If they didn't have a theme and he a job and hobby, Thorin would've been labeled a hoarder. The little extension from his room/home/hovel provided enough means to do basic repair work on cyborgs and androids. He didn't have the means to soup up anyone like a Tuner could but then again, his focus had always been to get someone (or something) running again.
That had been his purpose. It just needed to be refined. It felt good to have a goal again.
Soldering stunk to high heaven but he didn't bolt too much, hot wire melting into a perfect steely pearl on a circuit board. It was an off day for him, allowed a bit of reprieve from almost being choked by a man having a seizure in one of the tents. His throat was still red in some parts around his Adam's apple, shown better with his beard restrained. Now, he was content to work on bringing a little patrol drone back to life, something of a pet project. It flew fairly low to the ground as is, but with enough tinkering, he could probably get it to ho-
Ploop.
"Oh goddammit."
He put the gun back, dusting off a fresh, wet spit of bird poop on his shoulder, the bird's silhouette passing through one of the many holes over his garage. Someone, somewhere had to have considered it good luck; he mostly considered it a nuisance.
"That's a good look for you," a voice called out, sultry and playful tones. Dark eyes admired him from afar, a small frame to follow in the form of Blanca, her lips curved in amusement. Her visits were never timed and often spontaneous, prompted, if anything, by a restless need to be with someone. It wasn't loneliness; it was wanting to be wrapped in conversation to pass the time.
She picked up a wrench, barely noticing the grease that coated her fingers. "Have you considered patching your roof, old man?" An odd nickname— she was, she imagined, probably as old in spirit.
Thorin slowly turned to look at her, a smirk as dry as the abandoned oil barrels in the yards. "No, sugartits, I don't really mind being rained on while I sleep."
Stubborn like an old mule, Thorin looked up to the sky, squinting. Pigeons sat, roosting over the holes and cooing, their cries projected down into the belly of the building. He'd have to find boards or rotted shingle sheets, or else cobble something out of metal scraps for the holes. It would look stupid as all fuck, but it was either that or be susceptible to disease. He heard of various craftsmen and carpenters in the area, but he had about as much faith in them as Jhator did for the Sky people.
That was probably a little harsher than expected. Not by much though.
"What brings you here, darlin," he drawled, not really a question but more of an attempt at socializing. No answers came out of anyone in Descoria, nowhere really. Medicine's answer as of late preceded one question: are they alive or dead? This guest was debatably a little of both: taut muscle and supple flesh on the outside, decidedly less functional on the inside as her cogs turned back the clock and renewed her grin.
One heavy heel scraped the concrete below, followed by the next as Blanca approached with fingers grasping a cigarette to press to her lips. "I came to lick the grease and oil off you," she purred back, sarcasm present where expected. The wrench was tossed to him, and cigarette moved to be lit. "Be a dear and rip off all of your clothes, hot stuff."
He caught it as he sauntered to her, looking her up and down. She was good-looking, damned good-looking at that and he was as much of a hot-blooded man as any other, but opportunities presenting themselves as naked and bare usually came with strings attached.
None here what so ever, just silver tongues and sharp wit.
"How sweet of you, peekon, but grease and oil will either kill you or make you fat, and I'm sure Jhator wouldn't appreciate either option," he murmured, closer to her than he had been in some time. He gave a little huff, blowing the smoke away. And to that she smiled, plush lips curving.
"The more to hold onto, the better, I'd say," she shot back with no heat as she came in even closer, no stranger to close proximity. The heels gave her the slight advantage of being able to reach his face, to press a sound, smoky kiss to one grizzled cheek. "No one likes a stick. I'll come squash you the moment I gain some extra pounds."
A playful smirk that had the slightest sheen of teeth crept under his moustache, looking up and down Blanca. His glances were less predatory and more probing, gauging her movements as if all these thinly-disguised barbs implied ulterior motives. This was mostly Jhator's woman, after all, and Thorin had lived long enough that the company one kept spoke volumes of the person involved.
This wasn't war, but a game. Just to pass time.
He clicked his tongue. "Darlin, you'd have to eat several pigs beforehand. Dick don't count either unless you actually eat it with everything else."
He gave another cursory glance as he took his turn to invade her space, finger combing tresses that framed her beautiful face. He pinched and rolled her split ends between his fingertips, the prints familiar with the keratin. "A man can die happy, crushed to death by a woman..."
Not quite truth, not quite power game. Nonetheless, the former bounty hunter wasn't about to surrender, her hand drifting to Thorin's throat to casually graze nails over his jugular, one part warning and two parts playful. She knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, anything untoward would be met with her fist in his eye socket, or worse by the leader she shared a bed with.
But there was no fear of crossing a line as Blanca allowed another smile. "What a shameful way to go, scruffy."
He cracked, a snort that dissolved into a chuckle as her fingernails all but tickled his throat. "Oh, Blanca, of all the names to go for..."
