Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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If I never see you again
I will always carry you
inside
outside

on my fingertips
and at brain edges

and in centers
centers
of what I am of
what remains.
—Charles Bukowski, “if I never see you again”

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Looking Like You

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When Lucy MacLean wakes with the dawn, she’s no longer on the bed, but on the floor, in a different room of the house.

She blinks in the pale morning light, trying to make sense of her new location. The Ghoul had shown her the mattress last night, thin and stained as it was, before stalking off downstairs. Perimeter check, Lucy thinks, recalling her growing wastelander vocabulary. But did he come back later? Dump her here while she slept? If he wanted to move her, he’d prod her awake so she’d use her own darn legs.

Maybe this is retaliation for offering some of his vials to that pleading ghoul they passed on the road yesterday. She’d suggested one or two in a moment of pity, thinking of Martha and Roger, but the Ghoul had strode on as if he hadn’t heard her, saddlebag staying shut.

Well, whatever the reason, she’s here. Lucy stretches, sending joints creaking and popping in a way they never did before. It sounds like the wasteland had its way with her last night, chewing through her Vault dweller vitality. How much longer before the surface takes it all? Would she even be the same person once she catches up to her dad?

Mulling over fingers and honest exchanges, Lucy goes to check her Pip-Boy’s chronometer and gets a faceful of the Ghoul’s arm instead.

She stares, uncomprehending. Did—did he—why’s he beside her? He never lets her close at night, even when she’s cold and miserable, as if preferring to teach her suffering than extend an inch of comfort. Did he finally have a change in heart? Is that why she’s not shivering like usual?

Lucy scoots for space, unsure why he’s not saying anything, only for the Ghoul to match her movements.

She freezes. He does the same.

“Uhm,” she says, which is odd, because it’s the Ghoul saying it, but deeper, as if his voice’s inside her skull. “Uhhhhhm.”

Lucy sits, fighting for calm, and gapes in disbelief as the rest of his body sits too. She bends a knee and a pinstriped one does just that. She slaps a gloved hand to her face and oh good gosh, she didn’t have a nose.

A strangled yelp escapes her, high and undignified, unlike any noise the Ghoul’s made before.

“Holy moly,” she says in his voice. It’d be hilarious if it weren’t so horrifying. “Holy freaking moly!”

She paws at herself, clutching at the bandolier. Okay. Okay, just deep breaths. Don’t lose your head. Lucy inhales through her nose, forgetting, and shudders at the strange and uncomfortable sensation of air scraping against the exposed passages.

Then it punches her: if she’s here, would that mean—?

There’s a loud thud upstairs, sounding like a metal object was thrown across a room.

Lucy hurries to stand but trips over legs longer than her own, falling flat. She tries again, using the floor and wall for support. As she wobbles upright, she recalls the time she borrowed Chet’s bike, how unwieldy it’d been to navigate with her much shorter stature.

Shoving the current lunacy aside—if this is a nightmare, it’s her most lucid one—Lucy shuffles to the staircase and starts climbing. By the time she’s cresting the landing, she’s stopped stumbling over herself.

She enters the room she was supposed to wake up in. Her body’s sitting on the bed, trying to wrangle its arms from the Vault jumpsuit. The head snaps up, bangs in disarray, face pale and thunderous.

They stare at each other. It’s as if Lucy’s peering at a reflection that has a will of its own.

“Uhm,” she says when the silence stretches on. “This is, uh, insane, right? Are we dreaming?”

The Ghoul frees his arms, the jumpsuit’s top half slumping about his waist. Gooseflesh covers his exposed skin but he doesn’t seem to notice. He stands, using the wall to keep steady like she had.

The Pip-Boy’s absent. A quick glance reveals it in the far corner, the wall indented where it’d been struck. She hurries to it, spurs jangling. She crouches and breathes a sigh of relief at the undamaged screen and unbroken knobs. She clutches it to her chest, embracing its comforting weight.

“Was that really necessary, sir?” she says, standing.

“Give me my fuckin coat.”

Good gravy, Lucy’s never sounded so mean before. Is this how her father perceived her at the observatory? A familiar figure turned You see what this place does to people hostile stranger? Then again, the inverse’s true: just thinking about the depth of Hank’s cruelties, a man she once thought could do no wrong, lines her heart with lead.

“Don’t you think we should discuss what the fudge’s happening?” she says. “Or trade theori—”

“Guns, knife, rope. Hand em over.” The Ghoul’s drawl sounds fake in her voice. Then again, Lucy’s no better, enunciating every word in his tone’s natural burr. “And my hat.”

“Want the pants and shoes, too?” she says before she can stop herself. “I’d ask for my suit back if I thought I could fit.”

Lucy regrets the outburst seconds later. “Sorry. Sorry, that was uncalled for.” She takes a deep, albeit uncomfortable drag of air, then undresses until there’s a tidy pile of his things on the bed. She slides the Pip-Boy on her left forearm, adjusting the cuff so it fits. She sighs in relief when it does.

The Ghoul takes everything without a word. By the time he’s done, he’s himself—almost. The duster’s tattered ends drag on the ground and he has to roll the sleeves so they don’t engulf his hands. The hat swallows his head, sinking low across his brow. The bandolier encircles his chest in an oversized loop despite his efforts to cinch it tighter, making the Mare’s Leg lean at a precarious angle.

The Ghoul tosses Maximus’ 10mm and its holster onto the bed. For a second Lucy stares as if it belongs to someone else, hating how it transports her to Moldaver’s banquet table and the horrible revelations there. Shoving those thoughts and the pain they bring aside, she drags it over and attaches it to her belt and thigh.

A gurgling stomach cuts the tense silence. Lucy blinks. The Ghoul touches his abdomen as if it’s a foreign thing.

“We should eat,” she says, keeping her tone nonconfrontational. “I was saving that Cram from earlier. Maybe we could share it while we analyze what’s happ—”

He stalks out of the room without a backwards glance.

“But, aren’t you—? Sir, aren’t you the least bit curious what the heck’s going on? Sir? Mr. Ghoul!”

He’s already halfway down the stairs, clenching the railing. Lucy follows, snatching the saddlebag before joining him outside. As they leave the dilapidated house, it’s no issue to match his pace, every two strides of hers equating three of his.

Just as Lucy’s about to ask where’s Dogmeat, she appears, licking her jowls. She pants at them, wagging her tail as if nothing’s changed. Lucy tries to contain her rising hysteria. At least neither of them traded places with the dog.

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.s.

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The Ghoul marches like he’s heading to his own execution, staring at the horizon as if pinned there.

Lucy gives him space, walking some ways off to let him process this inexplicable body switch on his own terms. She hasn’t stopped churning through ideas, each more outlandish than the next. Her best one involves the fact he’s stitched her finger to his hand, forming some sort of bridge for their souls to cross.

The truth is, no matter how she tries spinning a logical explanation, nothing about this is based in empirical reason. Maybe she’s in a ditch somewhere, hallucinating off bad fermented mutfruit.

This is madness, plain and simple. Worse of all, Lucy has no idea how to reverse it.

At least walking’s easier, she thinks, clinging to the positives. In fact, despite shedding the duster and hat, she’s just as comfortable as before. It’s as if she’s wearing an insulating layer, protected from the heat and cold. Heck, she could hold this pace for miles and miles, the normal fatigue in her legs and feet nonexistent. No wonder the Ghoul could travel at this gait for as long as he does.

She glances over, hoping to find him in a more agreeable mood, except it’s only Dogmeat trotting beside her. Lucy stops and turns. He’s far behind, squatting, jumpsuit around his knees.

She spins away. Gosh, right on the road? He could at least do it behind that pile of rocks. As she waits, she glances at where her thighs meet. With everything going on, she hasn’t even noticed if he had all his parts.

Despite it being her body at the moment, it feels like a violation to touch his genitals without permission. He’s doing the same to yours right now, a voice says, and although the thought’s unsettling on its own, it does make her curiosity more permissible.

Lucy’s first to admit her budding interest in the Ghoul makes no sense. He treated her poorly in his attempts to rub the wasteland in her face, not to mention almost getting her butchered.

The longer she’s with him, the more she understands there’s an unapproachability to the Ghoul, a kind of aloofness that detaches him from the rest of the wasteland. He looks through people as if they aren’t people at all, a fact she experienced firsthand during her forced march to the Super Duper Mart.

And yet, and yet, then he’d suggested she join him in a voice that lacked its drawl, showing her a glimpse of humanity beneath the callousness. His offer had lulled Lucy into assuming he’d be more forthcoming and gentler, empathetic to her plight.

That was five days ago. In that time, the Ghoul grunted more than he spoke. And when he did speak, his words were sparse, as if snagged on barbed wire. He offered no comfort and asked nothing in return.

It’s as if they’re two people traveling in the same direction, nothing more.

She glances at Dogmeat. The dog’s sitting beside her, as if also waiting for the Ghoul.

“Do you know what’s going on, girl?” Lucy says. As she crouches, she takes careful note of the soft, intact anatomy brushing against her pants inseam. She forces back the more inappropriate curiosity—Could he maintain an erection? Would sex be rough with him?—and rubs the dog’s neck. “Huh? Any thoughts?”

If Dogmeat did indeed have any insights on the matter, she keeps them to herself, eyes soft and squinty. Her ears soon swivel at the sound of footsteps. Lucy tracks the Ghoul’s approach. His hand’s on his stomach, hat low.

She rises to full height. “Sir, we’re stopping to eat and drink,” she says, using her sternest that’s-enough-tomfoolery teacher’s voice.

To her relief, the Ghoul doesn’t argue, coming to a halt. He makes a careful survey at their bleak surroundings, turning in place. Lucy spares a quick glance. This stretch’s flat and barren, nothing but a sea of sand and the occasional rock. Unless raiders are buried in an ambush, they’re as alone as two people and a dog could get.

Lucy removes the saddlebag from her shoulder and sits. When she fishes out the Cram, she blinks. She hasn’t felt a single hunger pang. Must be a normal thing as a ghoul, she thinks as she hands him the container. He takes it and retreats a few steps. He then hunkers down, the duster puddling around him as he uses the bowie knife to peel the top off.

Dogmeat licks her lips, watching with laser focus as Lucy pulls up a few strips of mole rat jerky. She tosses the dog a couple before gnawing on hers.

Lucy grimaces after a few bites. It’s just texture in her mouth, taste barely there. No wonder the Ghoul could chow down on Roger, or radroaches, or bloatfly larvae, or whatever disgusting thing they’ve come across. Without flavor, everything’s the same. She eats because she must, the act stripped of enjoyment.

She glances over. There’s a complicated set of emotions scrawling across the Ghoul’s face. He stares at the artificial meat, mouth full. His chewing slows. When he swallows, it’s with a full-body shiver, eyes clenching shut. When they reopen, they’re shinier than before, cheeks reddening.

He cuts another slab of Cram and eats it right off the knife. Then another, and another, until he’s grunting soft mmns as he shovels it down.

He’s burying the empty container when she passes him the canteen. The Ghoul accepts it after a brief hesitation, nose wrinkling as he takes several swigs. He pours some for Dogmeat, who chomps it in her eagerness.

Lucy’s studying the horizon when she says, “Do we wait to resolve this? Or keep going after my father.”

Hank’s power armor tracks and occasional dried blood-splatter have been leading them northeast, towards a stretch of desolation called the Mojave. Her heart sinks again. What’s out there, Dad?

“Bullshit doth rear its goddamned head,” the Ghoul says.

Lucy looks over. He’s staring into the middle distance, gaze unfocused.

“You’ve never heard of this happening, then?” she asks. “Ever?”

His attention sharpens and cuts to her. “No.”

“Shoot.” Lucy leans back, at a loss. She rubs at her absent nose, wishing for humidity. “So, we keep going?”

“Yeah. We keep goin.” 

As they get up and resume their journey, Lucy once again wonders how the fudge they ended up like this, or how they’re going to undo it.

Chapter Text

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we’ve got to live with loss and
maybe play
with a bad
hand.
—Charles Bukowski, excerpt from the poem, “until”

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It starts as a tickle in her lower throat.

