"Hey, sleeping beauty," growled a familiar voice from above, "rise and shine."

"No," she grumbled into her pillow, reaching to swat whoever it was away, "leavmelon."

Suddenly, she felt the mouth of an inhaler being pressed against her mouth. She obediently inhaled, but snuggled even deeper into her sleeping bag with nothing but a coughing fit as a thank you. She got a decent minute more of R&R before her sleeping bag was roughly unzipped and peeled back. All she could do was screw her eyes shut and mewl for mercy. Her assailant gave no quarter; however, and she was seized by strong arms and set on her feet. Slowly, she opened her eyes to find none other than the infamous John Hancock himself, king of rude wake-up calls.

"It's past noon you filthy lush," he scolded as she grabbed the offered sunglasses and attempted to put them on without stabbing her eyes out. She sniffed self-importantly, holding a hand out for her sleeping bag. Instead, he held out another inhaler.

"Plus, it's no fun to wake-n-bake alone..." he said cloyingly, making a face that was both slightly repulsive and very endearing at the same time. He was a walking talking conundrum.

Nora took the offered Jet with as much dignity as she could muster and took a hit indignantly. Hancock watched, a funny looking smirk on his face, until he took out one of his special inhalers and took a hit himself.

"Naughty boy," Nora purred, "what on earth would your mother say I she could see you now?"

"Aw c'mon pops, I can quit anytime."

"Good one."

They stayed in that half-rotted cottage until nightfall, huffing and puffing and carrying on like the apocalypse hadn't happened and there wasn't a broken world waiting outside their door. By the time they finally hit the road, high out of their minds and laughing like a couple of dopey kids it was already nightfall. It didn't really bother the pair; they were used to traveling under cover of night. They usually tried to be more alert and take precautions when taking chem breaks, but they were already too far gone at that point.

"Wait wait wait," Nora slurred, setting down her bottle of rum to rummage around in her pack. Hancock was still laughing at the last thing he'd said, and started took a swig of his own whiskey bottle to keep from coughing like he was wont to do. Finally, after much rummaging and swearing like a sailor, Nora pulled out a couple of Med-X, holding them up to her mouth like a walrus.

"Guess what I am," she said, chuckling madly, "you have three chances."

"Mmmm," Hancock hummed, gently stroking his rough chin, "I'm gonna have to think about this one."

Nora tried to help by making these weird noises that could have been either a menacing growl or indigestion. It made them both break down for a minute, diverting the challegne.

"Deathclaw but with drugs. Drugclaw."

Nora giggled in a very un-Nora way and shook her head.

"Ok, ok...uh...Yao Guai with really long teeth."

"Nooo," Nora sighed, "think monsters that look like people not animals."

Now Hancock was really stumped.

"Elder Maxson? Hell, I give up," he sighed, defeated.

"Drugula," Nora exclaimed, baring her syringe teeth once more before packing them back up, "you know about the story of-"

"Yeah, Dracula," Hancock finished, "Yeah, this kid I used to hang with back in my Diamond City days told it to us. I think that was the first time I used Daytripper."

They settled back into a comfortable pace, debating what chems were best. Hardmode: no personal recipes or mixes like Buffjet, etc. They were really getting into the debate between Buffout and Psycho before either of them realized they were being followed.

"Act natural, don't stop walking," Nora hissed, causing Hancock to stop guffawing and stiffen up, "There aren't very many from what I can tell, but they've got the drop on us. Slowly, draw your weapon, safety off."

She followed her own directions, slowly drawing her trusty 10mm out of its holster and ticking off the safety. A few more steps, and they were both ready.

"Three...two...one," she whispered, eyes going cold and flinty with determination.

They both whipped around, guns trained on their pursuers, who seemed scared stiff even though their own weapons were drawn and at the ready. This would be a cakewalk as far as Hancock was concerned. Nora could talk her way out of a paper bag.

"Alright, boys," she purred, casually advancing with a sort of catlike grace that was both hot and really intimidating at the same time, "why don't you drop those pea shooters and scram. My associate and I don't take kindly to party crashers."

"A-alright lady, we don't want no trouble," said the one to the right, beginning to lower his firearm slowly, his other raised high in surrender. His partner hissed something at him, obviously pissed.

"Hey pal, didn't you hear the nice lady?" Hancock growled, cocking his gun menacingly, "She asked you to drop the gun."

There seemed to be some serious internal debate going on, but as soon as the stranger began to raise his gun, he was filled with buckshot. His friend yelped and ran off, hands high above his head as he faded back into the dark night. Wordlessly, they waited until his retreating figure was beyond their sights, then made to scavenge what they could from the corpse. The boy didn't have much but the gun and no more than a few .308 rounds. Looked like he was new to the ways of the wasteland, barely a man no more than 19 years old. Hancock sighed as he finished patting the kid down. He hated times like these. He'd had no choice, but it didn't make the bitter pill any easier to swallow. Time was the only thing that made it easier.

"Hey John let's hit the road," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Who you callin' John, you lowlife," he said playfully, hitting the road, "The name's Hancock."

"Read as: king of the losers."

"Fucking stoner piece of shit; codename Nora."

"Bitch! That's what you are but what am I."

"No one uses that line after their balls drop."

"Yeah but what am I?"

"Human trash."

"But what am I?"

"Making an ass out of yourself."

"Bingo," Nora giggled, "Do you want a prize?"

"Is it a brand new car?"

"Nope. You get a raise," she said, chucking a bottle of the good wine at him. He caught it deftly, whistling slowly.

"Sister keep this up, and you'll have yourself an honest-to-god lackey on your hands," he joked, sticking his combat knife into the bottle to try to dislodge the cork.

"Just what I needed," she said, squinting into the rising sun, "another poor sonovabitch blindly following me around."

"Call me Preston."

A/n: I'm going somewhere with this I promise.