just because the laughter was silent didn’t mean Sans couldn’t hear it, but fuck, it was hard to hear anything over the creaking sound of his own bones, flexing hard as Red’s hand wormed through the tangle of his shorts to grip him in cold, clawed fingers. Strangling tight around his cock and it was probably the only thing that kept him from coming right then.

The freezing house siding was warming beneath his cheek bone, leaving trails of snowmelt to run down his face. Red’s hand moved on him in quick, jerky strokes and dimly Sans could hear him breathing heavily, pressed hard against his back and there was nothing but hot breath and cold air and fuck, Red jerking him like the fucking bastard he was, too good, too, too fucking good, and if there was a difference between want and need in that moment, Sans didn’t know it.

Sans groaned through his teeth as he came, too loud in the still air and a hand fumbled over his mouth, a sharp hiss by his head of “shut up!” but he couldn’t, he couldn’t. Probably didn’t last for fifteen seconds but Sans was coming hard, crashing through his floodgates, and it’d been so fucking long, not since those drunken moments last summer. Left him stunned and sagging and he would’ve fallen to his knees if Red wasn’t holding him up, would’ve had to come up with a cheap explanation for snow-wet shorts.

“yeah, that’s it,” Red whispered roughly. “that’s it, just like that.” His hand didn’t stop, still squeezing and stroking until Sans winced, pushing it away.

He was still loose-limbed and lost when Red hauled him around, shoving him roughly up against the side of the house again. But not so much that Sans couldn’t turn his head away from the kiss that tried to descend on him, the sharp grin on Red’s mouth widening like he didn’t even mind.

“okay, sansy, have it your way.” Red let him go and Sans slid down a couple inches before he caught himself, braced against the aluminum siding. Red wiped his hand on his shorts, leaving wet smears that showed no color against his dark fabric which was a good fucking thing because he didn’t want to see Red try to explain why it looked like he’d had a pen explode in his pocket. He turned towards the house, tossing back over his shoulder, “thanks for the present.”

Sans didn’t move until he heard the front door opening, the brief burst of chaotic cheer escaping, cut off as the door closed again. Only then did he reach for his cigarettes, ignoring the trembling in his hands as he lit one and took a long, deep drag.

Yeah, so, that happened.

Inside, his brother was probably still glowing with happiness of the success of his Gyftmas party and Sans wasn’t about to let anything interfere with the joy to his world. He was gonna finish his ciggie, head back in, and see what way he felt like swaying the vote for Pictionary. No rule said he had to think about this shit for any longer than necessary, was there? Nope.

Wasn’t even the worst Gyftmas present of his life, not even close, and he was gonna stop thinking about that right fucking now.

Sans stubbed out his cigarette and headed back inside and if he pointedly didn’t look at Red, or talk to him, or even get fucking near him, eh.

Of all their shared talents, the one of refusing to see what was right in front of their face seemed like a universal trait.

-finis-

#kustard #spicyhoney #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #by any other name

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chyrstis · 5 years ago

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I won’t ask for much (but just this once, I’d like you) 8/10

Only two more to go, and let me just say that it’s mildly amusing to me to be posting a winter fic when springtime’s in full bloom.

Pairing: Sharky Boshaw x John Seed Rating: E (but only for Ch. 10, the rest are a solid T) Word Count: 4K

Link to AO3!

Ch. 1 / Ch. 2 / Ch. 3 / Ch. 4 / Ch. 5 / Ch. 6 / Ch. 7 / Ch. 8 / Ch. 9 / Ch. 10

—

Sharky steals a boat. It just happens to be John’s boat, and when it’s damaged along with his boathouse, John proceeds to lay out a means of having Sharky pay him back. [No Cult AU]

———–

Fall ended, and with the beginning of winter the first hint of snow rolled in. One to two inches of it blew in to start, blanketing everything in a fine layer of white as the temperatures dropped.

Nothing that would bury his place outright, but that still didn’t stop Sharky from giving half of it a good ol’ scorch with his flamethrower. He had a yearly thing going, adjusting it each time just to get the right stream of flame flowing, so he wouldn’t burn much under the snow. But thankfully, this wasn’t one where he was on the verge of getting caught for it.

Not yet at least, as he took the jet of fire and gave it another sweep across where the snow was coating the road. He’d get at least two to three more passes before hitting the pavement, and needed to be sure to stop it at any sign of the fire spreading.

Now was not the time to get cozy up at the jail either, no matter how well they decked the halls over there.

Hurk let him know early on that he was set to do their usual thing this time of year. He’d pull up a chair with him as they had their annual holiday bonfire, before heading out to Aunt Addie’s. Those were the best times, and the ones where he really had all he could’ve ever wanted.

Sometimes there were odd years. The ones where Hurk was gone after all, being one hell of a kick ass super spy, and Sharky found it harder to get in on the holiday fun with his aunt. Felt a little too much like an outsider, and thought his time was better spent down at the Eagle drinking himself stupid before trying and failing to write a dirty phrase into the snow.

This year was set up to be one of the good ones, though. He had Hurk, they had their usual plans set up, and tonight they’d even decided to get in a little pre-holiday drink-a-thon. He’d supply the venue and grab half of the alcohol, while Hurk would cover the rest. Snag them more booze, maybe even a few movies, and he’d try to see how fast he could beat him at his own self-declared shot-taking record.

But first, he needed the beer. Smokes too, since he’d gone through most of his current pack, and snapped up what he could down at the general store.