Lucy coughs, hoping to dislodge it, when phlegm thick enough to chew floods her mouth. She spits with a grimace, scrubbing her lips clean with a gloved hand. She’s still shuddering at the sliminess when her windpipe retightens. She coughs again, but instead of clearing, her breathing takes on a wheezy quality as it stays clogged.

Oh, crap. She’s forgotten this fact about ghouls. Lucy stops, trying to recall what to do. The Ghoul did it every midday, quick and efficient, but she always glanced in the opposite direction to give him privacy, trying to be polite.

She sets the saddlebag down and kneels, searching for the tin with all the vials. It’s different from the one the gulper crushed, sturdier. It’s heavy in her hands when she pulls it out, as if filled to the brim.

She opens it.

And stares.

At first Lucy can’t comprehend what she’s seeing. She counts, then recounts. There’s more, right? She reaches in and nudges the vials aside to peel up the protective padding, searching for a secondary compartment. Surely there’s more than this. There must.

There can’t be only four.

The Ghoul crouches before her, mouth a flat smile. It’s as if he’s watching her drink from that disgusting puddle all over again.

“Let’s give some away.” He tilts his head. “You’ve enough, right?”

Lucy shrinks. How about one or two? That’s what she said yesterday, a lifetime ago. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Gosh, I didn’t know.”

“And now you do. You ain’t in a Vault no more, sweetheart,” he says, drawl slathered on thick, “cause this sure as shit ain’t your land of plenty.”

It’s becoming hard to think. She’s four, maybe five days of sanity left if she doesn’t get more. It suddenly reframes the Ghoul’s furious reaction at the river and the Super Duper Mart’s subsequent ordeal. At the time she’d thought him a cruel monster. Now the idea of trading someone’s life to save her own makes terrible sense.

“Well, Vaultie? Jus how generous are you in actuality?”

“Stop.” She’s wheezing in earnest, struck with another coughing fit. “Please, stop. Tell me—” cough! cough! “—how—” cough! “—I don’t—”

Lucy can’t catch her breath, each one coated in gunk. It makes her gasp, which only makes it stick harder. Her vision tunnels. She claws at her neck, as if she could crack open her trachea and draw in air that way. Her hearing goes funny, as if someone’s tuning a radio and filling her head with static. The Ghoul’s lips are moving but she can’t comprehend what he’s saying.

She registers pain a moment later, cheek stinging. The static briefly clears.

“—rist sake, relax.”

There’s a hand on the back of Lucy’s neck and another pushing a hard plastic nozzle past her teeth.

“Mnphf!” She clenches her lips around it.

“Breathe in,” he says, then compresses the bulb at the top of the inhaler. The vaporized chem floods her mouth and she instinctively sucks it down. The relief’s instantaneous. Her eyes close, savoring how her throat opens wide, lungs relaxing their stranglehold.

She’s still floating on the euphoria when the Ghoul retreats and tosses the empty vial for Dogmeat to chase. He places the tin and the inhaler back into the saddlebag before pinning her with a hard glare.

“Never volunteer my shit again, we clear on that?” he says.

“Yes, sir. We’re clear.” Lucy picks herself off the ground with an unsteady wobble. “But what do we do? I need more.”

He grunts, nodding towards some distant hills. “Daddy-o’s tracks are takin us past a town known for its full bulletin. We check it out, reap some easy business, stock up, and keep goin.”

Once it's clear what he’s insinuating, Lucy balks. “I’m not killing someone for medicine. I’m not—” like you, she doesn’t say, catching herself in time.

The Ghoul lifts his lip at her. “Need em fast, don’tcha?”

“But, there must be other ways we can earn caps. I can help with pipe maintenance, or plumbing, or rewiring radios. Literally anything else,” she says.

There’s something decidedly mocking in the way he says, “Ohhh, but sweetie, you’re a ghoul now.”

“So?” Lucy struggles to keep her tone level. “What difference does that make?”

“Ain’t jus anybody who’ll let you hang around to work for em,” he says.

You know your kind ain’t welcome here, Ma June says, stalling Lucy’s arguments before she can voice them.

While his regard doesn’t quite gentle, it does pull back enough so she’s no longer muck on the bottom of his shoe. “If we were near a ghoul-town, sure, you could be fixin shitters and generators for days. But we ain’t, and it’s not gonna get any friendlier the further northeast we get.

“Point is, sweetheart, it’s not jus money you gotta keep track of, but time, time you can’t waste on bullshit. Need caps? Bounty huntin pays well and agencies don’t care who does the killin.”

“Well, what about you?” Lucy says, grasping for options. “Don’t you have any caps right now?”

“Runnin a bit light,” the Ghoul says with a dour squint. “Hence the sidetrackin.”

“Oh! Since you’re not a ghoul anymore, then you could make us money! Could, uhm, sell bullets, or . . . uhm.”

She falters as a pointed silence spreads like a thorny weed. Despite their swapped heights, he’s staring at her in a manner that has her short again.

“The only things I sell,” he says, “are the bounties I collect. Nothin else.”

“Oh, gosh, I didn’t mean that!” she says. “I just—it’s just—” Lucy gnaws on her rising frustration. “Darn it! Why must everything be so violent! Why can’t people treat others with any semblance of kindness or decency?”

The Ghoul snorts so hard it makes Dogmeat perk her ears. “Well, ain’t you jus a lamb,” he says. He studies her as if she’s indeed such a creature, unaware of the forest of jaws around her. “Kindness is an exploitable weakness up here, Vaultie. Now c’mon,” he says, turning towards the open road. “Reckon we can get there by tomorrow mornin if we hoof it.”

As Lucy goes to resettle the saddlebag across her shoulder, she can’t imagine living with this constant existential dread. How long is she trapped as a ghoul? A week? A month? A year? How long does this go for? How long do I let it? she thinks.

Twenty-eight years, since I first started showing, Roger had said with pride, only for his brains to splatter the wall not minutes later.

“I can’t,” Lucy says. Her breathing’s heavier again. “I can’t live like this.”

A muscle twitches in the Ghoul’s jaw. “Boo hoo. Deal with it.”

She wheels on him. “What kept you going?” she says with a fervency that has him stepping back. “Tell me, please? Maybe I can copy your method. Please, sir, I need something to focus on.”

“Wanna find your daddy, don’tcha?” the Ghoul says. He retreats another step. “Focus on that.”

She wavers. That can’t be all there is.

A sneer gathers on his face like a thundercloud. But as she draws up her shoulders to brace for the next bruising remark, the Ghoul pauses. He glances away with a gruff cough, expression inscrutable despite wearing her own features. When he speaks again, it’s the neutral tone from the observatory, drawl softened down.

“Just . . . take it day by day. Keep your thinking narrowed on him. There’s no use putting energy into worrying about what will or won’t happen. You’ve still got time. We’ll get more.”

Lucy breathes in through her mouth and lets it out through the nasal cavity. “Okay. Day by day.” The fear’s still there, knotting her guts, but at least it’s somewhat compartmentalized. “Thank you, sir.”

He grunts and starts walking, not waiting to see if she’s ready. Lucy soon joins him, one foot in front of the other.

Dogmeat lopes on ahead, tail flagged high.

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Lucy studies the gray landscape, the stars above bright. A wind has sprung up, whistling across the sand. It bats against her cheek, its usual bite nothing more than a love nip. It should be freeing to escape the cold’s brunt, if not for the undercurrent of stress of becoming a monster. It steals the novelty of being able to see in the dark.

The saddlebag’s heavy on her shoulder, the three remaining vials more precious to her than the memory of her mom’s face.

She peers behind her. The Ghoul’s curled on his side in the distance, hat shoved low. You do the check. Can’t see for shit, he said after sharing some mole rat with Dogmeat. Lucy had offered him her Pip-Boy, thinking he’d appreciate its little flashlight and ambient green glow, only to receive a venomous glare and silence.

She checks its chronometer. It’s been over an hour since she went on patrol and she’s getting tired of looking at sand. She glances at the ever-faithful Dogmeat at her feet, still working at her jerky strip.

“Think that’s enough for the night?” Lucy says. She stifles a yawn. “You’ll bark if anything comes our way, right girl?”

Dogmeat keeps gnawing, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

When Lucy returns to their campsite, there’s the faint but unmistakable chatter of teeth.

She pretends to fiddle with her Pip-Boy. She knows the Ghoul won’t ask for help, reminded of all the times his eyes had glittered like tar in the dark when he ignored her requests to share body heat. Forced to cultivate her own warmth, Lucy had curled into the tightest ball she could manage, or if lucky, snuggled close to Dogmeat.

She's tried examining the lesson as a wastelander would. Trust no one? Be self-reliant? Maybe he wanted to toughen her the same way he had centuries ago. She imagines him in the days after the bombs, cold and alone, hardening into the creature he’s now.

How long did it take for him to forget his humanity?

How long before she forgets hers?

Then Lucy’s morals rear up, bristling. She refuses to abandon the core of who she is just because he thinks it’ll help her survive, Vault dweller naïveté or not. Fudge all that.

Golden Rule, she thinks, even if she has to force it down his throat.

Mind made up, Lucy crosses over to the Ghoul, spurs chiming. He doesn’t move as she approaches but the chatter stops, as if forced quiet. She says nothing as she lies beside him. She doubts he’ll thank her for this.

At first, she tries sleeping on her side like she always does, but soon has to roll onto her back to avoid the mounting aches in her hips and shoulders.

Staring into the sky, she scoots closer and closer until she’s almost brushing his spine. She goes no further, maintaining the sliver of space. Quiet falls, unbroken save for the wind. Dogmeat pads over. She sniffs Lucy’s face, fanning her with damp dog breath, then circles around to curl next to the Ghoul.

When it becomes clear he’s going to stay between them, Lucy smiles. See? Not all kindness is a weakness, she thinks, then sinks into sleep.

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.s.

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It’s still gray when Lucy wakes, stars spread everywhere. She blinks, groggy thoughts scattered. She goes to move her arm to check her Pip-Boy but a weight’s holding it down. She looks over. The Ghoul had shifted during the night, his back now glued to her. Somehow her arm had gotten beneath his head and is acting as his pillow.

Lucy tenses, waiting for an outburst of some kind, but he doesn’t react, ribs gently pushing and relaxing against her. His deep, slow breathing calms her. It’s the first time she’s ever been awake before him, adding to the up-is-down-left-is-right topsy turviness of the whole situation.

Whether it's due to the ghoul body or her mental state, sleep’s elusive. Unable to use the Pip-Boy as a distraction, Lucy removes her right glove. Once free, she admires her original index finger and its row of unwieldy stitches. Of all the fingers he could’ve had as a replacement, he chose hers.

In a weird way, she doesn’t want it back. It’s his now, flesh for flesh. She strokes the uneven union, regretting not having Snip Snip use the one she’d bitten off instead of the corpse’s. Now you’re being extra weird, she thinks. Definitely not normal Vault dweller thoughts, no siree Bob.

She buries herself in the memory of their tussle and subsequent exchange, replaying its violence over and over, until the sky lightens in the east.

The sunrise’s staining the clouds red when the Ghoul wakes. He’s elongating in a stretch when he jolts and goes unnaturally still. Lucy holds her breath. She resolves not to apologize for keeping him warm during the night, no matter what mean-tempered bile he might spew her way.

She welcomes the distraction of Dogmeat’s arrival, turning her head to greet her. By the time Lucy notices the dead mole rat hanging from the dog’s jaws, the Ghoul has sprung up and walked away.

Lucy sits upright, joints creaking. As expected, not a word of thanks. Can’t expect to move mountains in a day, she thinks, peeking in his direction. He’s squatting. She looks away, giving him privacy, and discovers a pressure in her lower abdomen.

At least there’s proof his kidneys work. She also moves off from their main campsite and resolutely doesn’t look down as she relieves herself, tucking his parts into the pants when done. She grimaces, wishing they could spare some water and soap for proper hygiene. Maybe once they get the caps they need, they could invest in that.

When they get the caps.

If they get the caps.

Day by day. Lucy lets out a deep breath, shoving the rising anxiety in a corner. Day by day. She has a newfound awe for the Ghoul’s commitment to staying alive, understanding its magnitude with each passing hour. She wants to find her dad—she does, most certainly—but would that keep her going for the next two hundred years?

