Prompt Fills Vol. 9
Jun. 27th, 2018 12:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
troublewillfindmeask-manda-of-the-6 asked: #99. "I don't care what they said, that doesn't mean shit!" and #86. "I got you a present" (FOR XCOM!) :D
Except when it comes to food.
There have been many adjustments he’s needed to make in order to adapt to life on the Avenger. While the reduced availability of equipment and slim margin of time for sensitive experiments is certainly a hindrance to his work, he is happy to adjust his methods for the unconventional environment. He is unaccustomed to managing a team, but he watches and he learns. He has a modicum of control, a veneer, and that is all that truly matters. But the food. He cannot stand the food.
He understands that XCOM works within its means, and that those means are, more often than not, limited by the availability of goods to the Resistance cells willing to lend their little band of renegades a hand. Beggars, as the saying goes, cannot be choosers.
But he will not eat one more meal of rice and potatoes, or rice and vegetables, or rice and whatever else has been mixed in. Not without at least attempting to find more flavorful sustenance.
He can admit an ad on Resistance Radio may not have been the most subtle of approaches, but then again, he wasn’t expecting his name to be read on air.
He is not accustomed to soldiers in his lab. It’s not that they are unwelcome, per se, so much as he prefers it when he can maintain some modicum of control over his researchers, a goal usually hindered by the presence of field operatives. Gunda, at least, comes with a greater capacity for maturity than some of her colleagues.
“Can I help you, Lieutenant?”
She holds out a folded brochure. “I got you a present, Doc.”
He recognizes the ADVENT burger menu immediately.
“Next time you get a craving, “ she says, turning to leave. “Let me know. I’d rather put it out through my folks than have to keep Central out of the bar.”
He gapes at her.
“Or, y’know, clean up your penmanship. The DJ really won’t shut up about it. Anyway, you’re probably in the clear. Krieger and I got your back.”
He is inordinately pleased when there are three juicy burgers waiting for him at the next haven.
99.“I don’t care what they said, that doesn’t mean shit!”
[Post-Invasion EW]
Devorah Hershel considers herself a calm woman. Between her time in the IDF and as a civilian flight medic, she has learned calm. Perhaps not tranquility, but most certainly calm. It has served her well bandaging wounds on the battlefield, in transporting terrified patients, and as each new horror revealed itself over the course of the last nine months.
The current situation, however, is testing that.
“You don’t think they’re right, do you?”
“Royston,” she groans. “I don’t care what they said! That doesn’t mean shit! My parents knew each other fourteen years before they got married. They spent nine of them dating. Didn’t stop them from cheating on each other.”
The other woman blanches.
“Royston. Steph. That wasn’t…” She huffs a sigh. “Look, my point is this: you two have already been through hell. I was there. I watched. And I was also there when you each went through testing. Never in my life have I seen two more miserable people than in those twenty days. You were a mess. He was a mess. And I love you both, and I was happy to help keep things together, but my god, I am not going to let you inflict that on yourself because of someone else.”
“Four someone elses,” Steph corrects her.
“Four someone elses who have never seen the two of you interact, who have never deployed with the two of you, who did not have to watch the two of you flounder around each other for six months while you tried to get your shit together.”
At that, she can see the grin starting to crack across the bride-to-be’s mouth.
“But you know who did? Me. Molchetti. Bernard. Half of this base! Would we let you make a stupid decision?”
“You let me drink shitty box wine,” Royston says, trying to suppress a laugh.
“You would not be dissuaded. I thought Molchetti was gonna cry.”
There it is. There’s the laugh.
“It’s gonna be fine, Steph. You’ll see.”
86. “I got you a present”
Except when it comes to food.
There have been many adjustments he’s needed to make in order to adapt to life on the Avenger. While the reduced availability of equipment and slim margin of time for sensitive experiments is certainly a hindrance to his work, he is happy to adjust his methods for the unconventional environment. He is unaccustomed to managing a team, but he watches and he learns. He has a modicum of control, a veneer, and that is all that truly matters. But the food. He cannot stand the food.
He understands that XCOM works within its means, and that those means are, more often than not, limited by the availability of goods to the Resistance cells willing to lend their little band of renegades a hand. Beggars, as the saying goes, cannot be choosers.
But he will not eat one more meal of rice and potatoes, or rice and vegetables, or rice and whatever else has been mixed in. Not without at least attempting to find more flavorful sustenance.
He can admit an ad on Resistance Radio may not have been the most subtle of approaches, but then again, he wasn’t expecting his name to be read on air.
He is not accustomed to soldiers in his lab. It’s not that they are unwelcome, per se, so much as he prefers it when he can maintain some modicum of control over his researchers, a goal usually hindered by the presence of field operatives. Gunda, at least, comes with a greater capacity for maturity than some of her colleagues.
“Can I help you, Lieutenant?”
She holds out a folded brochure. “I got you a present, Doc.”
He recognizes the ADVENT burger menu immediately.
“Next time you get a craving, “ she says, turning to leave. “Let me know. I’d rather put it out through my folks than have to keep Central out of the bar.”
He gapes at her.
“Or, y’know, clean up your penmanship. The DJ really won’t shut up about it. Anyway, you’re probably in the clear. Krieger and I got your back.”
He is inordinately pleased when there are three juicy burgers waiting for him at the next haven.
99.“I don’t care what they said, that doesn’t mean shit!”
[Post-Invasion EW]
Devorah Hershel considers herself a calm woman. Between her time in the IDF and as a civilian flight medic, she has learned calm. Perhaps not tranquility, but most certainly calm. It has served her well bandaging wounds on the battlefield, in transporting terrified patients, and as each new horror revealed itself over the course of the last nine months.
The current situation, however, is testing that.
“You don’t think they’re right, do you?”
“Royston,” she groans. “I don’t care what they said! That doesn’t mean shit! My parents knew each other fourteen years before they got married. They spent nine of them dating. Didn’t stop them from cheating on each other.”
The other woman blanches.
“Royston. Steph. That wasn’t…” She huffs a sigh. “Look, my point is this: you two have already been through hell. I was there. I watched. And I was also there when you each went through testing. Never in my life have I seen two more miserable people than in those twenty days. You were a mess. He was a mess. And I love you both, and I was happy to help keep things together, but my god, I am not going to let you inflict that on yourself because of someone else.”
“Four someone elses,” Steph corrects her.
“Four someone elses who have never seen the two of you interact, who have never deployed with the two of you, who did not have to watch the two of you flounder around each other for six months while you tried to get your shit together.”
At that, she can see the grin starting to crack across the bride-to-be’s mouth.
“But you know who did? Me. Molchetti. Bernard. Half of this base! Would we let you make a stupid decision?”
“You let me drink shitty box wine,” Royston says, trying to suppress a laugh.
“You would not be dissuaded. I thought Molchetti was gonna cry.”
There it is. There’s the laugh.
“It’s gonna be fine, Steph. You’ll see.”
