driftfleet | first one to make that doctor who joke loses

[His lips twist into an unappreciative frown as NotTuck talks. But he lets him finish.

There's something to take into account in his words. There's more than likely several levels, inclined paths or even elevators or ladders. But if this place is in such bad shape there's always the chance that the ladders will be broken or the elevator won't work. But those are hopeless thoughts so he just nods in agreement. They've just got to keep finding ways to move up.

And even though he knows there's nothing in this room, he still can't help the curious glance upwards. Nothing but solid rocks.]

Not sure that's a good idea. [And he shoots NotTuck a pointed glance. He's too close to the other man not to feel the limp in his walk and it's got nothing to do with the added weight of FDR clinging to him. But that probably doesn't help. NotTuck is more injured than he's letting on too. And if he loses him somewhere in the caves there's a chance he'll never find him again.]

Why don't you sit down while I call. We'll move again in twenty. Then we can move together, it'll save us hours if you don't have to come back for me.

[GDIT don't leave him NotTuck. He likes you, but not enough to sit still in a cave for several hours in the hope you'll come back for him.]

I'd move faster--

[Rude, but honest. He cuts himself off though, squinting.

And yeah, Max looks absolutely ready to dispute otherwise at the comment of it being a not-so-good idea -- because he has quite a few reasons why he thinks that it's about as good as they're going to do, with the consideration of ~~their~~ FDR's injuries. but then he scans the man's face in the dimness illuminated around them and he can tell the guy is going to be a stubborn ass about it. And apparently, he's as good at that as Max is.

And Max doesn't feel very good anyway. With an indignant huff, he slides to sit against the wall. His leg is already at the ready to bitch at him, at the remotest idea of moving again.]

.... Hrmgh.

Twenty minutes.

[Says the guy who is kinda' paler than usual, actually.

He's a wastelander though, it's tooootally fine. He can handle toxic sickness.]

[Yeah he knows he'd move faster, but he doubts he'd move so fast that it saves them any time in the end, or effort. But NotTuck cuts himself off and FDR is thankful for it. He doesn't want to waste the energy on being stubborn, but he would have.

Instead he sinks down on the opposite side of the tunnel from NotTuck, eyes him for a moment. Maybe its the hue of the lights, but he's really not looking all that good. And yeah he's bloody, and sweaty, and he's got some sort of leg injury going on, but it looks a little more than that.

He'll worry about that later. For now he pulls out his comm and tries to call up Peggy, leaves her as brief a message as possible about what happened, tries to explain where they fell, and hangs up, hoping she gets the message, but through all this rock, he's got no idea what the reception on these devices are.]

[Max humors him. And, unconsciously, his own mind. He bows his head and closes his eyes and tries to get a little rest in -- and hey, at least he trusts FDR to not murder him in his sleep, should he actually go to sleep. That's good, right? He fades in and out, mostly thanks to the sudden roiling of his stomach. It's been -- almost four hours now? Maybe a bit more? Time is hard to keep track of.

When he blinks back into reality, though, he's reading a long enough passage of time on his network device. He stands up as quickly as his sore and aching body lets him, the vertigo making him stagger a bit.]

Need to move.

[He winces, though, hand moving over his stomach. And yeah, okay, that's not good. Feels like food poisoning almost, but he knows it's coming from the air illness -- he's had it once before, when he was stubborn and refused the mask. Down here, it's a little worse. This place is probably toxin city. He turns away and gives FDR the benefit of not getting vomited on (you're welcome) as he throws up the limited contents of his stomach, which is a concerning mixture of dark-red, smelling a coppery tang of blood beyond the bile.

He coughs, wiping his mouth, and rasps:]

... Great.

[He doesn't sleep, and it's got little to do with his trust for NotTuck and a lot to do with his distrust of where they are. But then not sleeping for days at a time, that's something he's used to. It's been a necessity on missions. Hell, sometimes he even has stims on him to keep him going. He wishes he had some now. Because this is boring as hell, staring at rock formations and considering their chances of ever finding their god damn way out of here.

