"You look like shit, asshole," Baron drawls from his position in the only chair in the room. That’s Baron for you… He prefers to try to hold on to his individuality as much as possible, even if it’s not all that comfortable. Not that the rest of us don’t, but Baron takes it to an illogical extent. Hell, I’m a loner, but I’ve never hidden my background or my lack of family. But Baron? None of us have ever heard him talk about his circumstances.
All we know of him comes from that one shared experience which tainted our pasts enough to meld us together in this strange shared brotherhood; one that's been our default setting since the incident.
"And you look..." I take in his general state of unkemptness. His jeans are tattered, his sweatshirt battered, and his baseball cap calls attention to his flowing hair that is now shoulder length. "...like you’ve seen better days."
"Yeah." He yawns widely. "I was up until all times of the morning, trying to hack into the MI6."
"Why the hell would you do that?"
He stares at me as if it’s a trick question. "Because it’s a challenge?"
"Is that all it is to you anymore, a challenge?"
"Hello pot; meet kettle." He stretches. "At least, I’m pitting my brains and intellect instead of getting my ass kicked."
"I won this round," I mutter. "At least, I have something to show for my efforts."
"What, like broken bones?" He snorts. ”Speaking of,” he stares at Saint, who’s lumbered over to the sink at the far end of the trailer and is splashing water on himself like it’s going out of style, "best get that nose seen to, champ. You don’t want it set the wrong way and spoil your already weak chances of getting laid."
Saint straightens. "I’m not the one struggling to get the cum stains off my carpet every night."
I chuckle, "That's because you're too busy practicing the one gun salute."
"While you're jackin' the beanstalk, no doubt?"
"Will you two wankers stop indulging in your one man orgies already?" A new voice cuts in.
I turn to find Weston sauntering toward us. "Hey mofos," he says in a mild tone.
He walks over to where Saint has grabbed a bunch of paper towels, and is proceeding to wipe his face. Saint peers athis reflection in the mirror and mumbles, "Shit, is my nose crooked? It definitely seems crooked."
"Want me to fix it for you?" Weston drawls.
Saint shoots him a glance. "If you think I’m going to let you get your grubby hands on my face, you are sadly mistaken."
"Turns out," Weston wiggles his fingers, "I’m not too bad with my hands."
"Yeah, especially when they’re attached to your dick." Saint snorts.
Weston chuckles, "I don’t need to resort to that, since I’m getting loads. Unlike you, dipshit."
"I have more than enough companionship of the female persuasion to keep me occupied, you twat," Saint retorts.
"Children, children." Edward rolls off the hammock. He lopes over and throws himself down on the couch on the other side from Baron. "Don’t you realize how juvenile you sound when you argue?" he asks.
"Don’t you realize how boringly grown upyoucome across?" Weston retorts. "But since you’re the only one of us who seems to be of sound mind, can you tell asshole, here, that if I’m good enough to qualify for med school, I’m good enough to fix his nose?"
"Hang on a second." I blink. "You’re going to med school?"
Baron stiffens.
Edward freezes.
Silence descends in the dingy space, broken only by the plop-plop-plop of water dripping from a broken pipe in the bathroom.
"You best get that looked at by a doctor…or by one who’s going to study to be one," Edward remarks.
Saint turns to Weston. "Give it your best shot," he mutters.