They only had one six pack of the beers he and Hurk liked, though, and when he went fishing for cash he wasn’t able to cover for another, so he cut his losses. He paid for the beer plus one pack of cigs, and knew Hurk would have his back on the rest.

Not breaking his usual habit, he took one of the beers and popped the cap as soon as he was out the door. Hit by the cold, he shivered but shrugged it off as he tilted the beer back. It wasn’t far to his car, so he could double-time it there before anyone could say two words about it.

“Strange.”

He paused, and nearly coughed the drink up. John was standing not even three feet away, dressed in a long dark coat. A blue scarf was wrapped around his neck, and between harsh coughs Sharky might’ve been able to pick out the light smile he wore. Almost friendly.

The air escaped John in a puff as he chuckled. “You would think something warm would be better for this weather.”

“It…uh, that’s what the whiskey at home’s for,” Sharky rasped, “or fireball. Usually a winner.”

“Ah.”

John raised a gloved hand to hold his coat closed, clearly cold, but he didn’t drop his eyes or move on. Just held the look he was set on aiming at him, and Sharky knew his mouth was in danger of running off on him.

Once he could get it going again, that is. Funny how John had a way of doing that to him.

“You, er, need anything from here? You never-“ I never see you down here. “Didn’t think there was a thing you’d ever run out of.”

“Yes, I… There were a few things I did find I needed.” The smile faded. “Matches.”

“Oh. Yeah, you might need some of those.” He took another drink of the beer, hoping it would cover the way his mouth was twisting. And didn’t like one bit the way his lighter suddenly burned a hole in his pocket. “For heat?”

“Heat, mostly.” John shrugged, and tried another smile. “Haven’t decided to take a page out of your book just yet. But it’s tempting.”

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Pressed against the back of his teeth as he felt his grip on the beer tighten. “So, uh…”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Good luck with that.”

He’d blurted it out just as John spoke, not expecting anything along those lines.

Something flashed in John’s eyes. It was hard to tell out here in the dark at first, but those blue eyes of his managed to catch the light. What little there was brought them out, and he didn’t know what to do with the hurt he’d let him see.

“Fuck, I uh-this isn’t, look I-“

“You’re busy.” Smoothing out the front of his coat, John looked down as he did so, studying his leather gloves closely. “Clearly I’ve interrupted something, and you need to get back to it.”

Chug-a-lugging a beer out in public wasn’t something. Lighting another cigarette only to stub it out before finishing it in the ashtray of his car wasn’t something. Missing him wasn’t-

Sharky swallowed down the lump in his throat. “Think you’re right about that.”

This was his cue to leave. He had been out here long enough, stared over at him long enough, and he didn’t trust at all his ability to hide any of it at this point.

Still, he let himself look at John again, just for a moment longer, because what was one more second? He’d dug the hole deep enough to start. He’d keep on going until he had a whole damn trench.

“See you around, man,” he threw out over his shoulder as he turned to leave. “Oh, and happy holidays and all that shit.”

The snow crunched under his feet as he trudged over to his car, ready to throw the door open and hop in fast. But this time around John didn’t call out to him. He put the last of the beer down from behind the driver’s seat, waiting for it, listening, only for his phone to give him a notification instead.

Slipping it out, he opened up the message waiting for him.

Happy holidays. Take care.

“Holy shit, Sharky. Thought they were out of this. Though, looks like they would’ve been if you’d put any more of a dent into it.”

Hurk snagged one of the beers on the table – one of three remaining, which wasn’t all that bad – and got to work on it quicker than he had. Then took the other next to it right after.

Stifling a laugh, Sharky flicked a loose bottlecap at him from the couch. “You trying to say something? After I head on down there and nearly freeze my ass off hunting for that shit?”

“Whoa, no. ‘Cause that’s just hella rude turning my nose up at any free alcohol being offered, but this ain’t enough for two. Hell, it’s barely enough for one.”

And with their shindig consisting of one beer, the remains of another six-pack in his fridge, plus the line of spirits they’d taken a crack at already, it was looking a little on the sad side. Hurk hadn’t even been able to snag a keg, not this time around. All after showing up to Sharky’s house, emptying his pockets for spare change for a potential second booze run, and didn’t even have a movie or three to share.

“And not a single call back,” Hurk sighed, “I’m hurting, cuz. Thought we’d be able to cozy up to some fine-ass ladies tonight, but no takers.”

“Eh, it happens.”

Disappointing as it was, he was hard-pressed to care. At least until Hurk threw a handful of bottle caps back at him, and he dove to the other end of the couch to dodge them.

“Well, you’re in a funk still. Don’t think I’m not noticing that, or done worrying about it either!”

“Look, it’s late. We’re short on shit. Any lady walking in through that door would walk back out again after seeing how lame of a situation we’ve got going here. And that’s not even covering the porn mag left on the table.”

“Hey, I marked a spot. Thought you’d appreciate it since you’re blue, and needed a little something to make you smile.” Hurk walked over to it and held the magazine up, thumbing through a few pages before turning it around to show it to him. “Come on, you love this chick.”

“Yeah, I know.” He sat back down, and folded an arm under his head. Gave what Hurk was holding a passing glance, before leaning back. “It’s nothing. Just some of that seasonal shit.”

“Well, I think I know how to get this party going again. We exit stage left, head on down to see Miss Mary May, and work our way up from there, eh?”

Sharky grunted in response, and Hurk groaned in exasperation.

“Duderino, you’re killing me here. I’ve gotta find a way to get you back to bouncing off the walls, or we’re both done. Like, the party’s dead, but we’ve gotta keep on going. Work our way back on up, so we can rise from this. Majestic and-”

The magazine was tossed down, and Sharky heard a gasp.

