c17h19no3 | [ MAD MAX AU : EYEPATCH DISASTER ]

[ MAD MAX AU : EYEPATCH DISASTER ]

The others tell him that he's shortening his already-dwindling stock of life, blowing fumes into his pipe instead of out. But the way Pip sees it, he's no different from the machines, those beautiful disasters made of mangled parts that growl with gasoline, drinks noxious fuel that churns in the heat of chrome and breathes wisps of toxins into the sky. Cigarettes are similar to that. Familiar. Cigarettes kill slowly, and Pip is fine with it, the way the War Boys are fine with drawing patterns on their corroding skin and naming their diseases with innocuous names. Hello, Tim. Hello, Greg.

Pip names his 4 disease sticks after names of people he doesn't know, and treads through sand and dust to find the only other person in this wasteland that's as stupid as he is. His journey takes him past a few old faces that look up from their aimless tasks, sifting through nothing for something, and they greet him with his given nickname— Goose— which Pip responds to with a crooked grin and an exaggerated sigh.

(it's the only thing he knows about the concept of family, that his father and his grandfather and great-grandfather were always part of the shitstorm that brought them closer and closer to hell: a long line of idiots called the Wild Geese, happily trading in their blood for gold. the grapevine's informed Pip of how his grandfather and the generation before that one died with a smile on their faces during the Big One that eventually laid waste to humanity, but if Pip ever resented the nickname that stuck with him like a bad reminder of his family's foibles, he doesn't think about it anymore.

he doesn't even know what a goose looks like. he can hardly be offended.)

Squinting his one eye against the sun, he maneuvers through dunes and dilapidation until he finds his target: a jarringly bright shock of red in a world already saturated in oranges and yellows. Badou is blindingly obvious even when he tries to be discreet.

Pip likes that about the kid.

"Hey, Badou. Got my hands on a few friends today, how 'bout it?"

He holds up one hand, tired cigarettes held between fingers in makeshift bearclaws.

"What've you got to barter for 'em, huh?"

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As Badou lays out on his back beneath the scalped out door of some leftover car out here in the salt, and stares into the eye of a grown ass man with hair down to his ass and cigarette bearclaws, he can't help but think this probably isn't what his mother would have wanted for him.

Then again he never met her so fuck you, mom, I do what I want, even philandering with some weirdo one eyed fuck in the desert. Whatever that means.

The ginger appears to think it over for a moment, though his expression remains mostly closed off, and entirely unimpressed. So much so that he scratches at a wayward spider that crawls across his arm, crunches it between his fingers and peers at the slick stain it leaves.

"I got somethin' good alright. It's gonna knock your socks off."

God damn he needs a cigarette so bad the second he opened his mouth he almost spilled the beans on the latest info at the Citadel. That was damn close.

Not bothering to shift, for who knows if a cloud of salt will try to crawl into any crevasses, blood crusted fingers reach for something within a pocket.

A tell-tale growl of someone's belly echoes across the land. Badou's lips quirk.

"I've been savin' some good jerky for awhile. I figure it's more'n worth those sticks."

"That depends," Pip whistles between his teeth, syllables still stained with an obsolete language that some mistake for some sort of physical defect. "On where they've been. Not too close to that filthy ass of yours, I hope."

He's known Badou long enough to know which jokes will rankle and which jokes will roll off those skinny shoulders and bury themselves in the sand, but he still keeps trying, persistent for the sake of persistence. He scopes out something that resembles a carcass of a car upholstery, settles down on it (looking out for lizards, a snack substitute), and laughs.

"And you're shit out of luck if you think I'm letting you commandeer all of my little friends, here. Choose two, and choose wisely, mignonette."

The cigs waggle between his knuckles. Thank god he didn't draw any smiley faces on them today.

Edited 2015-06-22 05:15 (UTC)

"You're the one who's ass smells like it had guzzoline funneled into it daily," he says matter of factly and without missing a beat. It seems like a rolling kind, today, as the ginger shit's shoulders don't even pick up from the warm sand. All he does is turn his head to look Pip in the eye, and then, only then at the sound of that damn nickname, does his freckled face pinch in a scowl.