His attention turns to NotTuck when he jerks himself awake, and is practically jumping up to his feet and he's not quite so eager to move. Mostly because he can see the guy's discomfort even in the dark. And before he can even ask about it, the dude is vomiting.

Ew.

His nose scrunches up in an attempt not to get a whiff of that mess.]

What the hell is-...[Fuck you, NotTuck.] You need your mask after all, don't you?

[... Well, hey, he feels a little better.

Rest in peace, lizard meal, though.

He shoots a look in FDR's direction, unimpressed with the exclamation. Or the fact that he's poking at something that is kind of a fact. Sure, he needs the mask. Or he'll get sick. But even still, Max is a stubborn-ass mule about it. A pale, sweat, stubborn ass.]

... I don't need it.

It's not gonna kill me.

...Seriously? You're gonna play that game still? [He's a little concerned now, because well, he kind of needs NotTuck's support and if the man is keeling over on him or passing out or throwing up on his god damn shoes, that's a problem. For both of them.

Shit.]

You need to take care of your damn self...Here. Here. [And he pulls off his mask and holds it out, before pulling it back in.] After you take a drink of something.

[He hesitates. Looks at FDR for a moment, pale with a sheen of sweat in the dark.]

You'll get sick.

... Bad idea to get sick with a broken leg.

Eventually. [It's not like a point he can even argue.] But I need you. Well. So. Damned if we do, damned if we do at this point, man.

[Well... fine. Far be it for him to argue for your health.

He looks with a half-lidded dry stare.]

If you pass out, m'leaving you here.

[But he moves to retrieve his water container, taking a swig (he's not sure why you're so fussy about the smell of vomit; it's not that big of a deal, wow, FDR, prissy much). He takes the mask without further ado. Still looking like a sourpuss about it all the while. He doesn't particularly feel a big difference in the air filtering -- but then, they're in a goddamn mineshaft. So.]

We need to keep moving.

[Oh he is soooo much prissier than he's letting on. Take the small blessings you get here, Max.

He'll ask for it back if he starts feeling sick, but right now he needs NotTuck a little better off. For Selfish reasons, and also because...god if he can't help but like the guy, even if it's just for his face.]

Got it. [And he doesn't want to admit how much his body aches when he pushes himself up with the help of the sharp wall, so he doesn't, bites back the groans and complaints.]

Okay. Okay, I'm good. [And he holds his arm out for NotTuck to grab.]

[Max doesn't utter any complaints as he reaches out to pull FDR's arm back over his shoulder. He just adjusts as needed, knee complaining at the weight, and pushes forward toward the next tunnel. It won't take too long for FDR to get sick, he knows -- so he keeps an eye out for that, as the time passes.

He's focused primarily and keeping them going and stopping only when FDR gets too tired or pained to carry on. Max has learned in times like these to block out the voices, the tricks of the eye that sometimes haunt his steps. Instead he puts on his determined, grim look as they go and falls into a singular purpose: get out.]

[You know what else is good for keeping those voices away, bro? Talking. Talking probably helps alot. Or hopefully it does. Because it's how FDR keeps himself distracted through the pain, through the nausea that's rolling through his gut. It's random things. Shit to complain about their ship. About being taken. About reality shows back home and how much he hates them. That he prefers movies. TV shows. His favorite one is one called CHiPs, its about dudebros that are cops and partners stopping crime. Of course it's his kind of show.]

So I got a question for you. Why do you do it? I mean, if your home is shit and there's no saving it, why do you try to survive?

[He glances uncertainly at FDR, considering his options. For a moment, he seems ready to ignore the man's rambling altogether; it wouldn't be the first time, and honestly, it's a question that he has a hard time with himself. Because sometimes... he doesn't want to survive. Sometimes he wonders when something will finally do him in, make everything easy and gone. The voices'll leave him alone then. Unless he goes to hell, which he hasn't ruled out. He's not a religious man -- hell, those are a dying breed at home -- but he figures if god had seen some of the shit he pulled, he wouldn't be very happy.

He shoves the mask back in FDR's face with a grunt.

And figures... why not? At least if they die, he'll have died knowing a little more.