As Lucy chews on a meal of air, it frightens her to think it wouldn’t.

By the time she returns to their meager campsite, the Ghoul’s working at the mole rat with his knife, slicing it anus to windpipe. He tosses the guts to Dogmeat, who scarfs it down in three bites. He finishes the butchering and attaches strips onto the saddlebag to dry. When he’s done, the Ghoul holds the canteen out for her, saying nothing.

Lucy accepts it just as wordlessly, taking a drink to hide her smile.

Chapter Text

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Something else is hurting you – that’s why you need pot or whisky, or whips and rubber suits, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can’t think.
—Charles Bukowski, Tales of Ordinary Madness

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Lucy tries not to fidget as she stands in the shadow of the mall’s awning, hoping to blend with her surroundings as the Ghoul often did.

She’s nowhere as successful: people keep glancing over, their attention snagging on her like fabric on a nail. The little waves and smiles she offers make it worse, their weathered faces quick to darken. One boy even palms his oversized gun until a woman—his mother?—cuffs and drags him with her into another storefront.

A group of four young men haven’t stopped glaring from across the thoroughfare. At least they maintain their distance, sulking amongst themselves. Lucy resists touching her gun for comfort, hoping to avoid an escalation.

She laments their wasted potential—had these men-boys been reared in a Vault, they could’ve learned to channel their aggressive tendencies and become productive members of their societies—until she grimaces, catching herself.

Shoot, she’s thinking like her father. Her grimace deepens. No, he would’ve gone further, viewing them as vermin to be eradicated. Another thought crosses her mind, sinking Lucy’s heart to her boots: would he try to erase her the same way he erased her mom?

How much more was Hank capable of? Did she even know him at all?

Her expression must do something one of the young men didn’t like, because he shouts, “Got something to say, rot-face?”

Before Lucy could stammer a reply to defuse the situation, someone steps close from behind.

She jerks in surprise. “Oh, thank goodness,” she says, turning to the Ghoul beside her. Dogmeat’s nearby, scratching an itchy patch on her shoulder. “Did you find one? Can we please leave now?”

Without taking his focus off the leering group across the street, he passes up a poster. Lucy takes it. The paper has a fresh crispness to it, the ink damp. She frowns. She’d expected someone mean and scowling, covered in scars. The male face strikes her as young, no older than a teenager. He stares at her in silent reproach.

“You sure?” she says.

“Yep.” The Ghoul starts walking towards the town’s boundary. Unlike her, keeps a hand on his revolver. One of the young men whistles.

Lucy hurries after him, Dogmeat quick to follow. “It says dead or alive. So, we can bring him in alive, right?”

The Ghoul grunts. “Ain’t efficient, sweetheart. Killin’s easier.”

What a deranged place the surface is, she thinks, despairing. Lucy glances at the handbill again, trying to reconcile her need for more vials by accepting this boy must die. It sits like a stone in her stomach. This is the literal opposite of the Golden Rule.

“What did he do? Why does he have a bounty?” she asks. They’ve now crossed the ramshackle border and are making for the nearby low hills. She debates staying behind, to drum up caps around town while he goes off. Just as quickly she dismisses it, remembering the stares and the unfriendly group of lads.

“Don’t matter,” he says.

“Shouldn’t it, sir?”

The Ghoul doesn’t respond. He’s tracking an invisible trail, already on the hunt. Several times he glances over his shoulder at the road behind them, but otherwise focuses ahead.

Lucy presses. “Please, Mr. Ghoul, why this one?”

When he continues to act like she isn’t there, not even giving her the curtesy of a glance, something boils over. Maybe it’s the stress of being trapped in this decaying body. Maybe it’s the agony of learning her father’s a mass murderer and wife-killer. Maybe it’s because she’s on her way to contribute to the surface’s violence without understanding fully why.

Or maybe it’s the combination of everything, because in that moment, Lucy sees red.

The Ghoul’s already whirling towards her when she stomps into his space, his hand flying to the revolver. Lucy grabs the barrel and rips it away before he can shoot. He’s reaching for his knife when he trips on the trailing ends of his duster.

He hits the ground in a flurry of sand, hat slipping from his head. Lucy steps over him and leans in, dimly aware their positioning mirrors the time she’d bit his finger. She’s also becoming aware of just how much stronger she is as a ghoul. It’s effortless to hold his arms down. She could do it all day.

The Ghoul wheezes when she parks all her weight on his guts. He glares at her, teeth bared, cheeks flushed.

“Get the fuck offa me,” he says, struggling like a fish nailed to a board.

“Not until you explain why you chose this one.” Lucy tightens her grip to the point her gloves creak. “You tell me now.”

As if a switch’s flipped, the Ghoul goes limp beneath her, expression wiped clean. If not for the pulse hammering in his neck, she’d think him dead.

“Bounty’s fresh.” There’s nothing to glean from his blank tone.

“So? And?”

“Good chance the mark don’t know he’s a mark. He’ll be off-guard, easy to bag.”

See? That wasn’t so hard, Lucy thinks. She loosens her grasp as a reward. He doesn’t react, keeping still beneath her. A little shiver trickles down the base of her spine at how pliant he’s being.

“Thank you for sharing the information, sir,” she says. “But we bring him in alive.”

The Ghoul doesn’t blink. “Fine.”

Lucy hesitates, surprised how easy that was. She was convinced she’d have to fight through another disturbing talk about efficiency.

“Well, good,” she says, frowning. “Good. I’m glad.”

He says nothing, watching her without any definable emotion. I should learn how he does that, she thinks, unable to read him at all. A shard of apprehension wiggles through her. She can’t keep him captive forever.

“You’re, uhm, not going to shoot me when I let you go, right?” she says. “Or cut me, or stab me, or, or—well, anything like that?”

“No.”

“How do I know?” Lucy says, anxiety rising. “Listen, Mr. Ghoul, I don’t know what came over me just now. I realize I may’ve put us in an awkward position, which, gosh, wasn’t my intention at all. It’s just, I really needed you to talk to me and you weren’t, so . . . I may’ve lost my head a bit. I apologize for that.”

“Said I ain’t gonna shoot, sweetheart.” He shifts beneath her. His pulse’s noticeable but no longer at the pace it was. “I’d prefer gettin my body back without the extra lead. Now move your ass.”

Lucy chews on nothing as she steps away. She hopes the switch happens soon. Despite the perks of being a ghoul, she despises the constant dread of losing her sanity. Sure, she’s thought about death before in the abstract, aware one day—hopefully far, far, far into the future—she’ll cease to be. It’s healthy to acknowledge. Freeing, even. Everyone should practice accepting their mortality.

But this? Knowing she can literally measure her life in vials? This isn’t freeing at all. The fact she’ll be inhaling another precious one soon, reducing her count to two, blows cold air on her neck.

The Ghoul shoves his hat back on as he staggers to his feet, duster covered with sand. Although he’s looking elsewhere as he retrieves his revolver, his attention hangs on her like a weight.

Well, at least he’s not ignoring me anymore, Lucy thinks.

“Contractor says the mark lives in them hills,” he says, readjusting his bandolier and attached Mare’s Leg. “Shouldn’t take too long to find.”

“Roger dodger,” she says with forced cheer, eager to brush this unpleasantness aside.

The Ghoul clears his throat. “An easy mark means we won’t be the only ones interested, sweetie. We gotta move.” He starts walking, pushing his hat lower. “Wasted enough time as it is.”

As she trails after him, Lucy pictures a swarm of faceless bounty hunters descending on a carcass. As comforting as it is knowing they’re bringing this boy in alive, she still feels part of the wasteland’s cruel machinery.

.

.s.

.

The cruelty’s on display a few hours later.

The Ghoul crests a small dune and holds out a hand to bar her from going further. Lucy slows to a stop beside him, staring at the carnage. Despite her limited time on the surface, she hates the scene’s familiarity.

Dogmeat trots down to investigate. She’s nearing the Brahmin carcass lashed to its harness when he recalls her with a sharp whistle. The Ghoul sinks to his haunches as he studies the gristly tableau, rewarding the dog with absentminded pets when she returns to him. Lucy detects putrefying meat, faint enough not to be offensive.

The loud buzzing of flies, though, is harder to ignore.

“We should bury them,” Lucy says.

The Ghoul draws in a deep breath, as if to sigh, then slaps a hand over his nose.

“What’d I tell you bout time and bullshit,” he says. He stands close, opening the saddlebag’s flap to pull out a weathered yellow bandana.

Lucy tries not to bristle. “We could do twice as fast if we worked together, Mr. Ghoul.”

He ties the cloth over the lower half of his face. “Like hell I’m wastin energy on that.”

He then descends to walk among the dead, crouching over each to rifle through pockets and pouches. Dogmeat returns to the Brahmin and starts tearing at its anus. Lucy lingers on the dune’s edge, reluctant to join in the pilfering. She tries recontextualizing the bodies as nothing but meat, but in the end, it’s hard to see past the senseless violence.

It’s times like these Lucy yearns for the civility and order of her old life, where she only squeezed a trigger during Rifle Club. But all that was built on a lie, something inside her says, poisoning her homesickness. The memory of her father’s guilelessness, always ready with a cheery word of encouragement, further ruins her wistfulness. Could she ever go back?

“Think this has something to do with the bounty?” Lucy asks.

“Nah.” The Ghoul’s now exploring the upturned wagon, stepping around Dogmeat to slip inside. “Jus normal raider shit.”

Aside for the wet crunch of Dogmeat’s jaws and the buzzing hum, it’s quiet. Lucy forces herself to get closer. Ants as fat as her thumb are crawling over exposed viscera. It seems the travelers had used the same exploding ammo as the Ghoul before succumbing to their own wounds.

A short whoop sends Lucy fumbling for her pistol. The Ghoul emerges from the wagon a second later, a bottle of brown, indeterminant liquor in one hand, and a packet of cigarettes in the other.

“Should we really be celebrating, sir?” she says.

“Darlin, out here, you grab what you can,” the Ghoul says with an honest-to-Pete crinkle in his eyes. He circumnavigates the dead Brahmin, prizes held tight. “Free booze and smokes qualify. C’mon, there’s more in there we can hawk.”

She wants to argue how disrespectful all this is, but even before she opens her mouth, Lucy knows it’d be a losing battle. She tries to reframe their actions as something neutral. Looting the dead should be okay, right? It’s not like these people need it anymore.

If you insist on staying, Dr. Wilzig reminds her, you’ll have to adapt.

By the time they’re done, the saddlebag’s heavy with foodstuffs and a refilled canteen. They even found a bottle of Rad-X pills and a full bag of RadAway. No vials, though. She’d ripped apart containers—one filled with soil, of all things—and upturned the wagon’s floorboards with only a small stash of caps to show for her efforts.

Lucy tries to control a nervous cough, rubbing her chest. She catches the Ghoul noticing. He’s quick to look away, and without another word, leads her and Dogmeat deeper into the hills.

.

.s.

.

As the sunset fades, they hunker in the lee of a rusted car to hide from the rising wind. They dip into their new supply of vittles, each taking a withered mutfruit and dividing several strips of what he tells her is iguana meat. The Ghoul once again grunts like a pig at a trough as he eats while Lucy chews faintly flavored texture. Not far off Dogmeat enjoys her own supper, gnawing on her oversized Brahmin hock he’d detached for her.

The Ghoul’s hardly finished wiping his mouth clean with the back of a hand before he’s reaching for the liquor. He uncaps the bottle and drinks it straight, head thrown back.

The next second he’s sputtering and coughing. “Whooooo! That’s some snakebite,” he says. Instead of being deterred, he takes another pull. Then another. And another.

Lucy’s concern rises. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of stopping. “I think you should slow down.”

The Ghoul lowers the bottle to level a long look at her, chin dripping. “And I reckon you oughta be checkin the perimeter bout now.”

Lucy keeps her tone deliberately calm. “This isn’t your body, sir. It can’t handle alcohol the way I imagine yours can.”

“That,” he says with a slow blink, “is precisely the point.”

