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The kid’s never been to a fair, hell, she’s never seen one. Of course she hasn’t, the majority of her life was spent on a lifeless rock where the kids improvised fun out of maze-like vents and made playgrounds out of construction zones. But she’s never even heard of one, there weren’t any pictures of them in all the books she read about Earth. So no clue as to what a ferris wheel is, the gimmick about those obviously-rigged games with prizes you can get a dollar store ( and that he stubbornly plays anyways ) and, worst of all, never experienced the heavenly taste of fried anything -- even things you didn’t think could be fried, but are.
Fuckin’ colonists.
He’s not going to say that out loud, he’s not stupid. But that doesn’t change the fact that that was the first thought that came to his mind during that conversation. At least he got her interests piqued, at least she started bombarding him with questions after that. That in itself was progress; Newt’s still not very talkative, she otherwise keeps to herself and never strays far from the legs of either Ripley or Hicks. At least it’s not like she doesn’t like him, she thinks he’s funny and he can get a laugh out of her ( at the cost of a look of disapproval from Ripley -- he really does need a filter on that mouth of his ) but this is something else.
“A county fair is about as American as apple pie.” he tells her, but she doesn’t quite understand that either. Those big blue eyes are glued on him, and she’s deep in thought for a moment.
“I like apple pies.” she finally replies, hesitantly. It must’ve been the right answer, because she can see that grin on his face spread from ear to ear.
“Well shit! Then you’ll like the fair!” Is that generalization based on two inequivalent objects? Maybe. Does he give a shit? No. If he’s ever been so determined about being right with something, it’s this. She needs something like this, needs some fun in her life, something to give back after everything that’s happened in the few months past. He can’t fix her, no, but he’d like to give her a piece of childhood back. “And lucky for you, kid, it’s comin’ soon.”
Heh. Comin’ .
Nah, better keep his mouth shut on that one.
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Hudson liking kids isn’t all that surprising. He has a generally friendly and laid back demeanor, in spite of his arrogance, so sometimes kids seem to think he’s one of them. He’d liken himself a fun parent, the kind that sucks at saying no and has a good reputation among his kid’s friends; come to think of it, he’d prefer the title of a cool parent. But when he said all of this aloud once to the squad, he’d never seen so many faces turn white with sheer fear; geez, it’s a wonder why he couldn’t he get them to near-piss themselves like that when he tried telling scary stories. He didn’t get it, at first, not until one of them spoke up.
“Don’t you ever fuckin’ reproduce, man.”
His memory’s a bit groggy, but he’s fairly sure Drake said that; cold, dead-panned, as serious as can be. Yeah, musta been him. Because he can remember looking at Vasquez, then back at him, and replying; “Likewise.”
Ahh wait. Now he remembers. The memory’s repressed because of the pain that followed; Vasquez kneeing him right where the light don’t shine. She did damage on him for sure. His balls didn’t drop for a week after that.
( He made a joke recently to Hicks; that he’s gonna have an army of kids, to replace all their lost friends, name ‘em after every lost comrade. Needless to say, Hicks did not laugh. )
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Okay. So maybe the cool parent title is off the table, for the moment.
He can be a cool uncle of sorts, can’t he? He can damn well try, yeah. He likes Newt, and Newt likes him -- kinda, sorta? Yeah. And he owes it to her, for all the nonsense crap back there on LV-426. God, talking about losing his goddamn shit, and in front of a kid . Said kid keeping her cool for about ninety percent of the duration. He’s gotta make up for that at least.
What works anyhow? He toys with the thought. Uncle Hudson? Uncle Bill? Christ, no. Absolutely not. Forget it. She’s been calling him Hudson since day one, and it can stay that way.
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On one hand, it’s a fantastic idea.
On the other hand, oh boy, he can sense that forthcoming but .
It’s not that Ripley dislikes him either. That’s really not the case. Sure, he’s like every rowdy teenage boy she’s ever dealt with combined into one singular being -- said being an adult, somehow , in his late twenties -- but he’s got a heart of gold, he means well. It’s not him. It’s more to do with the reasonable paranoia; that ol’ us against the world motto. Or the feeling of doom and gloom, that someday, somehow they’ll return. He doesn’t prod her about it, it doesn’t even need to be said. He gets it.
