bakerstreet | Going my way?

( hitchhiking? or hitchshipping?! )

[Vroom, vroom. Rico’s got a bike. It seats two, but you’ll have to hold on. AUs fine (modern, post-apocalypse, etc), as is crosscanon/medium or ridiculous circumstances.]

[ Making housecalls in the Mojave isn't the easiest of tasks, but today, at least, it beat the alternative. The alternative being either handling a flood of new patients and spending the day elbow deep in paperwork and belligerent caravanners or sweating his brains out in an airless lab trying to avoid all of the above. Now, with the sun well on its way toward the horizon behind him, Arcade is faced with the only real downside to this endeavor - the long walk home.

It's not all bad. It's quiet, for one, the glowing beacon of the Strip a silent, looming waypoint in the distance. And he's comfortably alone with his thoughts - most of the way. (He's already had to duck off the broken tarmac of the highway to avoid an unwanted encounter or two, and detour to skirt around a couple of others.) But he'd be lying if he said he wasn't over the whole trek by the halfway point.

Certainly he's tired of the constant, paranoid vigilance traveling even such a relatively short distance across the Wasteland necessitates. The not-so-distant blat of another engine elicits more annoyance than alarm, as Arcade turns to peer back down the road. He realizes he's entertaining the notion of flagging down the next passerby (half-jokingly, at least) instead of avoiding them, before he realizes he recognizes that particular obnoxious roar.

On a whim, he sticks out an arm, thumb up. He has no expectation of Rico doing anything but blasting right past him. They're little more than barely acquaintances, even after that late night patch-up session. But he's reasonably confident he won't catch a stray for making a lighthearted joke of this not-so-chance meeting-in-passing, either. (Reasonably.) ]

[Ah, yes. The long walk across the Mojave. A sweaty pain in the ass in the heat, and even more dangerous in the dark. He doesn't stop for anyone who asks unless he knows them - that's just asking to get robbed or worse - but the ones who are tall, blonde, and leggy have more of a chance of getting a ride. Arcade is technically all three of those, if having less curves than typical.

And it is Arcade there in the hazy distance, because the white coat that marks a Follower tends to be distinctive for a reason, but his height is more so. Sticking a thumb out and making Rico laugh at the deliberately ironic gesture as he revs the engine in acknowledgement, because who the fuck picks up hitchhikers anymore in this day and age, or have anything to hitch to? He was already planning to, but that nudges over the whim.

For a moment, it does look like he is going to blow right past him - coming in without slowing much at all. But Rico hits the brakes at the last minute, yanks the handlebars and he squeals to a halt, throwing up a semi-circular spray of dust and gravel that's heard more than seen in the barely-there low light, a faint rattle of tiny pebbles bouncing off the tarmac and rolling into the cracks. Puts a heavy boot down and braces himself against dirt, leans over. He looks much more in his element, out here. A little more larger than life, wearing everything he'd been stripped of last time. Black leather and ballistic vest, battered helmet, gun holstered at his upper thigh. Dust-streaked, with a slightly bloody saddlebag hanging off the side of his bike.

He eyes him up and down, and grins. None of that was strictly necessary, but isn’t that more fun than trundling to an anticlimactic halt?]

Well, well, well. [He sounds pleased, at least.] If it isn't Doctor Gannon.

[Arcade didn't tell him his last name, the last time they met.]

Looking to cut your sunset stroll short?

[ Even if Rico had moved right along, with only the barest of maybe-acknowledgements, Arcade could have contented himself to just be grateful for the breeze that rises in his wake, dust-laden as it is. The air's cooling, now, as the sun sinks into the distance, but not nearly fast enough. And there's quite a bit of walking still ahead of him. Or was.

As it is, Arcade comes up a stumbling step short when Rico whips into a dramatic stop, sweeping around as if to block the road. At least the wind's headed the other direction, saving Arcade the additional embarrassment of choking on the cloud of dirt that bike kicks up as it brakes.

Not that standing awkwardly in place as Rico emphatically sizes him up is much better. (Well, it is. But he's not going to admit to that.)

His smile is only a little tight-lipped at the address, but he can't pretend to be shocked. Just as much as the Fort's usual contingent of guards like to gossip (especially Beatrix), they like even more to point out when someone's being gossiped about. Especially when they can do it directly to the Follower in question. ]

Rico.

[ He nods, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he glances toward the brightly glowing silhouette of a city beyond them. ]

I can't say I'd mind. If you're headed to the Strip, I'm only going as far as Freeside. And I'm sure Julie wouldn't mind parting with a few caps for my safely expedited return.