She sets her jaw. For a moment, she debates taking it from him. It’d be easy. It wouldn’t cost much, maybe a short struggle at most. The Ghoul’s stare sharpens into barbed hooks. He says nothing, shoulders tightening as he curls the bottle closer to his side.

Lucy doesn’t like the tension thickening the air. She makes a show of exhaling through the exposed hole in her face.

“Fine,” she says. “But I’m leaving Dogmeat with you.”

The Ghoul takes another drink and doesn’t reply, watchful of every move she makes.

She gets up and walks away in a jangle of spurs. She focuses on her task, the landscape becoming gray as her night vision takes over. They’re so close to the hills she could almost reach out and touch them.

Lucy makes a wide circle, staying away as long as she can. Bushes rattle their emaciated leaves as the wind sighs by. At some point a cave cricket skitters out of sight before she can get close. For a while she walks beside a road meandering further into the hills. There’s old wagon and Brahmin hoof prints marked along it, layered many times over.

Judging enough time has passed and hoping he hasn’t drowned, Lucy hurries back. There’s a stale reek in the air, strong enough for her to notice. She rounds the car.

He’s smoking.

“Sir! You cannot—Mr. Ghoul, I don’t consent you doing this with my body. Do you know how harmful smoking was found to be?”

The Ghoul stares placidly ahead, unmoved. She could be talking to a corpse and achieve the same result. Lucy glances at the bottle cradled in the crook of his arm. An unhealthy portion of it’s gone.

The thought of wrestling it away crosses her mind again. She then subsides, deciding to maintain the peace. What’s a night of indulgence? It’s clear he needs it for some reason.

She sits a little way from him, using the car as a backrest, then retrieves the handbill from the saddlebag. Is that how it starts? A few small, harmless allowances, then bigger and more consequential ones? At what point does looting the dead become stealing from the living? Or having no problem dunking someone in a poison river, she thinks.

Lucy slides her gaze to the Ghoul. He’s huddling in his duster, arms and legs tucked close. Tendrils of caustic smoke drift from his nose and mouth before the wind steals them for itself. He stares at nothing, hat so low it’s almost covering his eyes.

It shouldn’t be surprising he’s indifferent to the ugliness people inflict upon others, or what he himself inflicts. If life’s cheap and meaningless to him after two centuries, it’s no wonder he doesn’t hesitate to kill for money.

She glances at the poster again and studies the drawn contours of the boy’s face, appreciating the gestural beauty of it. Lucy dreads the day she’ll look at a similar drawing and see nothing but caps.

“What makes my life more important than his?” she says.

Lucy doesn’t expect a response. He’s probably too drunk to speak, anyway. She’s tucking the handbill back when the Ghoul says, slow but clear,

“In the beginnin, when everyone was figurin shit out, it took nothin for folks to turn on each other. Hell, the first bomb had barely finished droppin when neighbor was fuckin over neighbor. Not everyone did. Some tried helpin. They offered shelter, handed out supplies, made little circle jerk support groups, y’name it.

“An y’know what happened to em? They got gobbled up. Jus plum gobbled up.”

The Ghoul takes another drag on his cigarette, the tip burning red. The slurry of his words thickens. “Now, y’can stay soft an get ate, or y’can choose to do what needs to be done, no matter what it takes. If y’survive the night, y’fight to live one more after that. Then n’other, n’other, so on an so on. Y’jus don’t stop. Not once. Y’jus keep goin,” he says, blowing smoke, eyelids shiny and drooping, “till y’know nothin else.”

Lucy absorbs his wash of words, somewhat in awe at the glimpse of his last two centuries. She’s suddenly hyperaware of a comment Roger once made: That’s a lot of vials.

“How many people had to die for you to live, Mr. Ghoul?” she says.

“It’s them or me.” He flicks away the spent cigarette, sagging lower against the car. “Always chose me.”

“So you can find your family?”

The Ghoul doesn’t answer, uncapping the bottle for another swig. He’s a bit uncoordinated, spilling some on himself when he sets it down. He stays quiet as he wraps his duster tighter around himself, staring into the darkness without focus.

As he sits trapped in her body as she is in his, something about his manner reminds her of the time he shot Vault Boy. Despite his overall callousness, it’s clear there’s a part of him as raw as a nerve exposed to air. Maybe that’s why he deflects any personal questions, or why he’s swimming towards the bottom of a liquor bottle.

There’s so much about the Ghoul she doesn’t know. It’s as if he’s a vice, clenching every secret. She suspects there’re times his grip slips, such as it is now, just as it had when they passed that billboard.

Lucy knows she won’t come close to mending his hurt. That’s his own battle, and he hardly lets her in as it is. But, maybe she can help give h

“Fuck y’starin at?”

Lucy attempts to mask her surprise. While he’s in clear wash of gray, he probably only detects the gleam of her pupils. But when she opens her mouth to apologize, what comes out instead is:

“Want me to play in your hair?”

The Ghoul gapes, blinking like a disheveled owl. Gosh, I really do have big eyes, Lucy thinks.

“S’fuckin . . . the fuck? Why?” he says.

“Because it’ll feel good.” Greatly daring, she adds, “I bet it’s been a long time since you had that happen.”

His face shutters at the comment about his past. But instead of choosing to ignore her like she expects, the Ghoul lets out an unflattering belch and lifts a shoulder in a lopsided shrug.

“Don’t care,” he says.

However, the way he peers in her direction, somewhere between wary and expectant, tells a different story. She suspects he very much does care.

As much as she’d prefer a clear yes or no, she senses he’ll stay noncommittal no matter how hard she presses. The Lucy from a month ago would’ve left him alone, drunk as he is. The Lucy of now decides to bend the line. How long has it been since she’s had some proper physical contact?

“If you change your mind at any point, tell me and I’ll stop,” she says.

There’s no answer. She gets up, walks the two steps to the Ghoul’s left side, then sits. They’re so close their hips and thighs touch. He’s as tense as a live wire. He might even be shivering.

“I need to remove the hair tie,” Lucy says. When there’s a lack of protest, she holds the base of the ponytail with one hand and pulls the band with the other. The Ghoul doesn’t make a sound, staring stiffly ahead. She slips the tie onto her wrist out of habit and runs her fingers up, first at the base of the neck, then ending at the crown.

There’s an inaudible sigh. Lucy pretends not to notice, focusing on scratching nonsensical patterns on his scalp. His hat’s still on, pushed over his face to make room for her hand. Neither of them removes it. Although he can’t see her, she throws her gaze upwards at the sky. It’s thick with stars, bright with the condensed splatter of their galaxy.

Time flows. She alternates with force and form, sometimes gently tugging in a brief squeeze, other times just massaging. She doesn’t remark on the greasy, straw-like state of the hair. The Ghoul’s head now lolls boneless on his neck, allowing her to push and pull it wherever she chooses. At one point he deliberately leans into her palm. She doesn’t draw attention to it, afraid talking would shatter the peace of whatever this is.

From there, it’s a seamless transition to settle down to sleep. Lucy leaves no gap between them this time, staying smooshed along his back as they huddle next to the car. The Ghoul neither argues nor fights it, not even when she intentionally lays out her arm for his head to rest on. In less than five minutes he’s breathing heavy and deep.

He doesn’t wake when Dogmeat appears, tail wagging. After a few seconds of careful threading, the dog squeezes between him and the car and joins them for the night.

Chapter Text

.

staring into the dark
I now finally understand
the dark and the
light and everything
in between.
—Charles Bukowski, excerpt from the poem, “mind and heart”

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.

.s.

.

They follow the road Lucy observed last night, dust coating their legs and shoes in a fine patina. The Ghoul nurses the canteen as they walk, frequenting it with small sips, eyes slitted as the sun continues to rise. Dogmeat stays close, Brahmin hock secure in her jaws.

Lucy’s finishing her midday vial—just one left, only one, then that’s it, that’s it—when they spy a tin-roofed ranch house a quarter mile away. The Ghoul has them veer from the main path to circle towards some nearby outcroppings. Lucy sticks close, mimicking his hunched posture.

When he starts crawling on his elbows and knees, she does the same. Even Dogmeat joins in, keeping low until they’re looking at the ranch’s backside from beneath the cover of bushes.

And there, a few stone throws away tending a garden, is their target.

As he hoes a line of tato plants, Lucy sees a younger version of herself helping with the corn harvest. She always loved the festive spirit of that time of year, enjoying how everyone, even children like her, contributed to the process to ensure maximum efficiency. The communal feast afterward, celebrating yet another successful bounty, never tasted sweeter.

Lucy’s thoughts drift. Maybe after all this terrible business is settled—her father, her makers, this inexplicable body exchange—she’ll set up a farm of her own. Seeing someone working the ground reminds her how much she’s missed the loamy smell of good growing soil.

The Ghoul’s revolver slides out of its holster.

Lucy jolts. “What happened to bringing him in alive?” she says in a fervent whisper.

“It’ll be it quick, sweetheart.” His voice pitched so low she must strain to hear him. “He won’t know what hit him.”

As her one remaining vial burns a hole in the saddlebag, some animal, selfish part of Lucy’s tempted to listen. One bullet and they could be heading back to the town, lickety-split. That’s all it’ll take.

Golden Rule, she thinks, desperate to cling onto what is right. She could be this boy someday, just as unaware.

Lucy fists the ground. “We aren’t killing him.”

“I know this ain’t what you wanna hear,” the Ghoul says in the same soft, still voice, “but this is the safest course for us. Trust me, Vaultie. Less mess.”

As he lines up to take the shot, her instincts scream they can do it without bloodshed.

Lucy pops out of the bushes, sidestepping to block the Ghoul’s line of fire. “Excuse me! Hello!”

The boy jumps and whirls around.

“Hi, there!” she says. A hand scrabbles at her pant leg but then she’s out of range, spurs singing a jaunty tune as she heads towards their bounty.

The boy lifts the hoe across his chest and backpedals, stepping on the plants he was just tending. “Hey! Don’t come any closer! No ghouls here!”

Lucy keeps her palms up and plasters what she hopes is a disarming smile. She slows her approach but doesn’t stop. “It’s okay, it’s okay! I don’t mean any harm. I’m just, uhm, a concerned passerby. I’m, uh, warning everyone of the recent raider attack just up the road. Am I right in assuming you were waiting for a wagon shipment?”

 The boy stops retreating, face paling. “What?”

In the second it takes for his expression to fall, Lucy’s lunging forward. Although their heights are similar, he’s a stringy weed compared to the Ghoul’s condensed leanness. She tackles him to the ground, the hoe thudding to the side.

The shouting’s immediate. “Paaaa! Paaaaaaaa!”

“Rope, please! I need rope!” Lucy says as she rolls them, slapping a gloved hand over his mouth as she clings to his back. He arches and thrashes against her. She wraps an arm around his throat, trying to get into a figure-four body lock position.

Just as she’s about to call out to the Ghoul again, the boy slams a fist into her groin. Lucy’s grip loosens as hot pain radiates into her guts. She struggles to hold on, wheezing. Hits below the belt were strictly forbidden during Intermediate Phys. Ed.

The Ghoul trots over. “You little shit,” he says. His head flies up at the screech of a screen door banging open. A man barrels out, running at them at all speed, hammer in hand.

The Ghoul draws his revolver and shoots. The man stumbles, guts unfurling outwards like the petals of an unholy flower. He hits the ground and doesn’t get back up.

“Paaaaaaaaaa!”

In a burst of strength, the boy drives his fist into Lucy’s crotch again and again until he breaks free of her weakened grasp. He charges at the Ghoul, screaming. The revolver goes off with its signature kuh-THUNK, catching him full in the chest, the bullet going in and out the other side in a meat soup explosion. It splashes hot across Lucy’s face, beading on her vest.

The stink of gunsmoke and seared flesh fills the following silence. The soil darkens beneath the boy, greedily absorbing its new meal. Lucy blinks, thoughts crawling as she comes to terms with how fast everything fell apart. She cups herself, wincing. She’s misjudged how dirty surface dwellers could fight.

The Ghoul holsters the revolver with a leathery shove and stomps towards the corpse. Lucy deflates as he pins her with a needled glower.