( Or maybe it’s the fear he’ll lose control or something; he’ll just start breaking down, or he’ll forget he’s keeping company of a nine year old and not friends his age, or just something so stupidly irresponsible that it sounds Hudson-like. Because apparently, there’s a type associated with him and him only. )
Ripley closes her eyes, her features are stern and they don’t match the niceness in her tone of voice. “Don’t stay out too late.”
At last, approval. Even though it sounds like she’s somewhat begrudgingly resigning to it, at least the smile on her face is warm. There’s a hint of sadness in her eyes, maybe over how she hadn’t thought of this first, or how she’s incapable of going with them at this last second. She’s working with some loading dock company that’s got screwed up hours, non-negotiable for sure, that makes the decent pay’s worth questionable. But the company’s name is free from any attachments to Weyland-Yutani, and that will have to suffice for now.
“F -”
“And don’t feed her too much crap.”
Thank god for that interruption, because Hudson’s enthusiastic choice of words would have been a poor one. All of this progress would’ve gone right down the drain. So he keeps his big mouth shut and nods along, eagerly. It’s funny, the way she’s talking to him right now like she’s a mom. After all, ain’t she old enough to be his grandma technically? A smoking hot one for that age, sure, but… nah. He’ll drop the thought, this is Hicks’ girl. And the likes of Ripley would eat him alive anyways.
“Yes ma’am.” is all he says, with a mock salute.
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“So,” he pipes up as he’s parking the car in the already packed lot. He looks up, adjusting the rear view mirror to the sight of her. She looks comically small in the backseat there, and as nervous as a first-time actor with stage fright. “Whaddya wanna do first?”
“I don’t know.” she replies, keeping her eyes firmly glued to her lap as she twiddles her fingers together. “What do you want to do first?”
“I dunno.” he shrugs playfully. “This is your day, kid. What do you wanna do?”
Like a broken record on repeat, she tells him once more; “I don’t know. What do you wanna do?”
Oh. It’s gonna be one of those conversations, huh? Except it’s not one of those with Newt, it’s a first. Has she ever really talked like this to anyone? She actually sounds like a kid, for once.
This goes on for another minute or so, back and forth in an uninterrupted flow. He counts six times total that he’s repeated the question, in a different sing-song tone each time; she’s not really getting the memo here. Maybe she’s not even teasing at all. Is she really that unsure?
“Kid, we’re killin’ time here.” he sighs, unintentional Southern drawl slipping out on that sentence. “The lines are gonna get long as hell, the longer we stay here.”
“You’re the one making me plan.” she reminds him, finally looking up in the direction of the mirror where his eyes are. “I thought we could just pick things and go.”
Well, shit. Got him there.
“Alright.” Now he’s settled on it, unbuckling his seatbelt. She quickly follows suit, with a hint of a smile on her face when he says; “Y’got me there.”
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( It’s simple, he has a very simple list of things to keep track of; the kid, his wallet, his USCM hat, and shades. All in that order of importance. )
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For him, it’s pure nostalgia. It takes him back to childhood summers, the best part of it. Even when times were tough and money was tight, his family found a way to save up for this sort of event. It was worth it, every penny of it. He takes in the smell of fried food, the admittedly creepy but cheery tunes coming from the rides, and can’t help but laugh he hears the sound of kids screaming on the wooden coaster.
Newt? Not so much with that last part.
Out of nervous habit, she clutches onto his hand. For a moment, he’s taken back and it shows on his expression despite the shades. Luckily, it doesn’t take him long to put two and two together. So he kneels down to her height -- not to be condescending, but ‘cause the park’s loud as shit and she might not hear him -- and lifts his shades up.
“Hey,” he squeezes her hand reassuringly. “Don’t worry. We don’t gotta go on that one if you don’t wanna. ‘Kay?”
Wordlessly, she nods.
Not to pat himself on the back, but he thinks he’s got this kid thing down to a T. Now his racking through his brain, tryna think what sorta ride is considered level 1 ( or even level 0, in her case ) that isn’t one of the kiddie rides for ages three and under. Unless she wants that, he ain’t judging. It’s just that those are the ones with the highest chance of smelling like vomit, or worse.
“Hudson?” Newt’s voice draws him back to reality. She points ahead of their direction to a sign with flashing lights. “What are bumper cars?”
