(Untitled)

[calmhrtprevails]

It only occurred to Fawkes relatively recently that there was no great harm in attempting to look a little neater than he usually does. Given that no one on his side of the door's been willing to say anything about the ripped remains of his Vault suit, he's more or less let it pass. Clothing, like many other things, is transitory at best

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[katyafeline]

Someone is staring. She didn't mean to be, someone spent an awful lot of time making sure that this small firecracker of an Other had decent manners, but it is a very distracting sight. Much more distracting, anyway, than her breakfast, which she's only really nibbling on. She ordered it more out of rote than any real need for calories, her idleness borne from being cooped up in here entirely too long.

So yes. One small Russian girl, staring.

[calmhrtprevails]

It happens. Fawkes is accustomed to being stared at by humans, and sometimes by ghouls. They usually look away pretty quickly when they realize he's looking back- the humans, anyway; the ghouls mostly just wave. So he largely ignores it, at least until he can put his current attempt at a basic hem-stitch down.

"Can I help you?" he asks, in a voice that sounds like he ought to be screening calls for one of the minor Lords of Hell.

It's still a polite voice, it just doesn't sound right.

[katyafeline]

"Da, sorry," She shakes her head, startled at being caught woolgathering like that. It's just another sign of how low her standards have fallen.

It is a very good thing, she thinks, that Olga is busy today.

"There are pirates and bartenders and geniuses aplenty in this place... but no tailors?"

[calmhrtprevails]

"There may be tailors here," says Fawkes, "but I thought I should learn to do the job myself. I know the people who have these skills are few and far between, back home. It's better to be able to care for your own gear, don't you think?"

[boston_bruiser]

When your vocation involves the kind of wetwork that Tom Clancy would give an arm and a leg to see and turn into a adverb-heavy beach novel, you don't see yarn very often, needlework even less so.

So a nine-foot tall mutant fiddling with a needle and thread definitely catches the eye.

Voodoo'll just stop and stare for a second as he passes Fawkes' table.

[calmhrtprevails]

Fawkes glances up, although not very far- even seated he's nearly as tall as the standing Voodoo- and inclines his head a moment. "Good afternoon," he rumbles. "It's been some time, hasn't it?"

[boston_bruiser]

Voodoo nods. "Yeah, guess so. Been a little busy." He examines Fawkes' work, then glances at the book. "So you're taking up sewing?"

[calmhrtprevails]

"I thought it would be a good thing to learn," says Fawkes. "I ought to be able to repair my own clothes, after all. Not everyone in Megaton is comfortable with my presence, even when I have caps to spend."