Written for the Fallout Kink Meme in LiveJournal: I like the (oh so tiny)subtext that the game has about these 2, would any author anons like to expand on it? There are so many Lone Wanderer heavy stories, why not have 1 of these characters? Just in time for Rivet City appreciation too. Well, maybe about how they met up and started their store in Rivet City. But, I'm honestly happy with anything. :3

It's Flak'n'Shrapnel time again! These two need more prompts, in my oppninion!

The Problem with old Carlo had always been that he had been a bit soft in the head, not that this was really surprising in the hell of a world that was called the Capital Wasteland. What really was a problem was that Carl had really been keen on experimenting. And while experimenting is not a bad thing in itself it IS a problem when that loony who runs crazy experiments is a weapons dealer and can get his hands on almost unlimited amounts of explosives.

It was bound to happen sooner or later, and the only thing that was a comfort was that Carl had been running that particular experiment at night when the marketplace was empty, bar him, of course. After that it had been almost empty of everything else, and it had taken the Rivetians a couple of weeks until their marketplace had resembled its old self again. However, that had left them with one empty stall where the only things that had survived the carnage was an old couch and a cabinet that now sported burst and shattered glass doors and no weapon supply as most of Carlo's stock hadn't outlived its owner.

This in turn led to a very pissed off caravan merchant who had been standing there a few days later with his arms full of shit and no one to buy it and two pissed off guards who wanted their pay as they were sick of travelling and wanted to take a break somewhere. In the end, the solution was as simple as it was practical and suited all parties. The merchant got rid of his stuff as the two guards got their payment in kind and equipped with that the two men settled down in Rivet City as the new dealers in arms and armaments.

Since the Rivetians knew next to nothing of the two bad-ass wasteland mercs, apart from the fact that they had been caravan guards, most of them kept duly out of their way, as most people know a potentially dangerous man when they see one. There's always one, however, or in this particular case, a couple of those. Especially since a couple of Rivet City's female inhabitants had turned their heads to look at the two tanned, bearded and shaggy-haired mercs all too blatantly.
Flak and Shrapnel, known to no one with any other name, met that group of men one evening, a couple of weeks after their arrival, while trying to share a silent drink, when someone walked up to them with a purposeful clearing of his throat.

"What." Flak said. "What is your problem, fucktard."
The man cracked his knuckles. "We don't like your kind around here."
"Get lost", Flak replied in the feeble hopes of being able to finish his beer before things turned into a clusterfuck.
"Hey cocksuckers, licked some good dick lately?" Another man joined the first fucktard, crossing his arms.
Shrapnel and Flak exchanged a glance.
"Fags", the first one said. "Fucking fags."
Flak stood up with an exasperated shake of his head, looked at his beer with a wistful sigh and then, with a move so fast it made the other man flinch and lift his fists he smashed the bottle against the edge of the table. Looking up again Flak lifted the broken bottleneck.
"Say that again."

Behind him, Shrapnel slowly got out of the chair and, looking almost bored, patted his pockets until he found the right one, produced a pair of brass knuckles and slipped them on with a completely businesslike, matter-of-fact expression.

It soon became clear to the regulars that not only had the two been in a lot of dirty fighting, knowing all the moves and tricks, but that they had been in a lot of dirty fighting together. They stood back to back, always anticipating each other's moves, never getting into each other's way, and in general displaying a great range of skill.
The worst bit, however, was that when only one of the regulars was left standing they stopped fighting; adding to the humiliation of losing seven against two the even greater one that they showed the greatness of not fighting an outnumbered enemy.

The two left the Rudder a little bruised and battered but in a comparatively good mood, confident that the troublemaking fuckwits were no match for them.