“Oh, shit. That’s pretty fucking sharp there, cuz.”

“Hmm? What is?”

“These sunglasses. Where’d the hell you manage to get them?”

Sharky shot up in his seat.

In the middle of shooting off a set of finger guns, Hurk had slipped the pair he’d found on, pausing only to push them further up the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, this is pretty damn cool. Don’t know about all the blue, though, you think these little guys come in red, white, and blue instead?”

Sharky scrambled up and off of the couch, and wrangled them away from Hurk. “Careful with that shit, okay? You’ll fucking break them if you bend them the wrong way.”

“Whoa, whoa there, man! Easy, easy!” Hurk held up his hands, and gave Sharky a wary look as he examined the pair. “It’s a set of sunglasses, bud. No big deal, not that I was gonna actually break ‘em.”

“They’re five-hundred bucks, man.”

Hurk changed his tune immediately, “Well, fuck a duck. And you’re holding onto them? Who the hell do you know willing to spend bookoo bucks on a set of glasses?”

It didn’t take long for him to narrow that down either, and Sharky’s grimace in response only sent the unspoken point home.

“Wait. Are those John’s?”

Sharky adjusted his hold on the sunglasses, almost cradling them in his hands. “He dropped them. We were working one day, he had to run off to do something with his bro, and I…grabbed them. Wasn’t thinking much at the time, like I know he could’ve come back to grab them later, but I thought they’d get smashed out there. Figured I’d have a chance to give ‘em back, except later never really came, and I, uh. Held onto them.”

“Well, it’s his fault for doing you dirty like that. Cutting you out of the whole deal after trapping you in it to begin with? Stealing and keeping his shit seems like fair game to me.”

Glancing down at them, Sharky sighed. “Nah, not really. Not like you think it would.”

Hurk got quiet, saying nothing as he went and gently placed the sunglasses back down on the dining room table. The low whistle Sharky got after that though, had him trying to force himself not to bolt.

“Fuck me running, dude. You weren’t kidding before, were you?”

“Kidding ‘bout what?” Sharky replied, feeling sheepish. “The whole him not being a douche thing, or the part where I kind of liked him?”

“Man, both. Definitely both.”

“Oh. Well, it-it’s fucking bad.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, Sharky swiped his cap off to run a hand through his hair. “It’s a whole lot of bullshit, ‘cause I was busting my ass out there. Wanted to get it all over and done with so we could go back to acting like nothing had happened. Then I didn’t mind it as much. Kinda thought we were friends or heading towards it, and…I might’ve blown that too.”

Dropping his arm, he sniffed, and tried to look anywhere but Hurk’s way.

“’Cause you don’t wanna kiss your friends or try to. Muddies things a whole hell of a lot, and it’s…it didn’t work out. And I don’t know why, but I still wanna see him. Know how he’s doing even if he doesn’t give two shits about me, and when I had that chance today grabbing that,” he said pointing over towards the beer, “I blew it again.”

“Well, what about you? Takes two loving and willing adults to do the ol’ sideways shuff-” Hurk paused, scrunching up his face as he considered it. “Wait, that’s a bad way of saying it, ‘cause we’re not talking fucking, we’re talking feelings. Which usually leads to fucking, but the point still stands, though. You gotta have a say in some of this here. Especially if you like this guy – and fucking John, man, but I ain’t judging. Much.”

Hurk’s hands went up again as Sharky gave as much of a glare as he could muster. But even that fizzled out completely as his eyes dropped straight to his feet.

“You gotta have something to say something, right?”

It was bitter on his tongue, and he tried to choke it back. Found himself thinking of the smile John gave him earlier. How he’d looked at him, warm enough to root him to the very spot.

“Something solid. Something to go off of instead of just guessing, and I’ve done enough of that, man. Burned that bridge and boat – though some of that shit came pre-burned, if we really wanna get into it. Like I think there’s still bits and pieces at the bottom of the river that we’d be able to dig up. Big enough chunks to drag up and float on Titantic-style, and…yeah. That’s just how this kinda thing goes.”

When Hurk walked over and gave him a hug, he didn’t pull back. Sniffed a little more as he tried to get it together, because like hell was he going to start blubbering over this. He’d managed to avoid it so far, but this would be the stick needed to break that damn camel’s back.

“Hey, it’s okay," Hurk said, hugging him tighter. "Sorry for giving you shit over something you can’t really control, and shit for any of this at all. I want you to be happy, and if he makes you happy? You lock that down, and dial it in tight. But if he’s being weird about it? He’s the one missing out. Him, not you. You’re the coolest guy around. Like the one you go to whenever you need to get down and party hard, and if that ain’t the kind of party we’re having? You’ll still find a way to knock all our fucking socks off with some crazy shit. ‘Cause that’s you, cuz.”

“Just me?”

“Yeah, just you, being the best, badass baby cousin a guy could ever ask for.”

After a few pats on the back, Sharky let out a sigh. Felt some of the weight start to lift after letting that out into the open, and felt a little better too. Not completely, not even by a long shot, but he’d work his way there.

“You know what’ll help? Not all of it, but at least for now?” Hurk asked.

“A round of shots?”

“Round of the best alcohol we can handle, and tonight I’ve got us covered. We’ll do that for a while, then finish off the night watching ol’ Vinny being a total badass.”

Thinking it over, Sharky felt a smile start to creep in. “Maybe throw in some other shit too. Like, maybe one round of the holiday fireplace or something? The crackling’s nice.”

