can you feel my heart?

“Have you read the newspaper lately?” he tends to mean it in the literal sense, but with the way the older man seems to be actively restraining a broad smile - which isn’t working, of course; the giddiness in his eyes rather gives him away - he doesn’t actually expect an answer. With his erstwhile canine companion on the bench beside him, Teddy offers her a secretive little wink before unfolding the paper in his lap and handing a specific section over to Ophelia.

There he is, in all his lawyer-y glory. Looking not entirely unlike that cat that got the cream, there’s only a tiny amount of compliment fishing going on. “Only took me three decades, but I finally got my face in the paper. All I had t’do was travel halfway across the goddamn country to defend a minor celebrity to do it.”

He’s not a violent man, not really. There was too much passion in violence, Davey had found, but clearly even the most intentionally apathetic person could be convinced of its utility when pushed hard enough. Fist pounding away on what would prove to be the wrong door, there’s little regard given for the scene he’s making as he barks out his threats.

“Open the fuckin’ door, mate. Can’t pull that shit ‘n then run off like a bitch-” when the door swings under his next pounding knock, he’s more than ready to get up in someone’s face. Needless to say, he holds back when the realization hits. “Don’t suppose you’ve got some lanky fuck cowerin’ for his life in there with ya, do ya?”

He’d enjoyed more than a few years of being blissfully irresponsible, living out the worst of his ‘angry young man’ urges with little consequence beyond a brief stint in jail. It was that sort of freedom that had lead to Caleb’s current aches and pains, the grouchiness that was only charming for so long before the abrasiveness took over.

Plucking an earbud from his ear and rather dramatically pulling out his phone to pause his music - hadn’t this been the whole point of wearing headphones in the first place? To avoid social interaction? - with a heaving sigh. “Already found Jesus, cheers, don’t have fuck all on me, either so if you’re lookin’ for anythin’ from me you’re shit outta luck, pal.”

Ophelia needed the break tonight from studying and doing papers, and once she had opened a new bottle of wine and turned on the music, she was done for the night. Swaying along with Davey, she was happier than she’d been all day, maybe even all week honestly, content in her lover’s arms.

“I’ll share it with you later. Or would you prefer it on a mixtape, old man?” She teases, leaning up to kiss him gently. “I always think of dancing with you like this. It’s the sort of sappy thing your hopeless romantic girlfriend thinks of all the time.”

“If y’danced with me all the time, maybe I’d have a few more moves that weren’t just variations’a swayin’ about, hm?” It isn’t, of course, the idea of learning dance moves that has Davey playfully agreeing to the idea, but rather the prospect of spending more time with Ophelia. She’s made him awfully selfish since she’s come into his life, and the more time they spend together, the less Davey regrets it.

“We’ll have to add that to our sightseeing list, huh?” She questions, looking over at him as she ate. “Could do with a decent drink and someone new to get along with. Then maybe I won’t have to follow you around all the time.” Though she was quite enjoying his company at the moment.

Ophelia’s still working on her first bowl when he moves to his second, looking down at the mix of ingredients within it. “Suppose you know where to get all the good stuff though around here. If it weren’t for you, I’d probably still be eating some boxed rations or something cold.” A hand went to the side of her hair at his comment, trying to imagine shaving half of her head to look more intimidating. “Maybe an undercut instead? Probably less maintenance too. But I bet if most people saw a shorty Scottish woman with a gun, they’d be afraid. I would be at least.”

“We’ll have to work on the whole ‘not bein’ squeamish around ghouls’ thing first - she’s got a pal, Mort, he ain’t half bad, but he’s y’know...-” he makes a vague gesture around his face, “-a bit on the beef jerky side of things.” Definitely not a pseudo-zombie like the ferals dotted around the place were, anyway. “But that ain’t to say that I’m tryin’ to get rid of you, ‘course. Just beneficial for you to experience more than the shit I get into.”

joel’s definitely not an introvert by any stretch of the imagination; he’s more comfortable in groups than he is skulking about on his own. when it comes to doing things, he likes only having himself to worry about, but when it’s just hanging out and living life? yeah, he’s very much a fan of companionship. in saying that, in appalachia at least, joel doesn’t have a companion. in the mojave, my little robot-loving ass knows damn well he’d have ed-e along for the ride bc the himbo energy of the lil eyebot is precisely the energy that joel needs in his life to be at his happiest. naturally he prefers making friends than making enemies, but due to his.... connections w various raider factions he doesn’t tend to have many ‘innocent’ acquaintances or friends, not that he’s complaining. but, y’know, so long as he’s not actively being shot at by someone - and even then, there’s still a chance for friendship later on, he doesn’t hold a grudge kfdsajh - he won’t mind spending time in someone’s company, at the very least.

lincoln snorts at ‘sitting pretty’, “ yeah, yeah. sittin’, maybe. ”  is his rebuttal, but there’s no malice in it. to be true, there is very rarely malice to be found in any parts of lincolns character.   in honesty, too, staying and chatting doesn’t sound too dreadful to him.  even if this fellers manners left a lot to be desired. “ but thank y’kindly for apologizin’. mighty decent of you. ”    is he being sarcastic? hard to tell. 

rex sits, his tail pattering harmlessly against the carpet. in fact, his jaw lolls open, and he begins a contented pant.  still he fixes joel with a steely gaze.    lincoln casts an eye over his beloved canine companion, and wheezes out a chuckle. 

“ mm, yeah, well, are y’surprised? vegas ain’t notorious for its readin’ clubs, there, mister — what is your name, anyway? i’m guessin’ you know mine, and no, it ain’t asshole. ”   & lincoln exhales, shifting in his seat to examine tonights bar menu.   atom bombs ( 1 cap a cup! )    lord, he didn’t even wanna know what kinda rancid shooter only cost a cap.   “  go on ahead and tell me what you’re drinkin’, too, otherwise i’ll just get y’ whatever they’re slingin’ for cheap, and neither of us want that. ”

And wasn’t that just the biggest fucking annoyance: how effortlessly disarming Linc was without seeming soft, weak; the good ol’ sheriff lived up to their reputation. Maybe that made it a little bit better, took the sting out of the fact that Joel had hauled himself up to New Vegas from Primm just for this very reason. It was either this or getting into some sort of shootout, he supposed, that would make it worthwhile. “Joel. Though people do tend to call me asshole, so. Your choice, pal.”