Oh baby. Can you hear that 'Ode to Joy' choir playing?
William Hudson: Ultimate Badass, for sure. But also little known Champion at Bumper Cars. Any and all who ever challenged him in his childhood were fucking decimated. He intends to keep that title too.
( Okay: he’s not gonna destroy Newt. He’ll give her a fair chance, let her win a few times. And then… )
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Spoiler Alert: That kid’s a fast learner apparently.
She was a little hesitant on the pedal at first, a little jumpy and jolting each time she pressed further. With everybody being keen on getting on the coaster, there wasn’t too many people on the floor with the cars, but still enough for someone to bump into her every now and then. At first, he could see her wince once or twice. Ah hell, he even got along in teasing her a bit -- knocking gently into her car and saying; “C’mon Newt, step on it!”
One experimental push on the pedal, and she crashes right into him. Except instead of jolting forward as badly as before, she had a white-knuckle grip on the wheel. But even that loosened after it happened. Newt seemed to take in one deep breath, and suddenly a look of determination emerged.
Uh oh. He’s created a monster.
( Someday, Hicks is gonna fucking kill him for this, when the unfortunate day comes that he’s gonna teach her how to drive. Because this is her only experience now. )
The kid is persistent like a leech. There’s not a second spent thereafter where his car is free to roam about, she just keeps crashing her vehicle right into his over and over. Even with little speed built-up, she’s still beating the hell outta him. So much for that champion title, huh?
She’s right up his ass, crashing into his bumper, when she mercilessly teases him in a sing-song tone; “C’mon Hudson, step on it!”
Oh, you little shit.
“Hey I’m just letting you win!” he cries -- liar liar, pants on fire; a twenty eight year old is getting his ass kicked by a nine and a half year old -- and struggles to regain control of this miniature vehicle which suddenly his legs feel so damn cramped in. “Now it’s game ON!”
It was not, in fact, game on. There never was a game to begin with. She made complete roadkill outta him.
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That was all it took for her to come out of her shell, because from there on out it was her sprinting off excitedly to each and every attraction that caught her eye. He’s on his toes keeping up with her -- his pleas for her to wait are futile -- she wants to experience it all . Except for the coaster, still no change in stance with that one. Otherwise it seems just about everything here lives up to her expectations ( if she had any; he wonders if she was expecting apple pie here because of his analogy ) even the freaking carousel . He didn’t hate the carousel per se, but it was hands down the most boring thing in the whole park. But this is new, magical territory for her. So you know what? Sure. Let her ride the goddamn magical unicorn in slow motion.
Actually, he’s a little grateful she enjoyed it. Because as soon as she hops off, he asks her the favor of getting back in line and getting on it again -- this time for pictures’ sake. He didn’t make any promises, but he feels like he kinda owes it Ripley.
Now, he’s not photographer. But there’s gotta be least ten decent pictures in his phone’s photo scroll after that of her smiling, mounting atop Winston ( yup, she found the time to name the damn unicorn after just two rides in ) and hell, he even got a video for the cinematic effect. It’s just a quick fifteen second video of her turning towards him and waving with one hand, the other clinging to the bar. He said hello, but she was too shy to speak up. The smile in response will suffice.
Just about anything that spins, zips, whirls, and so on forth is ridden at least once. The lines aren’t too terrible, not as compared to if he took her to one of those big name amusement parks, but it gets hotter as the day goes on. At one point, he takes his cap off and uses it as a makeshift fan for her. When she turns to look up and smile in his direction, he notices her squinting her eyes against the blaring sun. So now he has to sacrifice the convenience of his shades too, donating them to her for the day. Well, he really shouldn’t think of it as that, it’s not like she asked him. It was an obligation, a weakness, that sort of twinge-in-your-heart feeling when seeing a sad puppy commercial. He had to do something for her.
Afterwards, he buys her a colorful spray mist fan that’s supposed to light up, but it most certainly does not. But it does it’s main job, so it’s worth the overpriced buck of fifteen dollars. Okay so, he might or might not have argued with the vendor guy. Or not argue, as he’d call it, so much as question the prices.
( “Are you fuckin’ kidding me?” he’d said word for word. )
But it was a reasonable outrage.