He’s reaching to unsheathe the bowie knife when gunfire cracks the air.

The Ghoul folds with a shout, blood spurting from his left hip. The woman on the porch reloads her rifle and shoots again. It misses, kicking up dirt inches next to Lucy in a loud pat! Lucy returns fire without thinking, aiming for the centre mass like she’d been taught.

The woman crumples. She doesn’t rise again.

Lucy lowers her pistol. She’s at the observatory again, watching her mom slump backwards in death.

The sound of groaning yanks her back to the present. The Ghoul’s pushed the duster away to reveal blood spreading from the wound site, turning the jumpsuit wine-red. Any higher and the bullet would’ve been in his abdomen, or worse.

“Oh, fudge, fudge, fudge, fudge.” Lucy kneels beside him, regret burning like acid. It’s Maximus and the fiends on the bridge all over again. Her stomach plummets to her boots. “F—”

“You shut the fuck up.”

Lucy’s jaws click together.

The Ghoul props himself on an elbow, teeth bared in a snarl. “Get me to cover.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says. She’d give anything to rewind the last two minutes.

“Sorry ain’t gonna take the bullet out. Now do as I goddamn say. Could be—arrgh—more waitin inside to take another shot.”

Lucy hooks hands under his armpits and drags him back into the bushes. Dogmeat’s there, ears perked. She stands to investigate until the Ghoul snaps at her to lay down.

“Should we check the house if they have a stimpak?” Lucy asks as she pulls the saddlebag near. She tries recalling her first aid training manuals. All of them had started with STEP ONE: AQUIRE A STIMPAK. She glances at the bottle of alcohol, debating its merits. “Maybe there’s something we could use.”

He presses a hand over the wound with a grimace. “You’ll have to clear it first.” Sweat trickles down his temple as he glares at her. “Think you can fuckin handle that?”

Lucy doesn’t meet his gaze. “This isn’t what I’d intended at all.”

“Yeah, well, here’s your mess, honey. Clean it up.”

.

.s.

.

Lucy clears the ranch, checking every corner and nook. It’s empty the way a room is when someone’s just left, laden with the sense they could return at any second. A pot of tato stew bubbles merrily on a Dutch stovetop, the fire crackling inside. There’re more tatoes on a cutting board in the kitchen, mid-dice. Someone was greasing machine parts at a corner table, the pages of an ancient, pre-war book propped open with a little paperweight.

Lucy ignores the tragedy of the interrupted scene, channeling all her focus into her search for medicine. She’s tugging drawers when a dusty stimpak rattles out. But just as she’s about to celebrate, closer examination reveals it’s been depleted.

Despite further scavenging, all she finds are sewing needles, thread, plenty of fabric, and an outdoor barrel of questionable water.

She helps the cursing Ghoul limp indoors, arm tight around his ribs. After maneuvering him onto the kitchen table, she hurries to start boiling a pot of water. Lucy darts back to his side. Together they peel the jumpsuit down to reveal a hole the size of her thumbnail buried in his hip. The red looks obscene against the white flesh.

“No usable stimpaks,” Lucy says. She licks the thin remnants of her lips. While blood’s no longer overflowing at the rate it once was, it’s still a mess. Somewhere within, no doubt lodged in the bone, is the bullet. “I don’t think I should dig it out, sir. It could make it worse.”

“Jus what I fuckin needed.” The Ghoul slumps flat onto his back with a pained groan. “They should sell em back in town. Jus gotta make it there.” His head turns to the window, pulse visible in his neck. “Reckon we’ve bout two days before infection sets in.”

Lucy’s fingers drum restlessly on the tabletop. It took nearly a full day and a half to get here, and that them was traveling at a good clip.

“I’m boiling water right now,” she says.

He doesn’t reply, still looking out the window. Lucy retreats to watch the pot in silence, guilt building between her ribs like an uncomfortable malaise. When it’s finally bubbling, she moves it to the counter and restarts her vigil, fidgeting from leg to leg as she waits for it to cool. 

Once it’s shy of hot, Lucy brings it over. She helps roll him onto his side and pours it into the wound. He grits his teeth and hisses. Once the blood and surrounding debris is flushed out, she peers in. It’s nothing but a confusion of meat inside, bullet nowhere to be seen. This’d be far easier if they had a Mr. Handy present. Heck, she’d even welcome Snip Snip. My kingdom for a stimpak, she thinks.

She pats the area dry and wraps fabric over it. By the time she’s done, he’s tightly bandaged low across his abdomen. Wiggling the jumpsuit up makes him curse and grip the table’s edge. Sweat beads his forehead, sticking hair to his temples.

Lucy rubs her chest, seeking a way to relieve the mounting pressure. But when she opens her mouth to apologize again, he hands her his knife, handle first.

She takes it without a word.

The dog’s ripping into the woman’s abdomen when Lucy steps outside. Her first instinct is to chase Dogmeat off, to tell her Not her, not that one. But then a new voice says, Don’t let meat go to waste.

So Lucy leaves her alone and goes to behead the boy. Using a buzzsaw on Dr. Wilzig had made the decapitation easy, if somewhat messy with all its splatter. This is different. The skin’s tougher than she expects, forcing her to exert increasing pressure. Then she’s in, the knife splitting the viscera with a wet rasp. Blood clots the sand.

When the blade jars against the spinal column halfway through, she takes a fortifying minute to breathe. Once the urge to throw the Ghoul’s knife as hard as she can subsides, Lucy finagles the edge around until it slips within a vertebral disc.

The rest of the separation happens in a blur, and before Lucy knows it, she’s holding a head by its hair. It’s both heavier and lighter than it should be.

She turns towards the northeast. She tries to imagine where her father is, visualizing their reunion. How much heavier would his own head weigh?

Lucy walks back to the house, ignoring the skrunch skrunch of Dogmeat’s eating, and places the head on a counter. A bag, she thinks, because she’s not airing the boy around like she did with Dr. Wilzig. The Ghoul’s watching her as she opens and closes drawers at random. At last she finds one large enough, upending dried tatoes all over the floor.

Lucy then stuffs their bounty inside and yanks the drawstring shut.

.

.s.

.

The head’s heavy company on her hip, swaying with each step she takes. The bag’s become red and tacky on the bottom. She must shoo a curious Dogmeat away several times before the dog learns to keep her distance.

The Ghoul hobbles on her left, using a stick from the ranch as a crutch. The only thing he’s said when they left hours ago was to avoid retracing their footprints, in case anyone was trailing them. He hasn’t spoken since, hat obscuring the emotional weather of his face.

Despite the crawl of their progress, Lucy accepts the penance for what it is, matching his pace without complaint.

The sky eventually takes on the hazy glow of late afternoon, and before long, the sunset catches fire above them.

Lucy glances at the Ghoul. While already slow to begin with, his limping has devolved into a dragging shuffle. She turns in place. There’re straggly bushes scattered everywhere, the car they’d used the night before nowhere in sight.

She sets the saddlebag down and uncouples the bag from her belt, then makes a show of sorting their evening meal. The Ghoul half-collapses, half-falls. His skin’s more flushed than she likes, hair clinging to his neck.

Lucy debates staying silent, then steels herself. “How does it feel?”

“Fuck you think? Hurts like a whore.”

She rounds her shoulders in a flinch. It’d make sense if he didn’t want to travel with her anymore after this. Why would he? This is a mess of her own design. No doubt he regrets offering her to join him in meeting her makers.

Somehow the thought of them going their separate ways drives a knife between her ribs. She rubs her chest, trying to understand the sudden stab of disappointment. Why’s she surprised? They’re just two people pointed in the same direction, their partnership temporary. Her actions have only sped up their eventual separation. He’ll probably leave once he’s healed, body switch or no, forcing her to find her own way to her father.

Throat tightening, she fishes out the bottle of liquor and hands it to him. The Ghoul blinks at her for a second, then accepts it. He takes a deep swig and comes up coughing.

What she doesn’t expect is for him to hold it out to her. She stares at it like it’s a foreign thing.

He shakes it so it sloshes. “C’mon. Join in,” he says.

Forcing herself not to interpret a deeper meaning in his gesture, Lucy takes it and sips. It’s as if someone’s tickling her esophagus with softened steel wool. She’d probably be sputtering and choking if she were in her actual body. But she isn’t, so she takes a longer pull and enjoys the faint prickle as it goes down.

Lucy hands the bottle back. “It, uhm . . . tastes good?”

The Ghoul snorts. “No, Vaultie. You drink rotgut to lose somethin of yourself, not for the taste.” He pauses, staring out into the distance. The sun’s touching the horizon, the firestorm from earlier dulled to a tired pastel. “Then again, s’pose the effect’s kinda lost on you, as you are.”

Quiet settles around them as Lucy continues prepping their meal. She’d taken a bit of the tato stew and now serves him a cold cup of it. She waters Dogmeat and feeds her the last of their mole rat, then eats her own helping of stew.

Afterwards, when she’s scouring their utensils with sand, the Ghoul says, “Ready to switch back now.” He gingerly brushes his hip. “Forgot how much gettin a hole in one’s hide ain’t great for health.”

“Trust me, sir,” Lucy says with every ounce of sincerity she can pour into her words, “it should be me with a bullet, not you.” She focuses on the darkening western line and exhales. “You were right.”

The Ghoul grunts. “Jus the bullshit of life, sweetheart. S’fine.”

“No, it’s not. I hadn’t—if they—”

“Listen. They were gonna die anyway.” He studies the bloodstained bag, but not in a way that hints there’s a head inside. There’s nothing on his face, untroubled as still water. “Or not. We’ll never know. It is what it is. Jus gotta accept what comes and move on.”

Later that night, after she’s done the perimeter check and Dogmeat’s chased some radroaches, she lies next him. But instead of shuffling in, she maintains a reserve, unsure how welcome her touch would be after the events of the day. She replays the moment of the gunshot over and over, regret a far more bitter drink than the Ghoul’s liquor.

It’s only when he reaches behind and blindly tugs at her vest does Lucy slip an arm beneath his head and nestle close.  

.

.s.

.

The bullet wound’s worse when they wake up.

The area’s pink and swollen, warm to the touch. Lucy chews on her inner cheek. Despite what the Ghoul had said about infections and how long they have, she suspects they’ve less than that. She wipes it dry the best she can and changes the bandages. He weathers it with a few growls, fisting the sand.

“I’ve an idea,” Lucy says once she’s done. She leans back, as if he’s a horse known to kick. “But I’m not sure if you’ll like it.”

“What.”

“Let me carry you.” At the sight of his tightening jaw, she’s quick to add, “Not because it’ll be faster! Well, I mean, yes, that’d be the point—but it’ll be easier for you. I really don’t like how this is looking, Mr. Ghoul. I think we should pick up the pace.”

The flushed sweatiness of his face weakens much of his glare. She masks her relief when he breaks it off with a terse nod.

“Hell with it. Can’t rightly say walkin feels appealin.”

After some finagling, choreography, and a healthy amount of cursing, Lucy at last stands with the Ghoul on her back. She staggers for a second, adjusting her balance to account for her new load. Dogmeat watches them with perked ears.

Lucy wraps her hands high under his thighs and jostles him upward.

“Ah ah! Motherfucker,” he says.

Lucy freezes. “You okay?”

He wraps his arms tighter around her neck, the bandolier digging into her shoulders. “Leg ain’t doin me any favors, is all. Goan, let’s get this shit over with.”

Lucy soon lets her long stride hurry them along. Every step she takes is a relief, knowing they’re that much closer to the town. She descends into a rhythm, fixating her eyes on the horizon. She once again marvels at her ghoul strength: it’s as if she’s carrying a backpack no heavier than the one she left her Vault with.

The Ghoul rests his head on her shoulder, the brim of his hat digging into her neck. When his arms start to dangle, she purposefully readjusts her grip to make him hiss.

“No sleeping,” she says. She blinks away stinging sweat. “I need you with me, sir.”

“Goin nowhere, sweetheart,” he says with a pained grunt, “so you can call off the rodeo. Your body’ll be jus fine.”