“Anything you like, bud. Anything you like.”

Nights at the Spread Eagle during winter weren’t much different than during the rest of the year. Sure, there was a draft, but the place was just as busy as any other. The drinks flowed, the regulars had their winter gear on, and everyone was set on having a good a time as possible.

Hurk made good on his promise shortly after they got there, toasting him before the two got cracking on their first round of shots. He didn’t want to get blasted, but the warmth that set in was welcome, and with every story that Hurk dove into he found it that much easier to let loose and laugh.

Heading up for the next round, Sharky kept his beer close as he hit the counter up front, passed their order on to the always lovely Mary May, and set in for a short wait. Resting both arms on the counter he took a look around, and noticed there was no line at the jukebox. With quarters rustling around in his pocket, he had change to spare.

“Waiting on something?”

Shifting, Sharky tried to make space for the person next to him. “Shit, sorry, let me just-“

Then felt the rest of the response die in his mouth as he glanced up at Jacob. Dude was still as tall and imposing as he remembered, but wasn’t eyeing him with the intent to kill. Or anything other than what he guessed was friendly for him.

“Yo, how’s it…how’s it going?”

“It’s going.” Jacob took the spot next to him by the bar, settling in, and Sharky tapped his fingers on the counter a little faster. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“No shit.”

“You two aren’t talking much anymore?”

Nothing came through in his tone. Not anger or irritation, and while Sharky was still waiting for him to throw him a beating, Jake wasn’t gunning for it.

“I, uh, don’t think that’s the way I’d put it. ‘Cause if you know two things about it, and I know you guys are all close and shit, it’s…not great,” Sharky said, going straight for his beer.

“Yeah. You used to be all he ever talked about.”

That made him spit his next drink out. Getting one hell of a dirty look from Mary May, he grabbed as many napkins as he could to sop it up, wiping the counter down, and felt his face burn the entire time.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

Jacob simply kept on tending to his own beer. Drained it completely as he stood there next to him, and sighed when done.

“Heard about you enough to wonder if he’d ever shut up about you. Charlemagne this, Boshaw that. Had a new story every week, if not every night we’d stop by. Like with that skunk. Got real unlucky with that.”

Groaning, Sharky set his face in his hands, “Yeah, it was…it was pretty bad.”

“Can’t dodge those easy.”

“I didn’t. Thought that was the whole point of that one.” Sharky sat up, and eyed him. “So, I get it. You’ve heard some shit.”

Jacob set the empty bottle down, and motioned for another. “Plenty. More than I know you want to hear, until he stopped. Stopped saying much of anything about you at all, and didn’t look none too pleased about it either.”

“Well, you wanna know more? Talk to him about it.”

“I did.” Mary May slid him a beer, and he redirected it towards Sharky, “Which is why I told him to talk to you.”

“Why would you…why’d you do that?” Sharky asked, any irritation at this bleeding away.

“John’s not easy to deal with. Then if he goes and fucks something up along the way? He’s ten times worse. If he makes a mistake, not many are going to push back, or correct him on it.”

“So, is that what this is? You think he made a mistake?”

“He did.” The piercing look Jacob aimed at him made him sit up a little straighter. “He liked having you around. Why throw that away?”

That punched him up and down all at once, and he didn’t want to get his hopes up. Not again.

“Look. I get it, you’re being a bro. Trying to look out for him and shit, and I respect that. It means a lot, but you want me to talk to him? Like sit down, link arms, and work any of this out?”

Sharky pulled out his phone and didn’t even wait for Jacob to prompt him. Just called John, and hit speakerphone so that they could hear it as it dialed.

“Dude won’t answer. Hasn’t yet, and won’t now.”

Jacob crossed his arms, set to wait with him, and Sharky listened for those telltale words of John’s. The same few words the voicemail hit him with when he’d first tried this weeks back.

“Hello?”

Sharky stared down at his phone, at the seconds of the connected call as they ticked by on the screen, and felt his mouth go dry.

“Charle- …-nyone there?”

Slapping it against his ear, he turned off the speakerphone and talked fast, “Hey, uh, you…you’re not supposed to pick up.”

“I’m not?”

“No, you’re…” He stopped his leg when he felt it start bouncing into overdrive, “It’s, uh, sorry. Sorry about earlier. Wanted to get that out first, ‘cause I didn’t know I was gonna see you and really had to run off. Might’ve also thought this would’ve gone straight to voicemail, so I could, you know. Actually work my way through this. Make it sound good, not...”

“No, it’s…it’s fine,” John cleared his throat, and his next few words were warmer, “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you at all, so even this is welcome.”

“Oh, er, well. Cool.” Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.

“And…you don’t need to apologize for that. I didn’t handle it as well as I should’ve, and putting you on the spot like that was far from fair. It's hard to hear you over the line right now, but if you want to talk more, I’d be glad to. About that, or anything else.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

His heart was hammering in place, and his eyes skimmed the entire bar. Jumping from item to item, needing a topic or an excuse to keep things going, he floundered in place until he stopped on the white snowflakes decorating one of the other guests’ sweaters. It was an ugly sweater to be loud and proud of, and the glittery shovel emblazoned on the front stuck out next to a large lumpy snowman.

That set a few gears into motion, and his mouth was moving before he could stop it. “Shovel.”

“Shovel?”

Shifting on his chair, Sharky swore under his breath. Put it in a sentence. Words, verbs, and some of those phrases like that Wheel of Fortune shit. That’s how you do this.