Least the fella finally gave in and accepted a military ID discount. Of a measly three dollars that is. So twelve dollars burned on a plastic little fan running on a limited battery, surely to run out of power by the end of the day. It’s a pure, malicious, money-making scam.
Now that he’s gotten his honorable discharge, he can’t help but wonder if he needs to reevaluate his future plans about opening up a bar. Maybe he ought to change things up a bit, partner up with the likes of these vendor dudes and make a couple of extra bucks.
“Hey Newt,” he turns to her as they leave the vendor. “D’ya know what a scam is?”
The utmost unexpected reply came out of her mouth, in a voice as soft and angelic as can be.
“Corporations.”
If he were carrying anything in that moment, he would’ve dropped it instantly. This straight up one of those kids say the darndest things, so it can’t be helped that he replies; “Holy shit!”
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And yet, for someone was so vehemently outraged about these fair prices -- better yet, for someone with years of experience and awareness about the rigged grounds of the games -- he’d end this day with a purging his wallet, because why the hell not. In hindsight, he’ll look back and grumble over the stupidity. But it couldn’t be helped! Those vendors have some nice ass looking stuff, ridiculously super-sized stuffed animals and fascinating trinkets. Sure, sure, the games can be fun so long as one doesn’t try too hard; it’s a time-killer, really.
But Hudson was overwhelmed with that stubborn urge to be a try hard.
Blame it on the bear. Yes, one particular super-sized stuffed teddy bear with its beady black eyes of darkness staring right at him. It was speaking to him, challenging him. Fuck you it just seemed to say as it dangled from the ceiling hook with pride. People had came and went past the baseball toss vendor which it was on display at, yet all had failed to acquire it. Until now. No fuck you, was Hudson’s thought process which he thankfully did not say aloud.
He used to play little leagues for a few summers, and he was damn good at it. He’s in way better shape than what he was when he was a kid -- an amusing thought dawns on him, wondering if Newt would ever believe him if he told her that he used to be a chunky kid -- so his chances have got to be better. The objective is simple: knock down the milk bottles.
Y’know, if he can survive colony overrun by monstrous slithering creatures of another world, endure permanent scarring on his arm as a result of acidic blood as a cost for evading death as a whole, and make it out as said colony has an accidental countdown detonation then yeah . He can knock down some simple fucking bottles.
“Can I try?” Newt interrupts his internalized strategizing. Oh yeah, this whole event is about her after all. He can’t let a competitive spirit best that. She’s looking up at him from the comically big shades and hat ( yes; at some point he gave his hat up to her entirely ) with excitement.
He pats her on the shoulder, surrendering to the acceptance that they’re probably going to be here for a while battling it out with this bear. “Of course.”
Newt takes one of the baseballs with both of her hands and pauses, intending to aim. But when she throws, it comes up too short and misses the bottles by about a solid three feet. The shades don’t conceal her disappointment when she turns to Hudson, but he shrugs.
“Here, want the pros to handle it?” he feels bad, bad enough that he’s going to throw away this shot to make her feel good. So he aims a little higher and throws harder than needed, all purposely using his left hand as opposed to dominant right. Feigning disappointment of his own, he looks back at her again and shrugs in dismay.
Nope, she’s not buying. Not one bit.
“Hudson, you don’t have to play dumb for me just ‘cause I’m bad at it.” damn is she straightforward with that one. Then, to top it all of, the kid must be a freaking mind reader because suddenly she smiles coyly; “I really want the bear too.”
Kids are weird, man. They just say and know shit that they shouldn’t, or you think they wouldn’t get. And it’s times like these where Hudson wants five of them.
“Alright,” it’s settled. Now he’s circumducting his right arm, gotta stretch out the ol’ joints before going to town. “No more screwin’ around.”
Now he’s going for it, for real this time. The goal is set, he’s not leaving this spot until he is victorious. Even if it takes one, two, three! Three tries, ‘cause third time’s the charm. That’s fine, he’s satisfied. The alarm at the vendor gives a congratulatory ding, accompanied by the game host and Newt’s excited applause.
They look like royalty, with her head held high with pride in those shades and he effortlessly carrying a useless stuffed bear that’s almost her size.