“What?” Lucy says. “I don’t care about that. I care about—” She licks her lips and falls quiet, the shape of what’s unspoken dragging the air. When he doesn’t reply, it convinces her she’s made an unwelcome gaffe.

She picks up the pace to carry them from the silted silence, eager to clean the rest of her mess.

.

.s.

.

The sun’s high above them when the telltale tickle returns to her throat. Lucy slows, biting back a cough.

She sets the Ghoul down as gently as she can. He folds in the sand next to the saddlebag. Dogmeat circles around, sniffing his hip. He murmurs something to her, scratching her chest.

Last one, Lucy thinks, withdrawing the remaining vial from its tin. She slots it into the inhaler and sucks it down. The vaporized chem tastes dense and potent, like how the air gets just before a radstorm. It carries a finality the others didn’t. Her gaze cuts to the bag with its tacky red bottom. There’s an undeniable relief knowing it’ll save her life.

“Lucy.”

She turns to the Ghoul in surprise. When was the last time—? Not since Roger’s death, at least. She goes to remark on it, only he isn’t looking at her, but out across the wasteland. It takes her less than a second to spot what’s caught his attention.

There, in the distance but approaching at a steady rate, are four figures. And beyond them, nothing more than a glint of metal, is the town.

Lucy stands, shielding her eyes with a hand. There’s something familiar about their lanky shapes, but instead of being comforted, her instincts warn her they’re not there to help. She’s suddenly hyperaware of their wide-open position.

That’s until she spies a set of rocks maybe a quarter mile to their left. While a part of her wishes this is all just a misunderstanding, something inside her telling her to move, and now.

“The rocks,” she says, and experiences a small burst of pride at the Ghoul’s short Yep.

As they begin heading towards their only chance at cover, the figures adjust their course to match theirs, drawing ever closer. Her vision goes blurry as sweat drips down her face. It’s hard to believe a month ago she was finessing her trade marriage speech, every waking daydream revolving around her potential new husband and eventual childr

Lucy stumbles in surprise as the Ghoul fires his revolver, scattering the figures.

“Go, go! Don’t stop,” he says. He shoots again when one shows their head.

She increases her strides to a jog-lope, abandoning his comfort for speed. She grits her teeth as her thighs begin to burn. She can relax once she gets the Ghoul to cover. What’s a quarter mile? She’s ran that on the inside track with Steph all the time. It’s fine, everything’ll be fine, almost there, almosttherealmosttherealmostth

A crack ripples high through her neck, horrible and immediate. She perceives the retort of gunfire the heartbeat after, loud as thunder. There’s a moment of weightlessness before Lucy’s pitching forward, all connection with her body lost, the world going black.

A second—minute? minutes? longer?—later she wakes to a constant, high-pitched barking. It takes her another heartbeat to register several male voices talking. Someone’s struggling against another, breathing heavy.

“—ving trouble, Toe?” someone’s saying. “Need help sticking it in?”

“Naw, I’m g—argh! Little cunt!”

There’s a sharp slap. Dogmeat barks as if she’s gone mad, high and frantic.

Someone else says, “I still say we grab the head and go.”

“Where’s the fun in that? But you’d think a ghoulfucker wouldn’t fight this h—”

Lucy rears up, punching the young man’s throat so hard his trachea’s cartilage buckles beneath her fist. He collapses to his knees, choking. She doesn’t wait for him to die before she’s striding to the one fighting to get up from the Ghoul. She yanks him by the shirt collar just enough to shove her 10mm into his temple. Blood and brain chunks spray out an instant later, turning everything wine-red.

Gunfire booms and Lucy reels, jaw on fire. As her mouth fills with blood, so do her thoughts. She surges forward, lunging at the shooter. There’s the retort of another shot and its impact stings high in her chest, but none of it matters: she’s already tackling him to the ground, grip juddering from the impact.

Something’s screaming but the dull roar in her ears drowns it out. She loses herself in it, raining punch after punch without thought, not stopping until the head beneath her is mashed-in gristle and skull fragments.

One more drifts into her mind like a bubble escaping mud. Lucy staggers upright and turns. The last attacker’s tearing away so fast his heels kick up sand, their bounty and handbill in hand.

Coward. She lines herself up and raises the 10mm. That’s ours.

The pistol kicks her palm. He collapses and stays where he falls.

As Lucy lowers her arm, there’s no accomplishment for striking a moving target, no pride in eliminating a potential future enemy. There’s only an unmoving lump in the distance, a moue of regret at what could’ve been, and a vicious gladness it’s over.

There’s an insistent buzz, repeating over and over. At first, she thinks it’s an insect and swats at an ear. It takes her another moment of confusion to understand it’s the barking Dogmeat.

She totters to where the dog’s tangled in a rude net. When she goes to tell Dogmeat everything’s okay, blood waterfalls from her mouth. She wipes it away. There’s a sharp ache in her knuckles. She stares at her gore-covered gloves as if they belong to someone else, bemused.

She unwraps the dog from the rough netting and Dogmeat wiggles free, whirling to lick her face like she’s a puppy again. Lucy stands out of reach with an indrawn hiss. It’s as if there’s a red-hot brand pressed to her jaw, making each turn of her head a minor agony.

The Ghoul! She spins and sprints back to him. He’s struggling beneath the body slumped on him, trying to push him off.

Lucy tosses the dead weight to the side and collapses to her knees. The bandages are undone, the bullet wound leaking and swollen. Although the jumpsuit’s bunched at his knees, the underwear’s still in place. The bra and tank top, however, are soaked in red. Panic fills her. Is he hurt? Where’s the wound?

Just as she’s about to examine him for more injuries, the Ghoul reaches up to cradle her face, eyes alight with an almost feverish glow.

“There you are, you darlin killer,” he says. “C’mere. Shh-shh, lemme see. Lemme see.”

He digs his fingers into the ruination of her cheek, turning her head this way and that. Lucy grunts but doesn’t pull away, afraid something would rip if she did.

He taps her exposed molars. “That’s my girl,” the Ghoul says.

And through the pain, Lucy smiles.

Chapter Text

.

your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
—Charles Bukowski, excerpt from the poem, “the laughing heart”

.

.

.s.

.

They stagger into town a few hours later.

Lucy ignores the curiosity thrown their way, keeping the Ghoul propped upright against her as they make their slow trek to the mall. As much as she wants to find the doctor as soon as possible, he insists they get their money first.

“Nobody does shit for free, Vaultie,” he says, once more reminding Lucy the obsoletion of her old way of life.

For all the suffering and death of the last three days, the bounty exchange’s a dry affair. The contractor matches the head with the handbill, and just like that, they’re five hundred caps richer. For expediency’s sake they keep the caps in the same bloodstained sack. Life for a life, she thinks, concealing their haul in the saddlebag.

As they leave, Lucy asks the contractor What did he do? but the man laughs as if she’s told a joke and waves her off.

“Told you, sweetie,” the Ghoul says as they shuffle outside. There’s a high flush to his cheeks, hair lanky with sweat. “It don’t matter.”

They cross the thoroughfare and leave Dogmeat at the entrance of a storefront with a big TETH FOHR CAPS sign.

Lucy steps inside and is transported back to Ma June’s dried sundries store. What isn’t covered in knickknacks and oddities is layered with ancient medical equipment, from dusty speculums to rows of disassembled Mr. Handy arms. There’s even a bobblehead of Vault Boy. She doesn’t linger long on him, reminded too much of her father to seek comfort in the mascot.

There’s a woman at the counter wearing a stained butcher apron. Thanks to their newfound wealth, it’s nothing to pay for a stimpak and, for fifty caps more, hire the shopkeeper-turned-doctor to conduct minor surgery on a dirty gurney.

The sight of the Ghoul walking without a hitch has Lucy glancing away, eyes squeezed shut. Thank you. She reopens them, dizzy with relief. Thank you, thank you, thank you. She allows herself the slightest of wobbles as exhaustion paws at her, weary in a way she’s never been before in a Vault.

“You carry vials?” the Ghoul asks.

Oh. The entire reason for this bullcrap side mission. Right. Of course.

The doctor-turned-shopkeeper’s gaze cuts to Lucy as if she’s a bomb without a visible timer, then back to him. “Fifteen a piece,” she says.

Lucy glances quickly at the Ghoul for confirmation at the price’s fairness. When he nods, she calculates. “I’d like to buy twenty-five, please,” she says, shaking the bag with their remaining caps.

Never has such a spread of yellow bottles look as beautiful as they did right then. She controls the urge to immediately cover each in protective wrapping, to secret them away to hoard with a jealous love. What a haul. What a bounty. This should be enough to take her through the Mojave, if that’s indeed where Hank’s going.

She’s finishing putting them away when the woman leans on the counter. “Noticed your girl’s gotta nice set of tits,” she says. “I’ll throw in a coupla extra if I can feel em for a bit.”

Lucy blinks. As her head fills with a slow slurry of how vulgar and sexual harassment and that’s extremely inappropriate ma’am, you should know better, she looks at the Ghoul. There’s a smile there, stretching at the edges. He almost appears like Lucy herself when she’s being friendly, except not quite, not at all.

If their roles were reversed, would he make her do it? What’s the value of dignity in the fight for survival? Now that she comprehends the preciousness of each vial, even one or two extra could spell the difference between life or death.

The Golden Rule stirs. Do unto others, it says, as if surprised she’s forgotten.

Lucy opens her mouth to admonish the other about the moral wrongness of unwanted fondling, hoping they could peacefully work out a different kind of deal. What comes out instead is:

“How about you do it anyway and I’ll let you keep your hands.”

Lucy then begins to stare. She lets it become a physical thing, channeling the memory of the Ghoul forcing her to skin Roger, remembering how it’d felt like holes drilling into her skull.

She lets her silence speak the language of the wasteland until the woman shifts her weight and makes a show of shrugging.

“Pologies. Meant nothin by it,” she says with an uneasy smile. “Forget I asked.”

“Naaaah.” The Ghoul draws his revolver, the click of its hammer loud in the shop. “We’re past that. How bout you listen to my partner here and add a few more, nice’n slow.”

In the end Lucy and the Ghoul leave with three extra vials. He leads her and Dogmeat away until he judges they’re in a good position for cover. In case the transaction ain’t over, as he puts it.

Lucy slumps against a post, the weariness from before making it hard to stand upright. If she could, she’d crawl in a hole and not wake for the next twenty years. Only the beginning, her new inner voice says. She shivers. She still isn’t quite sure what came over her when she killed those young men.

The Ghoul’s assessing her from beneath his hat. “Alright?” he says, tone neutral.

Her throat clogs in a way that has nothing to do with her decaying respiratory system. She turns her head to avoid his scrutiny. “Not sure. Tired.”

She takes a deep breath, releases it, then forces herself to say what’s been weighing on her mind since last night. “Listen, Mr. Ghoul, I’d understand if you want to part ways after today. I realize I’ve proven to be a rather hazardous sort of travel companion, and though I’m trying to learn, I—”

“Vaultie.”

Lucy’s jaws click shut. She analyzes the shades of Dogmeat’s fur as she braces.

“You did good. S’fine.”

She blinks at him, at first not understanding. “Oh.” She stands a little taller. It’s hard not to feel like she’s swallowed a sliver of the sun from that. “Okay.”

The Ghoul studies her for a moment more, clears his throat, then nods towards what seems to be an inn. A small crowd could be seen through its windows. “C’mon. Let’s find a place to lay our heads before gettin after your daddy.” He sniffs one of his armpits and recoils. “Hell, maybe even rustle up some water if they’ve got any.”

Lucy allows herself to envision the taste of civility. A night in? On a bed? With pillows and sheets? A bath? She then sinks back against the post, the daydream fading.

“With what caps, sir? We’ve none left.”

“You forget this?” The Ghoul retrieves a small sack from his duster’s pocket and shakes it so the metal inside clinks. It’s the money she’d found when she was searching the wagon.

Dead people’s money, Vaultie-Lucy says.

Ours now, Wasteland-Lucy replies.

“Let’s make good use of it, then,” she says.

.

.s.

.

The Ghoul slides extra caps onto the bar’s counter, blinding the owner’s lingering eye on Lucy. She lets the discrimination go without comment. After the altercation they just had over the vials, she doesn’t think she has the energy for another surface dweller tussle tonight.