"Don't call me that," he echoes a phrase somehow steadily reliable even after all this time, and harrumphs as he produces the jerky (of undetermined origin) for the other's inspection.

"But fine, since you're gonna be stingy when this is grade A material, I'll settle for two. This is good stuff, 'm telling you. Fresh as a show and all." As he says this his gaze doesn't, for one moment, move away from the wiggling cigs. He can almost taste 'em....how long's it been since his last one? Fuck, it's starting to get to him, pulse raised.

"You used this ass as a pillow only recently. I had to wrestle you out of my crack, you damn nuisance."

The banter doesn't let up, even as Pip leans in and takes a nice, long look at the goods. It's jerky, alright: the kind reserved for people who need to expend their energy on actual tasks instead of shitting their lives away between salt and sand.

A palm goes out in a silent indication of agreement. He'll take it.

"So? What else is good, besides your mood? Come on, mignonette."

Cigs get tossed Badou's way, a beautiful white arc against a backdrop of blue that finally settles on the ginger's chest.

Edited 2015-06-22 07:40 (UTC)

For one pure, sweet moment in this entire shitty existence, Badou's entire life hangs in the balance of the arc of those cigs through blue, the blissful moment they nearly slip between his fingers. He cradles them like lovers on cold nights.

Then he's turning to give Pip a what-for.

"Stop dreaming such creepy shit you nasty old fuck. No one used your ass as a pillow except maybe a three headed lizard."

Brows as severely pinched as the scowl on his face, he shakes off that image with the wringing of his hands, and the wringing of every fold of his clothes for a lighter.

"You're lucky my mood ain't shit or else you'd get it for that bad one," he mutters. And, ah, ah dry fingertips graze the edge of blessed silver, and he's lighting the cancer stick in one go.

The moment he breathes in that savior, that tar deep in his lungs, Badou heaves a sigh into the void, head dropped back.

He watches the trail of gray cutting across the sky with mild satisfaction, the fondness of a guardian substitute watching his charge take on bad habits. A gloved hand rummages through his own pockets, gives up on a search for his own lighter.

"So you're admitting it. What's gotten you in such a good mood?"

One of his two remaining disease sticks between his lips, Pip leans in with a languid 'don't move', borrowing embers from Badou with a practiced ease. He knows it's aggravating, but it's easier than the alternative.

Smoke fills his throat, floods all the way into his bones.

"Don't tell me you've been sneaking around the Citadel proper again. They know you and your candlelight head by now, firestarter."

Shoulders slump in defeat, sigh encasing the end of the cigarette as he loans out a flame. Again. He should start charging at this rate if he's not even going to get a lighter.

(or maybe steal him a good one, something to make that lone green eye pop and crinkle around the edges--)

(sappy...)

"They're more interested in tasting goose than fire. As much as those fuckers are cavemen...." Badou's all grins, a giddiness in his chest that rises whenever he collects information, piece by coveted and scrapped and bloody piece. "It's much easier to get in there these days....what, with the clusterfuck going down."

No, he can't even pretend to attempt coyness. He probably doesn't know what it is. Ah, yes, this cigarette and victory, it tastes all too sweet. No ash or sand in his mouth for once, for this sweet moment.

Ah, there it is. Always the promise of something monumentally stupid, with this one— Pip'd be a fool to encourage him, but he'd also be an idiot to ignore him.

(Couldn't, really, not with that look on the kid's face, neck craned and teeth bared as if he can photosynthesize with that grin.)

(it's worth being a shitty adult for.)

"Of course they want a taste of me over you, you've barely got any meat on your bones. But what the hell's this about a clusterfuck?"

He scoots his weight closer, loops an index finger under one of the straps of Badou's eyepatch.

"If it's something I can score from, you'll be telling me all about it, huh?"

Giddiness remains even as he bats Pip's hand away with a huff and grumble, pulls away from him to look him in the eye properly. Here's to hoping he passes some semblance of intimidating and hard boiled.

"This is the one time I'll accept that as a compliment...fat ass." Why yes, he does chuckle at his own little joke there (even as he shudders and tries not to think of any man eaters out there).