[ Actually, he's not sure of that at all. But she does owe him a few unspecified favors - including for today. ]

I'm not the kind of guy to nickle-and-dime. [Rico returns, dismissively.] Who's sawing a cap in half for a favor between friends?

[Ignoring the fact that last time, Rico was definitely nickel-and-diming his payout. Also, ignoring the fact that they're not quite friends. It won't cost Rico anything but a quick detour, and goodwill from any of the Followers is priceless. Delivered straight to Farkas, here's your blonde researcher safe and sound, catch you bleeding-hearts later and call me when you have a job. Wouldn't it be nice to think he might get bumped up the queue next time he needs to get stitched up? Well, anyway, with that - his thighs flexing as he shifts forward in his seat, tips his head as if to say hop on with a flash of a grin.]

Let's get real cozy. Oh, and, ah, mind the bag.

[He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, at the weighed-down saddlebag hanging down near the back - little more than sack cloth tied closed around something roughly spherical, stained at the bottom.]

It's not dry yet. Might have to move it to make room for all that leg you've got. A blessing and a curse both, huh?

[ Ignoring neither of those facts, Arcade opts to be his usual tactful, eloquent self. ]

I didn't realize we were friends.

[ Not that he's complaining. The faint, skeptical tinge of amusement robs that statement of any incidental bite in its phrasing. Really, a favor without any strings attached certainly would put Rico on the short list of people Arcade might push above the priority of an average patient. And considering he does everything in his power to avoid dealing with any of them, that's not saying nothing. But he doesn't actually expect that kind of courtesy from a mercenary, all seemingly earnest deflections aside.

Let alone one with some suspicious, bloody cargo hanging off the back of his bike. That rough sack and its equally suspicious stain conjure to mind all sorts of unpleasant possibilities - though the favorite his mind sticks on is the uneasy certainty that there's something's severed head inside. The trophy-for-payment trade around New Vegas has never been more profitable, after all, between more Legion and NCR moving into the region every day. It's unpleasantly likely. ]

Mostly a curse, at the moment. [ Arcade mutters, carefully switching his bag to the other shoulder as he steps toward the bike. No, the plan is definitely going to be just not touching or jostling or even so much as thinking about that thing. Better for everyone that way, he suspects.

It's a pity; under different circumstances, he'd be thrilled to be whisked out of both tedium and harm's way by some handsome (relative) stranger. But there's still something about Rico that puts him on his back foot. Nothing he can put his finger on, exactly, and maybe that means it's only his own paranoid mind making excuses for itself. But Rico is smart, when he doesn't seem to be more interested in being annoying. Far sharper than a man in his line of work has any right to be, and that alone might be enough to stay wary, just a little.

As much as one can, in the given situation, anyway. There are only so many places to put his hands once he's settled on the bike's seat, after all. ]

Uh. Just how cozy were you thinking of getting?

[What's a stranger but a friend you haven't met yet?

...said no one, ever. Rico gives him a half-smile - deliberately, provokingly flirtatious and tinged with condescension, as his gravelly voice dips even lower.]

As cozy as you’d like.

[You're being invited to get on, not to 'get off'. So relax, doc. Rico didn't expect him to be the type to balk at sitting this close. Especially when it’s for the sake of a few things called center of gravity and keeping all your skin. But the Followers tend to be a pretty open-minded lot, so he'd peg it to be a personal space thing instead. Figures it'd fit someone who doesn't like the spotlight. Or... something else? He knocks the kickstand down casually with the back of his boot, suddenly businesslike. A sharp snap-thunk, and the bike’s more stable to make an attempt at settling down onto.]

But in the interests of not eating both dirt and shit, I'd suggest holding on pretty tight. [He beckons Arcade closer, crooking his fingers with his palm up with an edge of impatience.] Here, I'll show you.

[ It always pays to be cautious with excessively armed, trigger-happy Wastelanders. He'd much rather get a rap for being irritatingly prissy about everything than risk copping a few broken fingers for overstepping. One can never be entirely sure where exactly toothless boasting and dangerous ego intersect.

Arcade rolls his eyes, but inwardly appreciates the shift to stability. It does make it a bit easier to sit comfortably, and while there's no chance of avoiding at least some awkwardness, it's less so when he doesn't feel as though he's also contributing to some careful balancing act. ]

It's not my first rodeo. [ His answer is flat, as he slides forward, locking his arms around Rico's chest. He doesn't add that it's been several years since the last time he was on a bike, back or front, and that it was nothing like the fusion core-powered monstrosity they're currently sitting astride, of course. But he understands the basic principle well enough not to need a step by step guide on how not to fall off. (Hopefully.) ]

Just trying to be considerate.