“You er, need any shoveling done? Like you’re dealing with a ton of snow coming down, or about to? ‘Cause I’ve got some ways of fixing that. Got more than a few, might even give you a method or two provided you want a uh, demo. Or a guarantee any of it’ll work, and I can cover it. Give you a sneak preview or something.”

John went silent, the sounds of the bar rising enough to cover him, and Sharky didn’t bother stopping his leg this time. Just felt it vibrate enough to make his voice uneven.

“Hey, John? You still with me there, amigo?”

“I’m still here,” he said, and Sharky couldn’t hold back his relief.

“So, what do you say? You dig any of that?”

“Yes.” It was faint, but he might’ve heard a laugh, “I think you’re right. I could use someone here after all.”

#far cry 5 #sharky boshaw #john seed #hurk drubman jr #jacob seed #john seed/sharky boshaw #fanfiction #FC5 fanfiction #didn't mean to space these out so much but there's no harm in that #and extra editing time never hurts at all #fic: I won't ask for much #fic series: we could make a home out of this

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iminivaporizer-blog · 5 years ago

Text

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its-cullenminating · 8 years ago

Text

Cigarette Burns

Find the rest of my writing here.

Beta’d by my lovely friend @mindoir! Thanks, hon!

If Nick had to put an adjective to the Wasteland, it would be difficult.

Difficult to relate to, to sleep through, to survive in. He knows from experience, waking up to everything dead and mutated does a number on a person. It had taken him months to adjust, and not just because he’d had a tattered set of rags for skin and a dead man’s memories.

This girl, this kid, this Angela. She seems to be taking everything remarkably well, all things considered. She smiles, laughs, exchanges quips with Piper, and reassures her Mr. Handy that everything’ll be alright, Codsworth. Eventually.

Sometimes, Nick can even swear that grin of hers reaches her eyes.

It’s all too… much, somehow, to be real. Too much teeth in her smile, too much laughter for his puns. Just a bit -- the kid’s a good liar, and she’s been here a while (if her lack of surprise at Wasteland mutants is any indication), but he’s seen what she’s like when her friends turn away. That smile, however toothy, drops like a sack of bricks.

There’s something wrong with that decorated little saviour of his, his gut screams at him, and Nick Valentine, detective of a half-century, has solved too many cases on gut instincts alone to leave Angela be.

It’s sunny when he finds her, alone, sitting on a desecrated seat in the Upper Stands, swirling the last sip of a Nuka Cola around the bottom of the bottle. She doesn’t say anything as he comes to stand beside her, hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat, or as he fishes out a cigarette and lights up. They stand there a while, silent, watching the city below go about it’s day.

Finally, she sighs, shoulders slumping forwards, the coins and beads in her hair clinking together as she bows her head.

“What do you want, Nick?” she asks, her voice quiet and weary. She sounds tired.

“Wanted to check in on ya,” he drawls, taking a heavy drag off his cigarette. When he releases the smoke, it winds its way out through the tears in his throat and chest. “You’ve been actin’ strange, doll. What’s eatin’ you?”

Angela doesn’t look at him, but back out at the city. He watches her, yellow eyes trained on the top of her head as she brushes her dark hair back, the Old World coins tied within glinting in the light.

She’s silent a moment more, shoulders tense, movements stiff when she sets her Nuka Cola aside.

“Just tired, s’all,” she says, and even though he can’t see her face, he knows she’s lying.

“Don’t try to pull the wool over my eyes here, kid.”

She shrugs, and Nick takes one last, long drag off his cigarette. If she’s not gonna talk, and Nick knows she won’t, knows it like he knows the world’s ended, then he’s not going to bother her. Maybe she just needs some time alone, to think.

The thought sits wrong, though, and even as he moves to scuff the filter of his cigarette against the bottom of his shoe, even as he moves to leave, he does it slowly. Giving her time, an option.

“Do you miss it?”

The question is sudden, still tired, but laced with something that smells an awful lot like desperation. Nick pauses, skeletal hand resting on the stairway railing. When he looks at her, his glowing yellow meets her coffee brown.

She looks close to tears.

“Miss what, exactly?” he asks, although he has an inkling as to what she means. He didn’t plan on having this conversation today, but…

Well.

“Boston,” she replies, gesturing around her. “Trees, cars, a world that doesn't reek of death and metal. Take your pick.”

He sighs and puts his hands back in his pockets as he ambles back to her. For all her usual bravado, she’s small in her chair, knees pulled up to her chest and brown eyes watery.

“Sometimes,” he says, retaking his position next to her. “Nick-- the first one, the human one-- his memories act up sometimes. Pre-war, old as dirt.” She flinches at that, and he takes a deep, unnecessary breath before continuing. “It comes and goes. Sometimes I’ll pass by somethin’, a shop or a house, a street sign, and I know it, even if these eyes have never seen it before. It’s…”

He trails off, unsure of what to say. This is normally where he’d talk about being a synth and what it’s like to be living in another man’s head, but something tells him that’s not what she needs to hear right now.

“Like the world’s layered on top of itself,” Angela murmurs, looking back out at Diamond City.

“Yeah, guess you could put it like that. Like those old ads, those before and after shots.”

“Except instead of Abraxo, it’s Perma-rads. The mutation sensation that’s sweeping the nation!” She laughs, shoulders giving a feeble shake.

He chuckles and resists the urge to put his hand on her shoulder; comforting her is what Nick wants to do (what human Nick would’ve done), but not everyone wants a synth touching them. He can understand why, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need to check himself every now and again. Instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out another cigarette -- just seems appropriate, somehow.

