Us vs. the Apocalypse
Title: What's for Dinner?
Word Count: 572
Author's Note: There aren't words for how much I love my UVTA cast.
"Remind me again why I let you do shit like this?" Dixon asked as he watched Mason clamber up the tall metal racks. Each of his clumsy movements echoed through the vast warehouse-store, playing tricks on Dixon's ears and making him glance nervously around for movement. "And can you hurry it up?"
"Hurrying up is pretty much the opposite of what I should be doing," Mason called down. He reached for a handhold on the shelf above him and succeeded only in hauling down a large box of paper towels, which crashed to the ground just a few feet from where Dixon stood. "Oops."
"Okay, you know what, this whole thing is a bad idea," Dixon said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just come down, will you?"
"Dude, I just climbed twenty feet of fucking tilted shelving racks. I'm not coming down." He paused and sneezed explosively. "Though, could you be a doll and wander over to the pharmacy? I could really use some Claritin."
"There's a pharmacy in here?"
"Seriously, have you lived under a rock? There's everything here." It took some work, but Mason finally managed to get up onto the top of the forty foot unit, and spent a few moments twisting the kinks out of his back from his awkward climb. "That was fun," he said, cracking his neck. "Always wanted to do that." He pulled his knife from his pocket and stepped carefully to the boxes that had caught his attention, the whole structure creaking under his weight. "Looks like someone was up here already," he said. "Some of the boxes are open." He paused, staring at his feet. "Not too long ago either. There's some broken bottles, still wet."
"Trapped?" Dixon asked. "Because it's not worth -"
"Nah, just scavengers." Mason crouched at the box, vanishing from Dixon's sight. "Catfish in brine," he read. "Gross, but edible, I guess."
"That's a bit of a stretch," Dixon called, smiling despite himself. "I'm sure I can do something with it, though."
"Thank fuck. If I have to eat crackers one more fucking meal I just might - MOTHERFUCKER!" There was an abrupt scuffle of movement, followed by several broken jars of salted fish rolling off the top of the shelving unit like jagged missiles. Dixon had to jump back to avoid them, though his pants were still splashed with the cloudy, strong-smelling water.
"What happened?" he called, listening to the tirade of cursing from above him. "Mase?"
"Son of a BITCH!" Mason roared, and hurled another of the broken bottles off the top of the shelves. It sailed over the next two units and exploded with spectacular noise out of Dixon's sight.
"Stop ringing the fucking dinner bell!" Dixon snapped in aggravation. "What's going on?"
"Fucking scratched myself!" Mason barked.
"You... what?"
"There's a ton of fucking broken bottles and I scratched myself and... FUCK!" He hurled another jar of fish, this one entirely intact. Dixon pinched the bridge of his nose again - a common habit when he went on a run with Mason - and sighed heavily.
"You... scratched yourself." Dixon sighed. "Okay... are you done screaming?"
"No, I'm not fucking done! This shit hurts!"
"Your little bitty scratches?"
"The fucking BRINE, asshole!"
"God, you're right. That must be awful."
"... Are you antagonizing me?"
"Not at all, Princess. You need me to come up there and rescue you?"
"... I will fucking shoot you, Dix."
Word Count: 572
Author's Note: There aren't words for how much I love my UVTA cast.
"Remind me again why I let you do shit like this?" Dixon asked as he watched Mason clamber up the tall metal racks. Each of his clumsy movements echoed through the vast warehouse-store, playing tricks on Dixon's ears and making him glance nervously around for movement. "And can you hurry it up?"
"Hurrying up is pretty much the opposite of what I should be doing," Mason called down. He reached for a handhold on the shelf above him and succeeded only in hauling down a large box of paper towels, which crashed to the ground just a few feet from where Dixon stood. "Oops."
"Okay, you know what, this whole thing is a bad idea," Dixon said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Just come down, will you?"
"Dude, I just climbed twenty feet of fucking tilted shelving racks. I'm not coming down." He paused and sneezed explosively. "Though, could you be a doll and wander over to the pharmacy? I could really use some Claritin."
"There's a pharmacy in here?"
"Seriously, have you lived under a rock? There's everything here." It took some work, but Mason finally managed to get up onto the top of the forty foot unit, and spent a few moments twisting the kinks out of his back from his awkward climb. "That was fun," he said, cracking his neck. "Always wanted to do that." He pulled his knife from his pocket and stepped carefully to the boxes that had caught his attention, the whole structure creaking under his weight. "Looks like someone was up here already," he said. "Some of the boxes are open." He paused, staring at his feet. "Not too long ago either. There's some broken bottles, still wet."
"Trapped?" Dixon asked. "Because it's not worth -"
"Nah, just scavengers." Mason crouched at the box, vanishing from Dixon's sight. "Catfish in brine," he read. "Gross, but edible, I guess."
"That's a bit of a stretch," Dixon called, smiling despite himself. "I'm sure I can do something with it, though."
"Thank fuck. If I have to eat crackers one more fucking meal I just might - MOTHERFUCKER!" There was an abrupt scuffle of movement, followed by several broken jars of salted fish rolling off the top of the shelving unit like jagged missiles. Dixon had to jump back to avoid them, though his pants were still splashed with the cloudy, strong-smelling water.
"What happened?" he called, listening to the tirade of cursing from above him. "Mase?"
"Son of a BITCH!" Mason roared, and hurled another of the broken bottles off the top of the shelves. It sailed over the next two units and exploded with spectacular noise out of Dixon's sight.
"Stop ringing the fucking dinner bell!" Dixon snapped in aggravation. "What's going on?"
"Fucking scratched myself!" Mason barked.
"You... what?"
"There's a ton of fucking broken bottles and I scratched myself and... FUCK!" He hurled another jar of fish, this one entirely intact. Dixon pinched the bridge of his nose again - a common habit when he went on a run with Mason - and sighed heavily.
"You... scratched yourself." Dixon sighed. "Okay... are you done screaming?"
"No, I'm not fucking done! This shit hurts!"
"Your little bitty scratches?"
"The fucking BRINE, asshole!"
"God, you're right. That must be awful."
"... Are you antagonizing me?"
"Not at all, Princess. You need me to come up there and rescue you?"
"... I will fucking shoot you, Dix."