This pattern of him winning games in her favor no matter the cost goes on for a while. It’s safe to say he rocked the water guns on the first try, as if that was ever going to be an issue. The balloon darts are a load of underinflated bullshit, but he nails it after four tries or so. Ring the bell? Got that on the first try too, after five minutes spent needlessly flexing muscles to showcase to absolutely no one. Don’t get him started on the whack-a-mole, for what it’s worth at least Newt’s a good callout after three trial-and-error attempts. And so on and so forth.
Newt’s prize collection is as follows: a four pack of colorful glow in the dark bracelets on her left wrist, a slap bracelet on the right, a green big bubble wand, bead necklaces, giant sunglasses which she allows Hudson to wear instead, a packet of fake tattoos, a yellow mega punch ball, an inflatable guitar because it ‘looks cool’, and of course the bear.
( A bear that is surprisingly nameless still. When questioned, she’d said that the name will come to her. )
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Nothing could prepare them for the motherload, no. The greatest glory of all, but at the cost of the greatest suffering.
Goldfish.
A fine companion that’ll last anywhere from a solid week to a couple of months, depending on one’s luck. Great at listening, not so much with communicating. Or entertaining. Or just about anything else, really. But when the sight caught her eye, it was game over. She’d come to a complete halt, and suddenly he felt a disturbance in the force. As though his wallet was about to take the beating of a lifetime.
Oh, fuck. It’s a ring toss. One of those seriously jacked up, obviously rigged kinds with too-small rings and too-large bottlenecks. The vendor standing there is looking mighty proud at his display, and the tankful of fish that has assumably yet to be won by anyone at all.
You’re all going home with Newt. he decided, and that was that. One glance back at her and it was over, this was a vow that couldn’t be undone.
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Goodbye $200.
Hello to Newt’s new thirty friends in a baggie.
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( And that’s not even counting the amount spent on an ungodly amount of fried foods; twinkies, oreos, hell this year there’s even fried ice cream. Ain’t that some kind contradiction? He wasn’t asking. )
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“I think I wanna try that.” she announces out of the blue, a split second and last minute decision at that. She’s looking up, in the general direction towards the mother of all things -- the coaster. With the hours waning down, the lines are slower and thus the wait time shorter.
“You sure?” he cocks his head to the side. He wants this to be a sound decision, and not something based off the possible nightmarish sugar high he’s placed her in; there’s a thought telling him that the real party will start tonight with that one, but by then she’ll be her parents’ problem.
She nods. “A-ffirmative.”
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Kid never backs down once when in line. Never has a moment has a hesitation or reaches out for his hand when waiting. She’s anxious as they’re seated in, but from there it was history. There’s nothing like seeing a kid’s face for the first time as the experience coaster waves.
It was a real blast, up until the end of it. Once they were out and about after exiting the ride, without warning she vomited.
“Fuck!” he yells, nearly dropping all the crap and the bear at once. Not the correct reaction, but the expletive is not unreasonable. He’s at her side in seconds, awkwardly rubbing her back.
She whips her head up, the glasses almost thrown off so he can get a view of that jitterish excitement brought on only by an unholy combination of candy and adrenaline. “Can we go again?!”
Luckily for him, he was shit outta cash to buy any more tickets.
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You know what? He did good. He did damn good. He’s nodding himself in approval over his own inner monologue, glancing at the rear view mirror every now and then. It’s a sight to behold in the backseat, Newt surrounded by the materialistic items and bear companion. Ah yes, the bear. That motherfucker. Fifteen minutes were wasted trying to find a way to compress this bear and stuff into the trunk, but it would not budge. It was settled without much of a choice, that this bear would be joining her in the other seat. The fish are in her lap, safe and secure, and luckily none have decided to flip upside down on this ride back. As for Newt herself, the kid crashed about a couple of minutes into the ride.
Yeah, he did real damn good.
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It sure is a sight for Hicks to behold at the doorstep.
Hudson -- or what’s recognizable enough to determine that it’s Hudson -- with a sunburnt face and donning shades. Newt’s out cold, a cap that’s clearly not hers is lopsided and close to falling off as she slumps lazily against his friend’s shoulder, but he’s balancing her with ease in one arm. There’s a bear apparently, wearing a lot of interesting fashionable choices ( plastic jewellry, namely ) that one can guess are all the other accumulated prizes, that almost comes up to Hudson’s waist despite it sitting. And in Hudson’s other hand is….
“Hey Hicks. I hope ya like fish, buddy.”
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fin.