That fat mouth of his goes slant. What is the harm of telling his somewhat guardian...? Him fucking up the info, for one. Lording it over his head, that's two.

"Depends on what you need. Why? We outta something?" And now he's a little worr- concerned.

(one more mouth to feed always made a difference, even now)

"It seems a big ol' war party went out a few days ago. Haven't come back yet. So the place is at a stand still."

"Ah, so that's what all that commotion was about. I knew the smell of unwashed War Boy was fading into the horizon for a reason."

Not that either of them are particularly well-washed. Pip also completely sidesteps the question of whether or not they're running low on anything, because he's of the opinion that he's perfectly capable of rationing. He'd crack a joke about being able to run on his own blubber if he didn't know that it'd set off another lecture session from Mr. Hothead over here.

(he doesn't like the kid worrying, there's enough to worry about without being a shithead about food.)

"So some of the water and supplies are ours for the taking if we managed to slip inside. Not bad."

That'd tide them over comfortably for a good week or two. Lips clamp over his cigarette, teeth biting a small indent on the end as he goes over the pros and cons.

"Hey now, you know they've got very strict ways of going about it...like never once washing their ass cracks," Badou snarks, holds his hands up in surrender as if the issue of the War Boys' hygiene is some delicate matter.

The reach around and brush off of the subject of the status of their supplies causes Badou to frown, a stern warning loaded on his tongue, but he knows that look. And he also knows Pip is a stubborn bastard.

"I'm gonna count off what we've got when I get up from here," is what he mutters first, stink eye loaded on his companion. Then, "If we got them to lower that lift. It'd have to be a hell of a reason for them to do that. Their own supplies, or news from Joe."

It'd be tricky, either way. And there's no guarantee, even with the weakened War Pups and scavengers left behind.

Hands go up in the air, fingers laced in the familiar salute of pale-painted War Boys.

"We'd need more intel if we want to get our asses up that lift, mignonette. Maybe a trip to gas town is in order."

A journey made easier, no doubt, thanks to the lack of security around the roads proper. More fuel is always welcome for their clunky stolen ride, anyway— a rickety heap of metal that Pip likes to call 'Lucky Strike', despite many, many debates upon what best to call their (tentatively) shared vehicle.

Badou's glare is boring a hole into his head, but Pip returns it with a lanky, lopsided half-grin. He's been lectured by the kid far too many times for the threats to land properly anymore.

"How about you stay behind and keep the one eye you stole from me on the comings and goings around here, ah?"

Read: 'I'm taking the baby for a spin so go suck it, kiddo'.

Badou has said it time and time again, for years, how that name is bad luck. One of these days the piece of shit is going to strike like a match and light them up.

(once upon a time there used to be lights seen in some parts, when the tits of the world were covered in ice, lights that shone pure and true. They danced, and maybe Mother Earth was happy. Lighting up scraps of metal and lightning sand storms aren't worth it.)

That grin knows just how to make Badou want to punch Pip in the damn jaw. Fingers curl into a fist reflexively. Sympathetically. Breathe and count to ten, thats what Davis always said.

"ARE YOU SHITTING ME, YOU MONUMENTAL IDIOT?!"

Of course none of that advice helps, that's why shrinks were the first to go in the New World order. So out with the flailing and the spitting, Badou even kicks a mote of sand , lets it arc over their heads until it falls back and stings his eye.

"How bout I spit in that eye of yours and leave you here if you think you're gonna pull something ballsy like that?! You're not going off on your own for some scheme you don't even have planned yet."

Read as: FUCK NO, IDIOT FUCK DICKNOSE.

"Look at you, learning how to compliment me so well. Don't forget who's been trudging through this hell like an idiot for far longer than you have."

Barely a flinch at this scene that Badou's making: there's even a half-patronizing hand that goes up to his ear, like warding off a large mosquito. The other one moves to pinch the tip of Badou's sunburnt nose, twists it just enough to be uncomfortable.

(you know what they say about kids: the cuter they are, the more you tease)

(some things still remain consistent, even after the world's been razed and the sky rains dust)

"Besides, you don't even know where I hid my lover this time around. She's too wild for you, you can't satisfy her with your kid dick."

Meaning, their car.