“Those things are gonna be the death of you, Valentine,” Angela quips, snatching the unlit cig from one hand and his flip lighter from the other. “Keep that up, people are gonna mistake you for a fireplace instead of a detective.”

He stares for a moment, bewildered, watches as she lights the cigarette and takes a deep, practiced drag.

“Be that as it may be, I didn’t have you pegged for a smoker, doll,” he mutters, returning his hands to the safety of his trenchcoat.

“Everyone needs somethin’ to keep them from takin’ a short jump off a tall building. Just took up the same somethin’ as everybody else in the damn Commonwealth.”

They fall back into silence, more companionable this time as she smokes his cigarette, the scent of tobacco carried on the smoke in the wind. She’s more relaxed now, having sprawled out in her chair, denim jacket halfway off her shoulders to reveal dark, splotchy freckles against an almond backdrop.

“Hey, Valentine,” she says after downing the last of her soda.

He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat in response, not taking his eyes off the hustle and bustle of the people below.

“You never answered my question. Do you miss it, from before? Before the war?” She looks at him again, brown eyes hopeful now, if still sad.

“I, ah, I never lived before the war, Angela. I mean, I remember, sometimes, but that wasn’t me,” he explains hesitantly. It breaks his goddamn heart to crush that fragile hope of hers, but he’s not Nick Valentine. Just a couple scattered experiences, a personality nobody’s seen in two hundred years and enough emotion to be mistaken for human.

Her face falls. Resignation and desperation fill the space where there had been a bit of peace, some semblance of hope that somebody, anybody could relate to her. She shrinks in on herself again, hunching over her knees and stares at her cigarette.

“Right,” she says, voice broken. “I… Sorry.”

“No, kid -- Angela -- don’t be. You don’t have to apologize about asking an honest question.” He doesn’t know what to say or do to comfort the girl in front of him. Shit, what is she, eighteen? Nineteen? And her whole world, poof.

He’s not the right person to be doing this, that’s for damn sure. But he might be the only person who has any kinda clue. He’s the only one around that knows the Old World, in whatever capacity. Piper, Preston, Hancock, they only know the legends as decayed as the buildings. The Wasteland is their whole life, but Nick…

Nick remembers from before. Even if they aren’t his memories, he does have them. He remembers cars that still ran, TV that still broadcasted, going to the drive-in with his gal, pizza. He knows.

“I…” Angela sniffs and takes a shaky breath of her cigarette. She’s gripping the poor tube so tightly the filter crumples between her fingers, like it’s her last lifeline. Like when it runs out, so will she.

He puts his hand on her shoulder, his good one, and rubs in small circles. It’s an awkward motion, unpracticed as of late, but to her, he thinks it’s the effort that counts. She releases a heavy, broken sigh, and the first tears trickle down her cheeks.

“I miss Boston,” she sobs, her body jerking forwards so she’s hunched in her chair, one arm across her stomach like she’s going to throw up. “I miss my school, I miss Veronica, I miss our lunch table and my law class and that dumb fucking jock that made dick jokes about everything. I miss--”

She disso into incoherent sobs, her whole body wracked with the force of them. The cigarette burns down the ruined filter and she crushes it in her hand. Her hair hides her face in a sparkling curtain of Old World relics, bolts and beads and quarters that tinkle like windchimes as she shakes. Nick rubs her back in what he hopes are soothing motions, completely out of his element.

“I miss my family,” she finally chokes out. “I miss my mom. I miss Nate, and Shaun, and Aunt Eva on weekends. I miss Sunday dinner, I miss the spanish in the kitchen, and my bedroom and my cat, Dios mio, Nick, I miss--”

He crouches next to her, well and truly worried, one hand on her back, and she throws her arms around his neck, crying into the collar of his coat.

Nick goes still in her arms, servos seizing at the contact, but she doesn’t notice. With her, it’s always the effort that counts, and now he’s making an active effort to be responsive, to comfort his friend. Slowly, he wraps his arms around her, good hand on the back of her head while the bad one rubs her back.

“I miss my life, Nick,” she whispers, her body-wracking sobs devolving into something softer, something he can heal.

“I know, doll. I know. I did, too,” he murmurs into her hair. She smells like tobacco and hubflowers and leather in his arms, and gradually, sob by sob, she calms.

“I’m sorry,” she says, after she’s quieted down. She pulls back, face mottled russet, and becomes very interested in her clenched fist, the one that’s still holding the dead cigarette filter. “I know you don’t -- well, I know that your memories aren’t something you’re fond of, and I didn’t mean to--”

“Don’t you worry about a damn thing, Angela,” he says, cutting off her train of thought before it festers. “You, of all people, have a right to miss the Old World.”

His bad hand rubs her back while his good one gently pries her fingers open. The cigarette filter falls, destroyed, to the floor, but there’s an ugly burn in the meat of her palm. She’d crushed the thing while the cherry was still burning.

“We should get this fixed.” His hand hovers over hers, but he doesn’t move to grab it. He doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable, and people don’t like being touched by synths, after all. He’s pushing his limits already.

“Don’t. I need it.” Her voice is hard, if still shaky from tears, and there’s steel in her eyes when he meets them.

He doesn’t know what she means by that, but the way she’s looking at her hand, at the burn, tells him it’s nothing good.

“You sure, kid? Looks pretty nasty to me. I can go get a stimpack, some burn cream, or…” he trails off, eyes drawn to her palm again when she doesn’t respond.

