Archive of Our Own ^beta

Mutfruit isn’t very heavy—about the same as a deck of cards or a chicken egg. It grew everywhere outside the Institute, but it hadn’t always been around. Before, there were apple trees, and that fruit was supposed to be very red and crisp, at least according to Shaun’s encyclopedia.

Shaun thought it was pronounced “mutt-fruit”, but Dad called it “mute-fruit”, so Shaun didn’t make that make mistake again. The mutfruit Dad gave him wouldn’t irradiate you, he said, unless you pick it somewhere in the wild, where all sorts of things came up through the roots. But Shaun wouldn’t do that. He didn’t want to turn into a ghoul and lose his nose. Adults told him he had a nice nose.

The encyclopedia said mutfruit tasted sweet. But when Shaun bit into it, it wasn’t sweet like a Nuka-Cola or Fancy Lads Snack Cakes. It tasted like honey left under the bed, and breaking its skin felt like tearing through a sheet of paper. Shaun liked mutfruit more than carrots.

“Can I try the tato next?” Shaun asked, licking the watery juice from his fingers. Droplets of it fell down to the wooden dock they were sitting on and left dark little circles. But the lake had already gotten the boards all wet from the bottom, so it didn’t matter much at the end of the day.

Dad looked over at Deacon and they both laughed, because Shaun was silly and said many silly things. He was new to the Wasteland after all. Dad and Deacon laughed together like two birds singing back and forth.

“If you want to, kid,” Deacon said. He was wearing his hair today.

Dad, who wore the same hair every day, shoved Deacon with his shoulder and said, “No, no, you don’t want to try a tato.” His eyes crinkled behind his black-rim glasses that made him look cool.

If Dad said so, it must be true, but how would Shaun ever stop being silly if he didn’t try things? “Please?” One day, Shaun wouldn’t sound squeaky anymore. He would talk like Dad and Deacon and people would listen.

“C’mon, he’s got two digits in his age now,” Deacon said, “he’s big enough to try tatos.”

“One-zero,” Shaun agreed, crossing his arms. He knew that being Shaun was important, and that sometimes stopped all the “no”s.

Dad reached into the pocket sewn into his blue Vault suit and brought out a small, red-orange fruit.

“That’s just a tomato,” Shaun said, remembering page ninety-two. “Like from before the war.”

“I wish.” Dad’s hand was rough compared to Shaun’s and much bigger, because that was what the wasteland did.

Shaun turned the fruit over in his soft hands. Its skin was tight and tough and shiny. In the Old World, people made tomato sauce and ate it with spaghetti. Tomatoes were supposed to be tasty and a little sour.

“You don’t have to eat it,” Deacon said. Maybe he’d forgotten what it’s like to not know things, so Shane didn’t explain why he had to.

“Yes, I do.” Shaun took a bite. He grimaced and passed the fruit back. The inside was wet and crunchy and tasted like pepper. Dad had to eat this to survive. It was sad but true, and one day Shaun would have to eat tatos too.

He washed the bitter taste down with a can of purified water. “Did you have to eat these to survive?” he asked Deacon. Deacon always said that he was a pathological liar, but if he was a liar why would he tell anyone? So Shaun trusted him anyway.

“Sure did. Food out here gets a lot worse than mutfruit,” he said. Dad nodded, so Deacon couldn’t be lying this time.

“Like what?” Back home—Shaun’s old home that was a crater in the ground now—everyone ate one thing.

Deacon rolled back the sleeves of his plaid shirt as if remembering wasn’t a job one did with their sleeves down. “Let’s see. Bloatfly meat, that’s a classic.”

“Dog,” Dad adds. He switches the radio softly drifting from his Pip-Boy to a different station. Shaun didn’t understand why it was on if it was always the same songs, but Dad said he needed it.

“Okay, you spoiled fuck, some of us grew up eating dog.” Deacon swatted Dad playfully with the back of his hand.

“Hey!” Dad swatted him back. He didn’t like it when people said “fuck” around Shaun, even though Shaun knew what it was. He’d even said it before, really quietly, just to see what it felt like.

“Cussing is the least of Shaun’s worries,” Deacon said. The dock creaked under him as he adjusted his posture.

“I guess you’re right,” Dad agreed, and they were all quiet while the generators rumbled behind them. Shaun thought about what happened across the other side of the lake. All he could see were trees and stone walls that looked like they were part of a castle. Shaun imagined that people lived there and that they were eating something nice right now, right as the three of them sat on the side of the lake.

“Where are we going next?” Shaun asked and looked over the horizon that ran in a circle all around them. It was very open out here. If the surface was a plate, Shaun was a little green pea.

“Well, where do you want to go?” Dad asked.

The sunrise made everything look a little pink and worth visiting. Even the ripples of water picked up the color of the cotton-candy clouds in small glimmers. Even the boathouse seemed nice right now, even though it smelled like fish and radiation, and Shaun hoped there were more places out there that didn’t smell like either.

Shaun couldn’t help feeling empty looking at the gnarled, leafless trees and the metal and concrete ruins that covered the landscape, stretching maybe all the way to the other side of the continent. There had to be a place somewhere with green, leafy trees and houses with white trim and clean, unbroken windows. Everything here looked like a big animal had chewed it up and spit it out.

“I don’t know,” Shaun mumbled. “I only know two places, and you know a million.” He’d been to the Railroad headquarters and the boathouse and walked the roads in between, but everything looked sort of the same to him.

“I can tell you more places.” Dad was soft and giving like a food synthesizer. Shaun hoped he never made him leave.

“Okay…” Shaun treasured the opportunity and mulled over all he’d learned about the surface. “What about Africa? Do they have an Institute there?”

“Probably not,” Deacon chuckled, “although you never know these days.” He leaned against Dad’s shoulder because they were companions. “We could tell you more about a place one of us has actually been.”

Shaun blushed, even though Dad said there was nothing wrong with stupid questions. “Where did you come from?” he asked Dad.

“Lotta answers to that.” He took a chalky red tablet out from his tin of Mentats, and Deacon quirked his lip in disapproval although he didn’t say anything. Dad let the tablet melt on his tongue before answering. “I could show you the Vault or Sanctuary Hills.”

Shaun imagined green grass and willow trees and a creek with salamanders in it. He’s always wanted to see a salamander up close and not just in a book. “Let’s go to Sanctuary,” he said. It sounded safe.

“Fine by me.” Dad said and kissed Deacon before he got up, because they both liked sniper guns and picking locks and helping synths. Shaun dipped his foot a tiny bit into the lake water because there was no way water could have radiation in it.