FDR and his good ol' stupid curiosity.]

You don't get to take the easy route when you have blood on your hands.

[That's one reason, at least. One simple but honest one. And...]

And I was... looking for something.

[He'd argue, but really, he's not a fan of vomiting, so he takes the mask and slips it on even as he listens to Max. And...well, he kind of gets it. Maybe he wasn't directly the cause of his parents' death, but...to a nine year old boy with shitty coping mechanisms, he blamed himself for it anyway and that guilt had never exactly left him.]

...Yeah? Who's blood? And what were you looking for? [C'mon, you didn't think he was gonna drop it with that little detail, right?]

[His expression closes off, darkens.

He doesn't answer the first question.]

... Still trying to figure that out.

[Home, his mind supplies to him truthfully.]

[Ah. One of those. Alright, he gets it. And he lets it drop.]

Well, everyone needs goals. [Even if they're as vague as that.] ...Hope you find it.

[Max grows quiet for a moment, and the sincerity behind it takes him aback as it does every single time it's aimed at him. He glances, wary but expression relaxing minutely. And then he looks back ahead and clears an ailing throat.]

Hope you find it, too... Mn. Whatever yours is.

[A pause.]

F'we don't die down here, anyway.

[Aww. Are they having a moment? They're totally having a moment. And FDR can't help the grin for it.]

Yeah. [And he snorts softly. He's not exactly what sure what's missing in his life. Something, probably. It feels like something.]

We're not gonna die. [He has a good record of doing stupid stuff and surviving it.]

[Don't even with that moment shit, lord have mercy.

He rolls his eyes, hefting the weight of FDR a bit more despite the pain in his knee flaring now.]

Just don't lead us into another pitfall down, we'll be fine.

Yeah, that was just as much your fault as mine you know. [You and your short fat ass, max!

But he's...relatively quiet, minus the necessary chitchat, until it becomes obvious from the tired stumbling and the speed of which they're needing to exchange masks before they get sick, that it's time to stop again for a little while.

He taps Nottuck on the shoulder before he's pushing away from him and sliding down against the wall and patting the ground next to him.]

Looks like we're camping out tonight.

[Huff. He lets FDR down, the immediate relief to his leg a welcomed feeling.

He collapses against the wall to slide down it, too, unable to mask the pained but relaxing expression as he goes. He folds his arms and tucks his chin a little and... apparently he's ready to sleep as is. Who needs anything else but a wall? Not Max, not with how terrible his sleeping is in general.]

... Tell me when you're good.

[He grunts at that, but won't argue the fact that NotTuck is putting all of this on him, when it's obvious he needs the break just as much as FDR does. There's nothing to win with that fight. And he doesn't have the energy for it anyway, instead he simply drops his head against NotTuck's shoulder. He may be hardcore enough to sleep with a rock for a pillow, but FDR appreciates something a little softer. So he's just...gonna use NotTuck until the man shoves him away.]

[Literally a day before now, he would have shoved FDR off. Would have gave him the biggest bitchface and limped away until he could practically barely see the guy. Would have ignored the annoying comebacks that he'd inevitably have after being brushed off or whatever.

But... He doesn't, in this occasion. Just this once.

Instead he sits with his back straight as a board, arms folded, and simply sighs, letting the asshole use him as an impromptu pillow.]

Edited 2016-04-27 03:48 (UTC)

[Yeah, well a day ago he never would have closed his eyes and tried to sleep on NotTuck's shoulder. He as trust issues falling asleep with people. Tuck is the only one he's ever honestly felt safe enough to sleep around. And there could still be stuff down here that might be hostile. NotTuck could slip out from under him and run off and leave him. He could steal his mask and leave him to puke himself to death. But he won't.

So he snoozes, not as heavy as he would back in his room on his ship with his locks and guns, but far deeper than he would around someone he doesn't explicitly trust.

Or maybe he's just too fucking tired and sick to care. That could be a part of it too. Hope you don't mind quiet snoring in your ear, bro.]

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theroadwarrior - 2016-04-30 06:09 (UTC) - Expand