[ And not wind up dead. Or worse, hiking back to Freeside with a black eye. He might actually be starting to believe Rico isn't that type of aggressively macho, fragile over-compensator, though. ]

[It just comes with the territory of having a massive ego and thinking you're the hottest shit since the bombs dropped - any attention is good attention, and he's certainly secure enough in his swaggering masculinity to not give a molerat’s shit about opinions he couldn’t care less about. Any fragile overcompensation he may or may not have is rooted in an entirely different set of issues.

Rico’s weight is solidly unmoving as he punts the kickstand back up. This ain’t his first rodeo, either. He briefly turns his attention over to Arcade, as he revs the engine.]

Where’d you ride-along? Aren’t too many on the road.

[And that's genuine curiosity, there. Aren't too many that aren’t ancient, guttered wrecks, that is. You can't expect a guy who clearly maintains his own prohibitively rare and technologically complex motorcycle cobbled together from salvaged parts and evidently cherishes it enough to sit inches away from a highly volatile fusion core on a regular basis to not follow that up with too many questions, out of interest.]

[ Honestly, Arcade should've expected that. But he can pretend, maybe, that the way he momentarily fumbles his noncommittal response is only because of the abrupt shift in position, as Rico kicks the bike's stand back up. Even if it wouldn't hold much water, excuse wise, given the brief stutter isn't reflected at all in the rest of his demeanor. ]

Oh, uh, just... somewhere back west.

[ He shrugs, offering nothing more specific. He's banking on the notion of other working motorcycles being far more interesting than his own personal history, though, as he carefully redirects. ]

Those were only some piecemeal motorbikes that ran about as fast as you could jog, most of the time, though. Nothing half as impressive.

Damn fucking right, [Rico agrees, both promptly and cheerfully as he brushes off an invisible speck of dust on the right handlebar, with obvious pride in his voice. Turns out baseless flattery does work pretty well to redirect his line of thought.] You might as well stick a sled to a brahmin. What's the point in something like that, huh?

[And with that self-congratulatory rhetorical question (and a dramatic twist of his wrist), he abruptly screeches the bike around in a turn and accelerates at a breakneck pace, kicking up a storm of dust in their wake that falls off once they hit the road. Never one to pass up an opportunity to show off, Arcade might really want to hang on. It doesn't make for the smoothest ride at those speeds - he did what he could with the suspension, but it's certainly more comfortable than walking all the way back.

He deftly navigates the race against the encroaching darkness to their backs, the bike juddering over cavernous cracks in the asphalt as the wheels chew up distance in a flash. Compensating easily for Arcade's weight behind him as he carves a path around a burned-out wreck of a truck, leaning into the turn.]

You want to see me pop a wheelie, Gannon? [Rico yells, over the noise. It sounds like a joke. He's kidding. Mostly. Not really.]

[ Always nice to be right about something. It's a relief when Rico takes the initiative to end that line of conversation so succinctly, too, even though the result is Arcade having to cling even more tightly to his back so as not to fall off the bike as it launches abruptly into action.

Arcade is not what anyone would think of as a thrill-seeker. More the opposite, really - if asked, anyone who knows him (at least as much as he seems to let anyone) would probably assume the only excitement he's ever willingly experienced came in the form of some dull, overly technical discovery in a lab. Which is fair enough, of course, as that's exactly the picture he paints for them to see.

But it's hard not to let that dreary, unassuming persona slip a little, in the present. After the initial jolt, and in spite of the still very real possibility that Rico splatters them both across the pavement with one wrong turn on this dark stretch of broken highway, it's just a little too easy to enjoy the weightless rush of hurtling down the road. ]

Won't be much of a view, from back here, [ Arcade shouts back, almost feeling the words whipped out of his mouth in the rush of the wind.

And if that sounds like a challenge, well. It probably isn't. Not really. ]

[Well, well, well, what do you know. Sunflower's not a total killjoy - though he suspects dealing with the fire certainly put a damper on things the last time they met. But even then, he still had his flashes of biting wit. He just shrugs, a coy shift of his broad shoulders. And certainly grinning now;]

Carpe diem, motherfucker.

[He cranks the power up, the rumble of the fusion core decidedly feeling warmed up underneath them, and pulls the front wheel up, lifting it in the air. He leans back, laughing just a little bit maniacally as he feels the center of balance shift over the back wheel, fighting against the weight of gravity pulling him and Gannon down. The wheel grinds against the asphalt, each minor jolt amplified by the single point of contact. Pure, unfiltered joy with a boyish sort of enthusiasm as they brush the line of losing more skin to the road than either of them would strictly prefer, leaving them to be scraped off the ground by the next trader accompanied by a laden brahmin.