Badou's so flabbergasted, choked with rage, it takes him a couple of seconds for brain and tongue to connect through that spark of nodes and signals to the point where all he can speak are incomprehensible sounds of rage, vowels and consonants drawn out and screeched to accentuate the sand he brings up with whirlwind movements of long arms.

Fingers clamp around Pip's wrist, pulls it and twists the way he was taught, until he gives (if he does, he never has before when it's been For Keeps) and growls,

"When the fuck did you get laid? You keep that shit to five finger discounts because my waifu ain't taking none of your tiny tootsie roll grandpa dick, man. She'll purr right for me and show me the way."

He's going to fucking puke, why is Pip so damn gross....

What a grip. Tendon grinds against bone in the vehemence of that hold, leaving a ring of little red indents along Pip's wrist: a mark of Badou's insistence. He's always been a kid that knows when to sink his teeth in.

(one that also knows what it's like to burn out and fizzle, but Pip doesn't mention the 'D'-word because some woulds still crawl fresh— he'd rather be a father before a brother, a second eye than a replacement.)

Lazy features slump into a half-pout, single eye narrowed and gauging the exact moment he should Say Uncle to save his skin and arm. He releases Badou's nose, flicks it as a farewell present before attempting a patented Hair Muss.

"I get laid at least 10 times more than you do, you little shithead! Besides, you learned all your moves from me, my lady wants the real thing and not an imitation."

All these slanderous lies. It's a good thing no one else is around to hear.

A snuffle and a wheeze follows the lethal surrender, back of his hand cradling his nose gently before curling into a fist to shove at Pip's chest. Clearly Badou is still Not Happy, judging not only by the new spots of red on his cheeks in perfect circles, but the spittle when he shouts,

"She's not interested in your whiskey dick! She knows a stallion when she sees it, and can't get enough of me. Last time you 'got laid'," yes, he does air quotes, disgust written as plain as the patch on his face, "you probably fell asleep after the first round. Loser."

He actually doesn't want to think about his foster...guardian fucking anyone. This is just gross. Please stop.

"In any case," Badou's the mature one, "you can't do that. You're gonna get your ass killed."

Badou is absolutely the mature one, judging by the tittybaby way Pip rubs his wrists and looks mock-offended by all of this, as if he hasn't heard every permutation of every insult in the world by now. The theatrics are a way for him to digest those last words— 'you're gonna get killed'— spoken as plainly as a report on the weather.

Before he met Badou, dying somewhere nondescript was basically the headlining statement of his job report.

Now?

He's doing what he can.

"It'll take more than a little trip to get me killed, oison. Or are you trying to jinx it? You bastard."

A sharp elbow accompanies one of a million nicknames: this one, 'gosling' in French. When Pip gets back onto his feet, his boots sink in the sand warmed by midday heat, like clay kneaded by one too many hands.

Edited 2015-06-26 01:44 (UTC)

It takes him a couple tries to get to his feet, a few slips in the dust here, a couple of growls of distress there, until finally Badou's long-legged stride catches up to Pip. He looks worse for wear, sweaty hair clung in ropes around his neck, flyaway hairs give away the distress this brings.

This being Pip's pain in the ass ways.

"I'm not trying to jinx it, you idiot. I'm stating the cold hard facts, something you seem to forget when you get too greedy-- it'd be possible if done right. With the right planning and equipment and people. It ain't a one person job."

For a guy who spent his career, if you can call it that, barking out orders and strategy, Pip somehow gets in over his head when it comes to this shit. Badou guiltily wonders if it's because of him....he bites his lip.

"Just don't bother, there'll be other chances."

It's nice, this. Someone being a stopgap, not necessarily because they need to be, but because they want to be. Pip rolls Badou's advice over in his mind, then recalls a piece of family history that his deceased grandfather'd relayed to him oh-so-impartially, all those years ago: the question of his father's death, taking on more than he can chew to make sure that his nearly-born son would make it in this Hell.

Fuck, he thinks, as he inhales the remaining stub of his cigarette. Blood, water, etc.

"...Ahh, fine. If only your Uncles were here with us, hein? They'd have gotten a kick out of me bossing their asses around again. It would've been a right ol' good time."

