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Preston + Breeze [Prompt]

Originally written for a Tumblr prompt: Preston + Breeze

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Preston + Breeze

Inhale. The smell of autumn leaves and salt dances over the crisp cool edge of the sea breeze. The soft crash and sigh of the waves cancelling everything else out. Preston lets himself drink it in, fall into the peacefulness.

All quiet on the western front. Xavier would often quip in moments like these. Always followed by a comment on how he’d have to track down a copy of that book.

Exhale. He lets the thought float away on the wind with his breath. No ‘western front’ here. Only the ocean. Only the tide drawing in and turning the weight of the world to mist as it heaves against the rocks. Never stopping or ceasing.

Something about it calms him. Makes him feel at home here, staring out over the precipice of his world and into the endless, billowing depths beyond.

Inhale.

Preston rolls up to his feet and stretches out his shoulders, not taking his eyes off the thin stretch of horizon beyond. The gates of the land cresting and leaving a thin line of pure ocean, like a road just beyond his grasp.

Exhale.

He turns from the water, away from the soft kiss of the breeze against his cheek, and heads down the iron stairs. Finding his feet through the current as he looks at the courtyard around him. Ripples of laughter and smiling faces all around.

He can’t cease anymore than the tide can. Wouldn’t, even if there were a way to change the laws of nature. 

188, Veronica + F!Courier

Veronica meets Nox

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A strange newcomer staggers into the 188, favoring their left leg and leaving a ruddy boot smear behind each step. Veronica can’t help but turn her head to watch as he passes by, pushing the edge of her hood aside for a better view.

The stranger falls into a stool at the bar and croaks out a request for water, his voice surprisingly soft considering his size. He slides the hunting rifle from his shoulder and lays it across the bar in front of him, stopping Samuel’s protest with a preemptive glare and snapping up the offered bottle of water.

Curiosity piqued, Veronica inches closer to the bar, takes up the stool on the corner just perpendicular to the interesting stranger. Although, she’s not yet sure what exactly she finds so interesting, besides the wound and the flashy checkered suit, the grey pants of which are stained with blood and dust.

Then again, the bar for interesting is set pretty damn low around here. The light familial bickering of Michelle and Samuel and the occasional rumors about the NCR-Legion conflict are pretty much the only entertainment she has, besides trying to strike up conversation with passing caravaneers. Usually they just brush her off.

“No offense, but you look like you’ve traveled a long way down some hard roads,” she tries to joke with the Stranger, nodding towards the injured leg propped up on the bar of the stool. “Where’re you coming from?”

The stranger looks up, face dead for a moment before drawing up a thin, polite smile. “Vegas, actually.”

“Huh, guess the suit should’ve given it away. Doesn’t look like you had a very good time at the tables, though.”

“Oh, it was not all terrible,” the stranger chuckles, barely more than a puff of air. “I’m a fan of games where the stakes are high.”

“Sounds like you’ve got the gambling bug,” Veronica eyes the rifle laid out on the bar. Meticulously maintained, but clearly old. The action seems to have been replaced, the wood stock re-varnished over some obvious dents.

Col. Moore/F!Courier

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Dreams, Xavier/Whitney

The sensation of falling, like a rope snapping, rouses Xavier from his sleep. Mind scrambling for a moment before the warm arm beneath his head and the hand curled against his chest settle him into the present moment. Whit is wrapped around him, breath warm against the back of his neck, and for a moment everything is fine.

 

As he lays in the opaque darkness and tries to line up his breathing with the soft rise and fall of Whit’s chest against his back, like the billowing of a curtain, the dream casts light over itself. Clarity returning to him. More vivid than a memory. More tactile.

 

His head hurts, and he flinches. Demers’ hand digging into his jaw and his head cracking against concrete. The sound is a strike of gunfire inside his head, his teeth clack together in his skull like shell casings. Everything shatters against the floor and falls away into darkness. Saint’s blood is on his hands and her eyes are on his gun.

 

Eyes on his gun. Same as the man with the t-shirt pressed against the messy gash in his neck, black shrapnel still peering from the red. Blood on Xavier’s hands. Eyes on his gun. Hole in his head. Notch on his grip.