Not long after their order of water and soap’s sent up, they climb the stairs and lock the door behind them. Brittle newspapers plaster the two windows, amplifying the sunset to paint the room orange. It’s cozy in an apocalyptic, everything is on fire and nothing will ever be the same kind of way.

In the left corner’s a large metal tub, and beside it, a bucket of water and a towel that looks as coarse as sand. Dogmeat trots over and takes a drink. Lucy stands beside her and peers down. She always thought she’d have running water in her life, just a faucet tap away. Now here she is, watching a dog mix her drool into what’s supposed to be their washing.

The Ghoul walks over to the single bed on the opposite side. He tosses the hat and bandolier on it, then the rope, revolver, and knife, mimicking what she’d done only four days prior. He sheds the duster next, revealing the jumpsuit’s top half tied around his waist. Blood has hardened on the tank top as an unappealing reddish-brown crust. Maybe it’s time she thinks about getting a new set of wastelander clothes.

The Ghoul sits down on the bed and starts untying his boots. When he starts rolling both the underwear and pant legs down, Lucy clears her throat.

“Want me to, uhm, leave?”

He doesn’t look at her as he kicks the clothes away. “Why?”

She squints, trying to decipher his nondescript tone. “For privacy?”

He lets the tank top clump on the floor. He’s now only wearing the bloodstained bra. The Ghoul flashes her a quick leer. “Seen it all before, haven’t you, sweetheart?”

Her gaze lingers on the stitched bullet wound. Near it is the scar Monty gave her. “Suppose so,” Lucy says, cautious. She’ll admit, it’s a little confusing. While it may be her body and therefore she’s not afraid or ashamed to look, he’s the one wearing it. Wouldn’t that make it his nudity?

She shrugs. Well, if he doesn’t care, then neither will she.

The Ghoul’s now standing, hands hovering over the bra straps. After another brief hesitation, he goes to pull it off without uncoupling the back.

Lucy strides over in a panic. “Stop, stop, stop. You’re going to stretch it out or snap something,” she says. “Turn around. I’ll do it.”

The Ghoul tenses, but after a second, does as he’s bid. She removes her gloves before undoing the clasps, pretending not to notice how he seems to shiver as her hands brush his skin. The bra slides off, joining the spread of clothes on the floor.

Lucy sits on the bed and coaxes Dogmeat to her. As she pets the dog, she listens to him step into the tub and hoist the bucket in. Soon the rush rush of scrubbing and sloshing water fills the quiet around them.

She keeps muttering good girl, you’re such a good girl, so good, the best to Dogmeat as she waits her turn. When the sunsets fades and the room loses its cheery end-of-the-world ambience, she lights the oil lamp on the nightstand. She’s adjusting its wick, shadows kicking everywhere, as the Ghoul steps out of the tub and starts toweling dry.

“Hope you left me some water,” Lucy says, partly joking.

There’s an immediate silence. She glances over. He’s shifting in place, looking anywhere but her.

“Honestly, darlin,” he says, somewhat stiffly, “I’d mighty ’preciate if you didn’t partake.”

Annoyance sizzles through her. Just as she’s about to point out the unfairness—why should he get clean but not her? Didn’t they pay for the water with the caps she found?—realization hits, irritation leaving as quickly as it came. This is the reaction she was expecting.

“Okay. Then I won’t,” Lucy says. “Could I wash my hands and face, at least?”  

He studies the far wall as he wraps the towel around himself. “Sure. Yeah. Jus, careful not to, you know.” He waves around the area of his nose. “Soap hurts like a motherfucker if it gets up there.”

They trade places, he now on the bed, she by the tub. Lucy kneels and dips her hands in the gray, soapy mess at the bottom. Better than nothing, she thinks.

Once she’s cleaner than before, Lucy stands. It’s hard not to notice he’s still utterly bare. Water beads his arms as damp hair strings over his shoulders. The lamp casts half his form in flickering light, the rest in gray shadow.

The second problem arises when she realizes the bed’s so narrow they’d have to squish together to fit. She masks a sigh. Darn. She really would’ve liked to sleep in it tonight. She presses a spurred heel against a floorboard until it creaks. Hopefully there’s a blanket or throw she could use. In the nightstand, maybe? She opens it and finds only dust and dead flies.

“Lookin for somethin in particular, sweetheart?”

“Just a blanket.”

“Dogmeat’ll sleep jus fine without one,” the Ghoul says.

“Oh! Oh, uhm, it’s not for her.” Lucy licks her lips. For how easy it was to stay close to him outside, she cannot justify it here. There’s no need to keep him warm. He has a literal pillow. Her thoughts stray to the earlier events of the day and flinches. “It’s for me. For the floor.”

In the wake of the following silence, Lucy hurries to say, “I’d understand if you didn’t want to be touched right now.”

“Did I say that?” he says, difficult to read.

Lucy coughs. She fights to keep more down, rubbing her chest. “Well, no, you didn’t. I assumed. What happened today would be traumatic for anybody, sir. I want to be respectful of your space.”

The Ghoul’s quiet for a moment, then says, “There’s a reason not much stays clean up here, Vaultie. Shit piles on fast. For some, it smothers em. Me? I ain’t ever gonna stay buried. Just gonna stay focused on why I’m even alive at all.”

He then tenses, clears his throat, and says, “Those fuckers are dead. End of story. Now quit actin so skittish and get up here. Jesus.”

Given permission, Lucy sits on the edge of the bed. But when she bends to remove her shoes, he’s quick to say,

“Everythin stays as is, darlin.”

She wants to argue that it’s only feet—who’s being skittish now?—but in the end, doesn’t fight him on it. She blows out the lamp, plunging the room in a wash of gray. The Ghoul drops the towel on the floor and slides under the covers. Lucy settles next to him, feeling only a little ridiculous with shoes on.

The bed squeaks and groans as they adjust against each other. They finally stop moving, shoulder squished to shoulder, not a sliver of air between them. It’s somehow more awkward than when they’re huddling in the sand.

Lucy stares at the ceiling, keenly aware of every breath the Ghoul takes. While there’s nothing sexually arousing about her body itself—it’s as familiar to her as a comfortable, well-loved sweater—the fact he’s chosen to be stark naked next to her sends a low pulse between her legs, set in time to her heartbeat. She starts rubbing her thighs together to get rid of it, only to discover friction makes it worse.

Oh. Right. Her genitals are external now. Lucy stills. She should try to sleep. Wasn’t she just tired?

“I’ll credit that seller one thing,” the Ghoul says, apropos to nothing. “You do have a nice set of tits.”

Once the brief flare of not you too indignation fades, Lucy glances over. He’s just as awake as she is, blinking in the dark.

“That so,” she says, watching him closely. Never has she been gladder for her night vision than at this moment.

“Mhn.”

Lucy doesn’t look away, trying to gauge his reaction as she says, “Too bad she didn’t get to feel them, huh? They’re really quite sensitive. Bet you would’ve enjoyed a pinch or two.”

A vein jumps in his neck.

Over the drum of her own heartbeat, she says, “You still can. If that’s what you’re asking.”

The Ghoul shifts beside her. “Who says I’m askin for anythin?”

While she doesn’t buy his nonchalance, neither does she want to force him into something he isn’t comfortable with. Maybe he hadn’t expected her to call his bluff and regrets starting this conversation. Maybe the attempted assault’s effecting him more than he’s letting on but doesn’t want to admit it.

“I won’t touch you unless you do,” Lucy says, folding her hands on her chest. “Otherwise, I’m going to sleep.”

She closes her eyes. The low throb between her legs has only increased with their conversation. To her slight horror, her nascent erection brushes against her pants inseam, no longer content to lay quiet on her leg. Well, at least that answers one question, she thinks. She can only hope it dies down soon and for the Ghoul to never find out.

As the silence continues, she thinks that’s the end of it. That’s until he says,

“Okay. Sure. I’m askin. Show me what’s all the fuss.”

The bed squeaks as Lucy rolls towards him. “I’d be happy to,” she says, propping herself on an elbow. “But please tell me to slow down or stop when it gets too much.”

He shows his teeth at that. “I ain’t some shrinkin violet, Vaultie, so quit treatin me like it. I said I was fine.”

Lucy lets some of the wasteland creep into her voice as she says, “With all due respect, Mr. Ghoul, you’ve no idea how sensitive the body you’re wearing is. And judging from how long you’ve been a ghoul, I bet it wouldn’t take more than a few minutes before you’re asking for a break.”

If his pupils were large before, they’re enormous now. “Then put your money where your goddamn mouth is and fuckin get on with it,” he says.

There’s a quiet menace to her Okey dokey. Without waiting for a reply, she throws back the covers to expose his chest. He flinches, gooseflesh breaking out across his arms. The nipples harden in the cool air, pebbling before her eyes.

“Hands on the headboard,” she says. “Keep them there.”

The Ghoul’s slow in groping behind his head, but when it’s clear Lucy isn’t moving until he does, he solidifies his grip the vertical metal bars. She basks in the sight of him following her requests. She could get used to his.

She barely cups the underside of one breast when he jerks, breath catching.

“Already? I haven’t even started,” she says.

“Fuck you.”

She tilts her head. “Maybe if you’re good,” she says.

The Ghoul doesn’t respond, jaw tightening. There’s a flush developing high in his cheeks, darkening them to a nice deep gray.

Lucy hasn’t been with a woman since Steph, years and years ago, back when everything felt like a game. After they were discovered, Lucy was gently but firmly steered towards Chet, and every subsequent time her head turned towards Steph, someone was always there to guide it away. As they grew older and learned pleasure at the hands of male partners, neither tried rekindling what both agreed to be nothing more than a passing curiosity.

That doesn’t stop Lucy from remembering what she learned. She starts dragging her original index finger around the sensitive skin, drawing circles around a puckered areola. She keeps her touch featherlight, nothing more than a tease. Sometimes she draws in close before diverting, never going where she knows he wants her to go.

Aside from heightened breathing, the Ghoul’s quiet, forehead wrinkled in concentration.

That’s until she starts tickling a nipple.

He jumps as if electrocuted.

Lucy does it again, touch soft as sable. The Ghoul swallows a groan, twitching under her hand. She leaves the first one alone to repeat the process on the other, slowly honing on the sensitive tip. She only has to brush the pad of her thumb over it for the Ghoul to bite back an indrawn oh. He readjusts his slipping grip on the bars, abdomen hollowing.

He doesn’t tell her stop, so Lucy escalates. She returns to the original nipple and pinches it. It’s hard between her fingers, easy to flick and tweak. The Ghoul tosses his head back into the pillow, breathing heavier in the dark. It’s fascinating to watch him try to hold back his noises.

She keeps pinching and tugging so it becomes oversensitive and tender. She enjoys the way he flinches like a worm on a hook, taking pride in the broken gnhs that spill from of him.

Once she judges him stimulated enough, she leans down and seals her mouth to it. The Ghoul bucks when she starts sucking. She gentles the suction and swirls it with her tongue. She plays with the other nipple as she does, squeezing and rolling between two fingers, maintaining the onslaught on two fronts.

He writhes the entire time, making strangled ggrkk sounds. Whether he knows it or not, he’s widened his knees. One flutters against Lucy’s thigh, brushing dangerously close to her own sensitive area.

Lucy lets go of both.

His collapses, panting. He stares at the ceiling. “You weren’t kiddin.”

“Want to know what else this body can feel?” she says.

The Ghoul’s eyes are nothing but pupils. “Yeah.”

“Then roll onto your stomach. Stay flat.”

He does, hissing as the overstimulated nipples brushes against the sheets. Lucy now pulls the covers down to his thighs, exposing his entire back. She takes a moment to admire the sweep of her body’s behind. She’s never seen herself like this from this angle.

“Hands on the headboard,” she says.

There’s no hesitation this time as the Ghoul grips the bars and braces. Lucy preens once more at how well he’s responding. She makes the mistake of trying to adjust her crotch and has to bite back a groan of her own. The pants are starting to feel uncomfortably tight. Not now, she thinks. There’ll be time to deal with that later.