But the heady adrenaline rush makes it worth it. And Rico is very good at what he does.]

[ This should be, by all rights, completely horrifying. But there's a certain ridiculous charm to the enthusiasm with which Rico launches them into his pointless show-off, risking their lives just to prove - what? That he can?

Arcade ought to be offended. Instead, he's going to give himself bruises on the insides of his knees, where they're pressed too hard into the bike's frame, and probably his arms, too, where they're cinched too tightly around Rico's armored chest. And he's going to rely on the rumble of the engine and the rough track of road beneath that single wheel to disguise the brief, absurd peal of laughter that escapes him.

At least it's some small comfort that he knows this isn't a first, and as far as he's aware, Rico hasn't yet collided irreparably with the road. He'd probably have had a few more scars, if that were the case. ]

[Precisely. Because he can. Good thing for whatever little peace of mind Arcade has that he hasn't seen the scarred patches of skin at Rico's left calf and hip; forever lost to a stretch of highway in northern Nevada while practicing at the altar of this particular stupid stunt. But he does perpetually wear neck-to-boots black leathers in the desert for a reason, and it isn't because he thinks his ass looks great in them. That's just a happy coincidence.

Arcade holds on tight like his life depends on it - which it does. A few more seconds of showboating and the overbearing machine starts tipping back down, the front wheel hitting the ground with a judder that rattles the teeth and has the saddlebag bouncing off Arcade's leg.

Your applause please.]

How's that? Can't do that on a piece of crap.

Well - you probably could. Once.

[ That is decidedly not a challenge, and doesn't sound like one. Honestly, he's a little relieved when they touch down again, as jarring as it is. A little bit of something completely inadvisable can be fun, but Arcade's not about pushing his luck too far.

As he reorients himself to the road, staring down toward the glowing city now looming far larger in the middle distance, he feels an additional pang of relief the closer they come. Though that has less to do with Rico's driving and more with the comfort of familiarity, the familiar, dark shapes of Freeside coalescing below the Strip's much brighter beacon. ]

You can drop me off as soon as we hit Freeside, if you like. I know my way around. [ So, no need to go out of his way. ]

[Rico laughs at that, so clearly he finds it funny. And at least recognizes it for the joke that it is and not as another invitation to shave a few years off their lives, if not their skin.

He slows them to a crawl as the barriers enclosing Freeside comes within dim sight; open dirt and shit-nothing gradually transitioning to signs of habitation and shit-something, the distant nightlife starting to swell with both people and activity. A gaggle of Kings with their pomades loitering by the side of the massive Freeside entrance gates, trading a bottle and single cigarette between them. That cherry-red spit of light swings around in the darkness as heads turn to stare at them - Rico Dredd riding his motorcycle slow and flicking off a two-fingered salute from his temple, and Arcade Gannon in his white coat hanging on behind him.]

What will Farkas have to say if I let you get jumped on the way there? [With not-very-veiled amusement as he makes no motion to stop and let him off at the point that he probably should;] I'll take you right to the gates.

[Sure he'll take Arcade all the way to the front gates of the Mormon Fort on his incredibly loud, obnoxious, and attention-grabbing vehicle and drop him off there, of which the sight would almost definitely inspire stupid (and amusing) gossip. No trouble at all. What's the guy gonna do, jump off because he's being polite?]

[ Well. He had to try. It's not really any surprise that Rico is going to insist on going about this in the noisiest, most attention-grabbing fashion possible, and dragging it out right to the end. Probably in the (not entirely unfounded) hopes of parleying his great generosity into future favors.

But it doesn't lessen the effect all but announcing their return to Freeside has on Arcade, who offers the (unfortunately, familiar-faced) Kings loitering on the city limits no more than a half-hearted glance. Making actual sustained eye contact wouldn't hurt his chances of having to hear about this again later, but it also wouldn't make him feel any better. ]

She'll say it's my fault for leaving in the first place. [ His dry tone seems to imply that he wouldn't disagree - and not just about his own potential mugging.

Oh, well. He'll save all considerations of simply jumping off for the less likely scenario in which Rico decides to waste precious power going the scenic route, at least. ]

[ Hitchhiker. ]

[Driver. Has a motorcycle.]

either, open to mellow Stu or full tilt middle of the kills Stu.

Edited 2023-11-03 22:36 (UTC)

Going my way?

nami | one piece (live action)

Rico Dredd | Judge Dredd | ota

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carrie.

Cloud Strife - Final Fantasy 7 Compilation - M/F

Stu Macher | Scream 1996