“Burn cream, no stims. It’ll scar, and that’s okay. I need it right now. I -- hey, no, Valentine, don’t look at me like that!” Her hand forms a loose fist, hiding the burn, and she looks at him again, eyes red and puffy and filled with alarm when he tenses beside her, panicked. “It’s not like that! I just… need something to… make myself different, I guess.” Her voice quiets to a whisper by the time she finishes speaking, barely audible.

“Different how?�� he asks, concern masking panic in his voice. He stops rubbing her back, but his skeletal hand rests on her shoulder.

She shrugs and opens her fist once more, wincing as she trails the thumb of her opposite hand across the burn. “Dunno. Just different. Than I used to be, I mean. Like everything else; still there, but all fucked up.”

“You don’t need a burn to keep standing, doll. That’s what we’re here for, you -- your friends.”

She laughs then, a bitter and breathy sound. “Ya’ know, Nick, when I first climbed out of that Vault, I thought I was going to die. My house was all but gone, my robot had gone insane, my parents dead and my brother missing. Then, suddenly, there’s a Deathclaw, and a group of people that want my teenage self to protect them, and I’d never even held a gun, much less tried to shoot a guy in the head from a rooftop.”

“That must’ve been a sight,” Nick chuckles, shaking his head. “Who did you kill first, the building or the pavement?”

It’s a well-known fact that Angela can’t shoot to save her life -- or somebody else’s. Instead, she uses a volatile mix of grenades, knives, and a recently discovered serrated machete, relying on her companions to shoot from a distance. Makes things… interesting, to say the least.

“Cabrón,” she mutters, and elbows him in the chest. “I actually managed to nail a couple, but hey, coulda’ just been the adrenaline. Either way, I got a tire iron off of one of ‘em after the Deathclaw bit the dust. And the guys I was helping did, uh… well, they did their best. They all made it out, at least. Livin’ it up at my old place, Sanctuary Hills, now, courtesy of yours truly. I stayed with them, the Minutemen, for about a year. Preston tried to teach me how to use a gun, but, well, you see how that turned out.”

He’d heard bits and pieces of this story before. He’d even met Preston Garvey, temporary General of the Minutemen, and saw for himself the holes in the poor man’s frock coat, lovingly patched by Angela after an accident neither of them want to divulge. She’s never told him so much at once, though, and when she falls silent he almost thinks she’s done talking.

“I just -- I can’t get used to all this,” she says, waving at the square below. “We came here for Nate’s birthday a couple months before the war, Rex Sox and Orioles, and now it’s--”

“Yeah, kid, I know.” There’s no humor to his tone now, as he follows her eyes to Diamond City. The faded flags fly in the breeze while the crowd continues moving beneath them, a veritable sea of people in the old baseball field. It’s so small for all its life, though, and compared to how many people there used to be, it’s nothing. A village of nobodies makes up the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth.

“I thought it would still be, I don’t know, normal here. It’s dumb, it’s stupid, I know, but I…” she sighs, slapping the heel of her good hand against her forehead and holding it there for a moment. “The whole world is really gone, isn’t it?”

“Not gone, just different,” he responds. He squeezes her shoulder lightly before letting his hand drop and straightening up. “Just like you.”

She raises her burned hand above her head, face contemplative. It’s angry and red, swollen. He doesn’t know how she isn’t screaming from it, but her arm is shaking underneath her jacket.

“Come on, kid, let’s get that patched up. Can never be too careful with that kinda thing in the Commonwealth,” he says, sliding his hands to their well-worn coat pockets and resisting the urge to grab a smoke. “Piper’ll kill me if it gets infected on my watch.”

A minute or two later, as they walk down the stairs to the city proper, Nick watches her out of the corner of his eyes. Her black messenger tote is slung over one shoulder, hair jingling with her heavy steps, coins shining, as they step in tandem. He can’t see her face because of the angle and her long, thick hair, but she says nothing and neither does he.

Halfway down, she stops. Nick turns halfway to face her, curious. At this angle, they’re almost at eye level. Almost.

“Nick?” she says, face tired and voice unreadable.

“Yeah?”

She grins then, exhausted and pained, but real. He can see it all over her face, in her still-red eyes, in the relaxation of her shoulders and tilt of her hips. A weight lifts from his chest as he cocks a questioning eyebrow, pistons firing a little easier at the sight.

“Thanks. For… for everything. And, uh, sorry about your coat.”

“No problem, doll. You need to talk, I’m here. God knows I could’ve used it when I woke up in that junkyard.”

Her grin spreads as she bounces the three steps down to meet him. Their arms brush when they start walking again, and Nick can’t help but wonder at this kid that’s managed to survive in this Wasteland. By all accounts, with her inexperience and her sentimentality, she should’ve died a long while back.

He’s glad she didn’t.

#nick valentine #fallout #fallout 4 #fallout fanfiction #nick valentine x soul #soul survivor #the life of a fanfic author #valentine #that's a personal tag #had a lot of fun writing this

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vaporhauschicago-blog · 8 years ago

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How to Find Best Fruits E-Juice Shop in Des Plaines, IL

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Finding the best fruits E Cig Shop Des Plaines IL may seem easy, but finding the right best shop is actually a process that takes time and careful research. Here are some tips to take the right steps towards finding the fruits e-juice shop for you, but not limited to;

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As per the research Best E Cig Accessories Online in Des Plaines IL is Vapor Haus was founded in 2013 on the principle that all e-liquids are not created equal. From the beginning Vapor Haus sought out the highest quality FDA registered laboratory to manufacture its e-liquid line locally in the Chicagoland area. Vapor Haus also carries dozens of other juice vendors products for your convenience and they pride themselves with five star customer service. Vapor Haus's retail location in Des Plaines Illinois is a full service vape lounge where you can hag out and learn all about the vaping industry from likeminded consumers.