He won't say he misses it, even if he does. He's got his hands full, anyway. It satisfies him in ways he didn't anticipate.

A sandy glove reaches to rustle through sandier red hair.

"We do need more bullets, though."

"Please don't call them my uncles like I wanna be related to those dunderheads. They couldn't wipe their asses without you telling them how," he grumbles, much like the kid he is. And true, alright, he recognizes they give away their lives and their gunpowder and grit teeth away for money. Cold hard cash and trade, the soothsaying of this world.

And yeah, maybe they're a little skilled and determined and grit.

(oh, but he doesn't bat away Pip's hand this time. no, he lets his palm sink into dusty hair, like rust over time, memorizes the weight of it. who knows when this will--)

A little sigh rolls from his shoulders. Defeated.

"Of course we do. We always do. I've got some other info to trade for that....about Joe's latest little bundle of joy."

A sad story, really. But maybe it was better this way, cruel, but short.

"Bullet town should be free of scavengers right about now. Relatively, anyway."

Pip talks about his stupid flock with an affection only reserved for those select few people in his life that've been stupid enough to bleed and hurt in his presence. Some of them have fingers missing, or crooked fingers that Pip'd sewed back on with a needle and thread from ripped patches on his jacket: once you see someone's bone and brittle, it stays with you. If they dare to share a haven with Pip, his heart is their nest.

So, naturally— they're all Badou's uncles, since Pip's already pitched a makeshift tent for him in the shitty barracks that Pip calls sentiments.

He rubs that concept right into the strands of his charge's sandpaper-red hair, hopes it'll seep into that thick skull of his.

"Don't break their hearts, you ungrateful bastard. They're all old and living vicariously through you."

He barks a laugh, one that rings hollow next to Badou's news. It's never stopped him, though, even if his features sober and his one good eye narrows against the unrelenting dust.

"Well, then. Are we due for a trip? Even if the old 'mistake-me-for-you' trick is starting to wear thin, merde."

He knows. Irreparably and fractured yet whole, he knows. Some life this is, the one he's shared with these warriors of heart, these pains in the asses, these humans. Men of flesh, like he is, maybe more so...because whereas he's perhaps learned his lesson, they still have yet to do so. Running headlong to their deaths...he doesn't want that anymore.

(he doesn't want that for them, but necessity is necessity)

(which is why he doesn't want to call them uncles, doesn't want to lose th-)

"Yeah, yeah. I'll play nice. I usually do," is what he finally mumbles, eye downcast across the horizon and decidedly not on Pip's expression. He's only drawn to Pip's noise, then, that hollow ring of laughter.

"Maybe if you got into shape they'd believe you better, old man. Try to keep up, will you?"

He moves to pack up his meager belongings from the sand.

"Don't try to make me feel old. My dick still rises like the morning sun, trustworthy and sure."

The only guarantee they still have that this world operates on something resembling principles of nature: that unforgiving sun, glaring holes into them. Clockwork.

Tipping his hat to ward off the judgmental looks that Lady Light seems to give him on a constant basis, Pip starts walking past Badou and into the desert proper. His long braid trails behind him, a scorpion tail.

"—Speaking of those idiots, if there's really some skirmish going on in the horizon, they might show up. Damn vultures, they are— any sign of a scuffle and they reappear like an old stain."

Something to look forward to, maybe, if the flock hasn't dwindled in number.

He's actually wary, following Pip deeper into the salt. Not because he doesn't trust the man (well....) but Badou still gets annoyed that he won't let him in on where he hides their beauty when he takes the wheel. What if they split up (as they inevitably do) and someone mistakes him for the mercenary and then he's fucked up and Pip runs off??

But he trudges on dutifully. Not because he can't get along without the other man (he'll snark "I'm better off without him" at people who ask, just like the few who remember Dave), but because...why not?

"An old underwear stain, you mean. You old war dogs sure go looking for it....can't you get by with a peaceful life?"

This is a question he already knows the answer to. He doesn't even have to look at Pip to know this. Just trudges, and trips, and flattens the sand and time beneath his feet.

(maybe he wouldn't have it any other way)

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