"Think they learned the lesson?", Flak asked.
Shrapnel shrugged. "Not sure. That fucker what started the whole shit seemed too dumb to hit his nutsack with his dick."
"I say we showed them what's what, buddy."
"And I say we haven't heard the last of it."
They shared a grin.
"Bet?" Flak extended his hand.
Shrapnel took it. "Wager?"
"Dunno. Keep standing each other drinks all the time, so no point in that."
"Hair?"
"What?"
"Winner shaves loser." Shrapnel grinned.
"Nicely humiliating and no harm done." Flak grinned as well and they grabbed around each other's thumb before letting go.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Two nights later Flak and Shrapnel went to the Rudder again for a drink. It had been a hard and very long day after several caravans had arrived, and all they wanted was a nice and quiet beer before bedtime. Despite their bet from two days before they both were hoping for a quiet night, and as they settled down, things seemed peaceful enough. Not one of the regulars looked at them when Shrapnel bought their drinks and sat down again beside his friend.
Nursing their beers, the two sat silently at their table and almost managed to finish their bottles when, in some kind of silent agreement, the regulars got out of their chairs and as one, slowly walked over to their table.

Flak stared at them out of narrowed eyes with a twitch of his nostrils. Shrapnel in turn stared at Flak and shook his head while taking another sip out of his bottle.

"Oy", one of the regulars said. He sported a split eyebrow and a still swollen lip, and if Shrapnel remembered correctly, it was the fuckwit what had started the whole shit last time. It was also the same fuckwit that had run heads on into his brass knuckles and lost two teeth to it.
Shrapnel stared at him and shook his head. "Fuck off. Get lost."
"I'll tell you what", the guy said, either ignoring or misinterpreting Flak's deadly stillness. "I..."
"I wouldn't do that if I was you", Shrapnel said. "Really."
"See if I care", was the reply.
"I really wouldn't do that", Shrapnel said again after a glance at his friend from the corner of his eye.
"Yeah?" he crossed his arms. "Think you win again? This time we'll not be as friendly, you fags."
"Shit." Shrapnel looked at Flak again who was flaring his nostrils while clutching his bottle. "Now you've done it."
"And if you don't..." Whatever he had meant to say never came out because at that moment Flak's beer bottle burst in his hand. Just like that. He had squeezed his bottle into shards with one bare hand and now slowly got up, shaking the shards of glass from his fingers. The would-be attackers took a step or two back.

Flak cracked his knuckles with the other hand. "You've ruined my evening", he said with a deadly calm voice. "You've ruined my night, my beer, and you've lost me a fucking goddamn bet."
Shrapnel slipped his knuckles on and shook his head a third time. "Shouldn't have done that."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The sun was just rising the next day and the first rays of light reached the upper flight deck and the two men, one of them sitting bent over on a chair, the other standing before him.

"I hate teaching the same lesson twice", the sitting man said.
"And I really hate to do this, man", the other replied. "Let's just call the bet off and be done with it."
"No fucking way." Flak looked up with a crooked smile. "A man's a man, and a word is a word. And a bet is a fucking bet."
"If you say so."

A little later the rising sun topped the bridge tower; and out of the shadow that it cast several handfuls of dark hair drifted away in the morning breeze.

"That does it, then." Shrapnel switched the clippers off. "You look like shit, buddy."
Flak ran a hand over his head with an uneasy grin. "Feels like shit, too."
Shrapnel tilted his head with a frown. "You gotta do something about the beard, though. Looks like all the hair has been sliding down from your head and got stuck under your chin."
Flaks only answer was a snort when he got up and brushed stray hairs from his neck as best as he could. "I need a fucking shower."
"Yeah. Take a shave while you're at it."
"I'd like to keep some hairs, thanks. Or do I need to shave my crotch as well?"
"Well... that would certainly take care of the crab lice."
"Asshole."
"Shithead."
They shared a grin that turned into a chuckle.

When somewhat later Flak joined his friend again in the stall at the marketplace, Shrapnel mustered him with a thoughtful frown. "You know, that don't look too bad on you."
Flak ran a hand down his chin. "I thought so too. Think I'll keep it that way."
"It's certainly better than that rat nest you had before."
That earned him a mock cuff that he didn't bother to avoid. They shared another grin before Flak picked up a battered rifle to take it apart for salvageable bits.

The good thing about it was, though, that after the second drubbing no one dared to call Flak and Shrapnel fags ever again. Certainly not when they were within hearing range.