Always put him in mind of an abandoned, shaggy mutt succumbed to mange. What an apt description had this been four years ago, when he had been a shell-shocked meat sack laying on the ground. Now, with feet and teeth, he grinned, still keeping some distance as their game wrapped mechanic and whore closer to each other. "What'd you come to see me for, darlin'? You or Jha need something?"
The charade was broken as the harlot shrugged, scritching him with amusement beneath the chin as one might a stray dog. "Nope," she admitted, stepping past to draw the burning cigarette back to her lips for a deep inhale and exhale toward the unpatched ceiling. "Making the rounds. Criticizing your roof." A grin, and she peered upward.
The pigeons still watched with those ugly, red eyes of theirs, cooing the seconds by.
Thorin clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Point me in the direction of a half-decent roofer and I'll get on it, 'less you wanna tanned medic up there."
The comment was probably tasteless. Blanca gave no indication of thinking so, however; she snorted, picking up another wrench and twirling it around one slim pinky finger. "What a hard life you lead, being afraid of the sun. Wear a bodysuit if tanning is your biggest worry," she muttered around her cigarette. "But if I ever need to skin you and dry your hide, I know exactly where to put you."
Speaking of tasteless.
Inhale. Exhale.
"Nah, just realizing I can't make everything a pet project."
I don't need to explain trauma as the basis of my fear. The fewer that know, the better.
"Make a nice pair of work boots out of me if you do. Consider it a dying wish."
"My size? Puts a whole new meaning to wearing you out."
Thorin gave a good, hearty laugh. "Long as you don't have some kind of athlete's foot, you can wear me to your heart's content. What's left anyway."
There was even steel platings behind her, aside scrap metal and wire in the roundabout excuse of a shelf. Bits of paper and various baubles, notes taken and evidence that he had a life before all this. Without a care as to the placement of anything, his dark-haired guest succumbed to a crooked smirk, shifting and hopping up onto a counter to place her smaller frame upon it. The heels of her boots banged into a cupboard below.
"What's left of my heart or what's left of you?" She blew smoke in his direction, laughing through the haze of it.
He snorted, letting her laughter fill his ears as the smoke traveled through his nostrils and lungs. Her boots had jarred open a drawer but nothing of importance was in it. More screws, drivers, and various parts to repair a cyborg to working condition. His eyes met hers, biting the inside of his cheek.
"Yeah."
He looked back at the splayed open drone, its casing with oil-slicked circuit boards, misplaced resistors. It was a mess, like this room. Like his head. "I should get back to fixing that."
The lack of a straight answer didn't faze Blanca; if anything, it made more sense that way, as if the vagueness spoke for itself: both were true. Smoke was blown thoughtfully toward the ceiling, to escape through the patches into the sky, and she tapped her boots together, heels clacking. "Take it that's my 'Get the fuck out'?"
Inhale.
Exhale.
"Don't know if you're one for awkward silences 'cause I ain't."
He was doing so- there wasn't time for that. No time to beat himself up. He was too old, too smart, too experienced to know that that didn't do anything for anyone. Four years ago, he would've self-flagellate with the best of them. Now, he kept busy with work, with lives.
Busy with everything but healing.
His back worked with him while his heart and head were very much against him, his jaws starting to lock. Time slowed, somewhere between an awkward silence and the unsettling feeling that he was unraveling. Tricks of the mind were nasty things though.
That pair of watchful eyes trailed over him, reading that which wasn't readily apparent in his face but everywhere in how his posture had changed ever so slightly. Enough for her to take notice. The cigarette, though unfinished, was dutifully put out against the top of the packet protruding from her coat pocket.
"Silences are only awkward if you make them awkward," Blanca pointed out matter-of-factly, more reasoning than criticising, expression softening briefly as she dropped down to the floor once more. "You asked me why I came: because I wanted to make sure you weren't working yourself to death." The ex-bounty hunter, who could fire off a dozen rounds without batting a lash, drew close to brush her lips over his cheekbone.
"Some people still want you around, you know."
Soft words, soft lips, soft flesh. Soft teases in the middle of the night after a good round, soft touches with the tiniest nail scrape. "Like you?" he asked-but-not-quite, echoing their earlier teasing.
Playfully and with gentle fingers, she flicked at his forehead, the beginnings of a warmer smile forming. "Do you really have to ask, stupid?"
Tongue clicking, he backed his head away, play-biting at her fingers. "Rhetorical question, babe."
He smiled though, genuine despite closed lips. "Thank you for answering."
He didn't really want her to go though. Not now, not four years ago. He looked back up at the pigeons and without a second thought, pursed his lips together and whistled. They cooed but stayed, blinking down at the two like feathered voyeurs. He looked back down and tugged at the shoulder of his shirt, the white staining. He'd wash it out later.