#e-liquid manufacturers #Strawberry E Juice #Fruit E-Liquids

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fgnex · 2 years ago

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Preparation of copper indium gallium selenide thin film materials 3

The absorption layer of CIGS thin film is the core part of the CIGS thin film solar cell, the quality of the thin film is very important to the performance of the cell, but the quality of the CIGS thin film is closely related to the preparation process. The preparation methods of CIGS thin film materials are mainly divided into two categories: vacuum deposition and non-vacuum deposition. The thin film preparation methods introduced for you today are: single target magnetron sputtering and ion beam sputtering.

Single target magnetron sputtering

The single-target magnetron sputtering method is to directly sputter the CIGS alloy target and directly prepare the CIGS thin film.

Although the single-target magnetron sputtering method is simple in process and easy to operate, its biggest advantage is that it can save the post-selenization process, and prepare a CIGS film in one molding, which reduces environmental pollution, but it also has its own inherent shortcomings: the base The high-power RF power supply is not only expensive but also a problem for personal protection, which is not suitable for industrial production applications.

Ion beam sputtering

Ion beam sputtering is a sputtering technology developed after magnetron sputtering technology. The film sputtered by high-energy particle flow has high ion energy, which is conducive to the formation of film structure; the ion source is highly controllable, so the film prepared by ion beam sputtering has good adhesion, low scattering, good stability, and repeatability.

The ion beam sputtering method is different from other sputtering methods in that the generation of ions and the sputtering of the target are separated. The device that generates the ion beam is called the ion gun or ion source. The high-energy ion beam emitted by it is introduced into the vacuum chamber, and then bombards the surface of the target material, sputtering its atoms, and finally depositing it on the substrate, so the deposition process can make The substrate far away from the ion generation process, and the lower working pressure makes the sputtered particles less scattered during the transport process, which is beneficial to the preparation of high-quality thin films.

The researchers proposed and realized the direct preparation of high-quality CIS thin films by high-temperature in-situ annealing ternary ion beam sputtering stacking method, which does not require the traditional metal pre-layer post-selenization process, and achieves no damage to the vacuum conditions in the same vacuum chamber. In this paper, the preparation of CIS thin films was completed under the following conditions, and the growth mechanism of CIS thin films was discussed in depth, focusing on the influence of the heat treatment process on the film properties. This preparation method simplifies the traditional preparation process, directly improves the film quality and performance by optimizing the film-forming environment, and improves the utilization of raw materials. Rate.

The figure below is the working principle diagram of the high vacuum ion beam sputtering system, in which 1 is the introduction of high-purity Ar gas; 2 is the Cu target position; 3 is the four-way turning target position; 4 is the Se target; 5 is the In target; 6 7 is a high-energy sputtering ion beam; 8 is a glow discharge area; 9 is a substrate holder; 10 is a substrate heating seat.

The advantages of ion beam sputtering of CIGS thin films are as follows:

(1) It is grown by ion beam sputtering deposition technology, which is mature in technology and simple in operation. By precisely adjusting the parameters of ion beam sputtering, the difficulty of depositing low melting point Ga and non-metallic Se elements by DC or RF magnetron sputtering is solved;

(2) In the film formation process, the traditional post-selenization process is omitted and the introduction of highly toxic gas Se or H2Se is avoided, and the preparation of CIGS thin films can be realized in the same vacuum chamber, which simplifies the preparation process of CIGS, optimizes the film forming environment, and improves the film quality. And yield and improve the utilization rate of raw materials, in line with the needs of industrial production;

(3) By adjusting the order, time, and lamination cycle of the sputtering target, it is easy to accurately control the composition ratio of each element of the film, and the required film thickness can be obtained as required;

(4) Multi-station rotation of the target position can not only realize the doping of Ga, Al, S, and other elements but also adjust the sputtering angle of the high-energy ion beam to achieve the purpose of optimizing the performance of the film;

(5) Adjust the sputtering parameters of the auxiliary ion source to realize the surface modification of the CIGS film;

(6) The prepared CIGS films all have a typical chalcopyrite structure, the atomic ratio of Cu/In/Ga/Se is close to the ideal stoichiometric ratio of 1:07:03:2 for CIGS, and the light absorption coefficient is as high as 105cm-1; Performance requirements for efficient photovoltaic devices. Compared with the evaporation method, the ion beam sputtering technology has the same disadvantage of the low rate as other sputtering methods.

Wuxi Fugenes Technology Co., Ltd. is a company invested by MY SOLAR, a photovoltaic module factory established in Wuxi, Jiangsu in 2005. The company established FGNEX in 2019 to expand its product line of inverters, racks, energy storage systems, and EV chargers. FGNEX 1650x1300mm CIGS BIPV Photovoltaic Module is one of our products, more details are as follow:

Anti-reflection coating

increase the incidence rate

BZO

Low resistance, high transmittance, ohmic connection

i-ZnO

high resistance and CdS form n

CdS

Reduce the discontinuity of the band gap, buffer the problem of lattice mismatch

CIGS

Absorption zone, weak p-type, its empty charge zone is the main working zone

The lattice mismatch of CIS is small and the thermal expansion coefficient is relatively close to that of CIS

If you are interested in our products, please contact us.