Lucy moves over the Ghoul and positions her right knee directly between his legs. She pushes in until he’s flush to her, the heat of his core dampening the fabric. He doesn’t react beyond a hesitant grind and a small shudder.

Using her left hand to keep stable above him, Lucy begins to ghost nails along the well of his spine, starting first between his shoulders. The touch’s so light it hardly seems she’s doing anything. Yet as her fingertips reach the area around his hips, he lifts his pelvis up in reflex.

“Aah ah!”

Lucy repeats the motion. The Ghoul makes another sound as if he’s in pain, clenching the bars in a white-knuckled grip as he arches again. She removes her hand and he slumps, inadvertently dragging against her knee. His breathing hitches as she nudges him with it, stimulating the clit.

She strokes his spine for a third time, listening to the corresponding uhng! that follows. She allows him to grind on her knee as a reward, soothing the overstimulation with pleasure. She keeps it up until his whole body’s covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

At one point she doesn’t withdraw, just lightly ghosting the skin of the back dimples until he gasps,

“Stop! Jesus fuck, stop!”

“Yes, sir,” Lucy says. She presses her entire palm onto his spine and rubs it up and down, maintaining a steady pressure to dispel the leftover intensity. She removes her knee and glances down at the wet patch he’s left behind. She ignores the mounting discomfort in her groin.

“Are you done-done,” she says, “or do you want to experience what it’s like to have no refractory period between orgasms?”

The Ghoul chokes. After he relearns how to swallow, he says, “If I didn’t know any better, killer, I’d think you were tryin to end me.”

“That can be arranged,” Lucy says. “But, only if you want to.”

He’s quiet for a heartbeat, then says, “If I did, what’d you have in mind?”

“Would you be okay with oral sex?” Lucy says. “After all, you did mention something about my mouth earlier.”

The bedsheets rustle when he shifts. “Yeah. Yeah, I can handle that.”

“Would you be comfortable with me putting a finger inside you?” she asks.

The Ghoul pauses a little longer this time. “Alright if we don’t go beyond that? A lot’s happenin to this old man tonight.”

“That’s okey dokey with me,” Lucy says. “And if you change your mind at all, please tell me.”

After some rearranging and shuffling, she kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed. The Ghoul’s on his back, legs spread. Lucy reaches over, careful of his left hip and its sutures, and tugs him close.

As she studies her body with a clinical eye, there’s no stir of arousal at the sight of her own vulva. But seeing him clench the bedsheets when she leans in? Or hearing his sharp uuh! when she makes her first experimental lick? Or feeling the minute tremors in his thighs when she holds him steady?

For that alone she could do this all night.

Lucy tries to remember what she liked when Steph or Chet performed cunnilingus on her and attempts to replicate it now. She keeps the labia away with two spread fingers and begins to lick and fondle him with her tongue, able to detect the faint acidic tang. She tries not to preen at how slick he is, finally understanding Chet’s pride whenever he discovered how wet she was.

She seals her mouth to him, relishing the shuddery grunts the Ghoul makes. He fists the sheets and jerks as she laps and sucks the swollen clit. The aimless twitching increases the longer she keeps up her gentle but relentless stimulation. Lucy then uses the truncated bridge of her nose to nuzzle the clit as she continues to tongue him as deep as she can.

It doesn’t take more than thirty seconds of this before his breathing turns choppy.

The Ghoul lifts his groin into her face as he orgasms. She rides his core through the rhythmic spasms, proud of how quickly she got him there. He soon falls back onto the bed with an explosive exhale.

Lucy licks around the clitoral hood, careful not to overstay her welcome. She’s had to teach Chet early on too much reliance of a good thing was never pleasurable for longer sessions.

She sucks on her right middle finger and inserts it into the hot, muscular space one knuckle at a time, listening to his indrawn groan as she does. After giving him a moment to adjust, she starts to thrust it in and out, stroking him from within.

She falls into a rhythm, enjoying the tremors in his legs and how his knees widen and contract. He grinds his clit into her mouth, chasing the mounting pleasure. She hums into him, and before too long, the soft vibrations coupled with her steady penetrations has him gasping.

“Oh, fuck, fuck—” and he’s spasming again, gripping her finger so hard she thinks he’s going to break it off.

“Ready for another?” she asks when he slumps back down, skin of his chest flushed.

“Christ alive,” he says, head lolling. He widens his legs and tilts his pelvis to give her better access. “Jus ain’t fair.”

Lucy descends.

She loses track of time and the number of climaxes she gives him, relishing the process of turning the Ghoul into a trembling, cursing mess. And there, on her knees by a small bed in a nameless inn, she settles into a peace she thought she’d never achieve again. It’s as if she’s back in her Vault, safe and at home, content with her life and those in it. Overcome with emotion, she hums praises into him until he tips into another full-body release.

Lucy’s knees are numb by the time the Ghoul begs her to stop. She lifts her head. Her jaw and tongue ache but it’s nothing compared to the throbbing discomfort below her belt. Her arousal’s pressing against the pants, making every minute adjustment a small trial. Just palming herself makes her want to weep.

“Darlin?”

“I’m actually quite erect right now, sir,” Lucy says with pained hiss. “It’s very uncomfortable. Please, if I could get your permission? I need to deal with this. I promise I won’t look.”

The Ghoul sits upright, sweaty and loose-limbed. “C’mere, sweetheart. Sit on the bed with me. I gotcha.”

Lucy does as he asks, the bed frame creaking. He gropes blindly until he’s sitting beside her. She can’t help the loud sigh when he undoes the belt and fly. As promised, she doesn’t watch as the cock springs free of its confines, only feeling the immediate relief when it does. She jolts when he gives it a single stroke from base to tip.

“My, my,” he says. “Someone’s in quite the state.”

“Please,” Lucy says, gritting her teeth. “What should I do, how do I—”

“Nothin, darlin. Jus sit there and lemme take care of you.” 

The Ghoul withdraws his right hand. After a moment or two of soft squelching, it returns, slicked wet. He sidles in close and forms a tight fist at her root. He rests his cheek on her shoulder as he begins to jerk her off, hard and fast.

It’s difficult to formulate higher thoughts as he works her. All Lucy can do is wrap an arm around him and hold onto the bed with the other, overcome with the sensation of his enclosed palm on her skin. It’s as if someone’s stimulating her clitoris over a broad surface. She lifts her head to the ceiling, unable to stop her hips from jerking into his hand. The Ghoul never pauses, maintaining his brisk pace. She thinks he may’ve pressed a kiss on her shoulder but it’s hard to tell.

The pleasurable pressure builds and builds, pulling below her navel. She undulates harder into his fist, balls tightening. Then she’s cresting with a gasp, semen splattering on the wood floor. The Ghoul keeps stroking until his touch becomes the sweetest torture. She coasts on the overstimulation until she can’t, tugging at his wrist for it to end.

Then they just sit, their breathing mingling in the dark. Lucy sinks in the hazy afterglow. Every limb feels as heavy as a Vault door, the exhaustion from before returning with a vengeance. The cock softens. He wipes his hand on the covers without comment.

After a quick clean and resetting her clothes, they settle back into bed, the tension from earlier spent. The Ghoul settles on his side towards her, and despite having his own pillow, rests his head on her upper arm. He’s asleep in minutes.

Lucy lingers a little longer, relishing their closeness, until she, too, is gone.

.

.s.

.

Her shoulder’s cold.

Lucy frowns, not yet wanting to wake up. She burrows closer into the nearby heat source, curling in with a sigh. Leather rubs against her cheek, warm and smooth. There’s a heartbeat beneath her ear, slow and steady, and if she pays attention, there’s the faint gurgle and churn of rotten lu

Her eyes fly open. The room’s a deep blue, almost too dark to see anything. Why can’t she? She should have no problem.

Lucy jolts upright, arms prickling with gooseflesh in the sudden chill. She looks down. There’re breasts. She has breasts again. She stares, transfixed.

“If them eyes get any bigger,” a low voice says, “they’ll pop right outta that pretty head.”

Lucy’s gaze snaps up. The Ghoul’s watching her without blinking, reclined on his pillow.

He barely has time to recoil before she’s cupping his gaunt face. Ungloved hands engulf her wrists—oh, they’re so big, how has she forgotten?—but instead of pulling her away, they hold there, not squeezing.

“Is this real?” she says, breathless. While it’s too dark to make out the hazel of his irises, she’s so close she could touch the lines of his eyelashes with her nose. “Is it over?”

“Mmnn.”

Somehow, someway, their world has sorted itself out. All they could do is accept their reassortment as nothing more than a strange wasteland miracle.

She strokes his skeletal cheekbones with her thumbs without thinking, lost to the newfound sensitivity of her skin. He’s as rough as old leather, warm as a furnace, smelling of metal and musk. This was hers, not a few hours ago.

The Ghoul turns to stone under her touches. Even the rise and fall of his chest stops.

Her brain catches up and Lucy lurches back. He lets her go, hands falling away.

“Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry. I completely lost my head just now. I—” Lucy rubs her arms and huddles into herself, peering at the room. By the door, Dogmeat perks her ears at her. “Jeepers, I definitely didn’t miss the cold.”

She doesn’t expect the Ghoul to react much to the switch. In fact, she suspects he’ll get them moving out the door any second. Their sidetracking has given her father an even greater head start than he currently has. What else will they need to overcome before their paths cross? Maybe she’ll be even less recognizable to him when they do.

The mounting pressure to go go go scatters her thoughts until the Ghoul says, “Don’t need to leave quite yet, Lucy.” His drawl’s soft, barely there. “Can stay warm for a bit longer. If you’d like.”

She pauses, hesitant to believe what she’s hearing. “What about time and efficiency?”

One of the Ghoul’s shoulders lifts in a small shrug. “Dawn ain’t here. We can be efficient then.”

As he continues to peer up at her from his pillow, she says, “I’d appreciate that.”

She shuffles back down among the scratchy sheets. When she tries to give him space, his arm curls around her shoulders, drawing her close. Lucy doesn’t resist, resting her cheek on his chest as confused delight fizzes in her stomach. Her delight compounds when his arm stays, warm and heavy.

A large smile breaks out across her face. No more worrying about going insane. No more obsessing over vial counts. But the longer she basks in relief, the smaller her smile becomes. She peers up. He’s staring into the ceiling, hard to read, craggy face hollow without a nose.

“You okay, Mr. Ghoul?”

He closes his eyes in a slow blink, then lets out a long exhale through his nasal cavity. “Cooper Howard, actually,” he says.

For the second time in the span of a few minutes, Lucy jolts upright, struck with its enormity. Feo, fuerte y formal—of course, of course. Why didn’t she make the connection before? All the little clues were right there.

“We watched all your movies,” she says, trying not to scatter into a million questions. “All the time. My father. He was—we were—he loved them so much.”

“Ain’t surprised.” There’s nothing to read from his blank tone. “Young Henry always was such a fan.”

After clawing back some semblance of control, not yet ready to tell him I loved your movies, too, Lucy says as evenly as she can manage, “Why tell me now?”

“Guess after all this strangeness, you knowin ain’t such a far-fetched notion anymore,” he says.

There’s a lightness in her heart where none was before. It makes her bold. “Back at the observatory,” she says. “Why did you offer for me to come with you?”

The Ghoul—no, Cooper Howard—adjusts as if there’s a mattress coil digging into his spine.

“You ain’t the only one to have your whole world crumble,” he says. “Guess got sentimental, I s’pose, seein you lose yours. Wanted to give you the chance to discover the truth, jus as I do.”

“The truth.” Lucy sinks back onto him, and after a moment, his arm resettles on her. “My father has a lot to answer for.”

“That he does, darlin.”

The room’s beginning to lighten. Dogmeat’s nails click as she pads over, tail wagging. She sets her head on the Ghoul’s chest. Lucy reaches over and scratches the dog between her ears.

“I can’t believe we’re back in our bodies, Cooper,” she says, and oh, that’s going to take some getting used to. And judging from the way he twitches beneath her, he will too.

“Yeah.” He lifts a hand and joins in the petting, sending Dogmeat squinting in bliss. “That sure was somethin.”

.

.

.

-fin-