Chapter Text
The wind had died down. The house was quiet in the pre-dawn darkness.
The Ghoul was alone. Neither Dogmeat nor the Vaultie were anywhere to be seen. Her pillow and blanket were strewn across the floor. The implication was laughable—fraidy-cat Vaultie, too scared of the wind to sleep alone. He frowned...but not too scared to go wandering around in the middle of the night?
No. Something was off.
The Ghoul rose nimbly as one can from a recliner.He hadn't heard her rise. Lifting his head, he listened intently. Silence. Unease prickled over his skin. If there had been any hair left on his body, it would have been on end.
The Ghoul donned his duster and saddlebag. Gun drawn, he edged along the wall and rounded the corner into the hallway. The front door remained bolted. He continued through the first floor until, through a high slitted window in the kitchen, he made out a warm flickering light. Something was on fire outside
The hinges of the backdoor whined as he pushed through.
The Vaultie cross-legged, as if enjoying a campfire, the dog tucked under her arm. Dogmeat already clocked him—good dog—but the Vaultie stared into the fire, oblivious of him.
He rapped on the open door. She raised her pistol, which was the right call. Upon seeing the Ghoul her tension eased and she smiled, which seemed to him outlandish. "Oh, it's you." It was impossible to recall the last time someone had looked at him with any amount of relief.
"Expecting somebody else?" He approached, eyes sweeping the darkness for threats. The fire cast strange shapes across the yard, but nothing dangerous seemed to lurk in the shadows.
"No. I'm a little on edge. I had this dream...this super weird, messed up dream. Anyway, I couldn't sleep."
"Sure. You felt antsy." He said, sarcasm on full blast. "Why not make a campfire about it? Ain't the safest choice, lighting fires a-"
"I know, I know. I needed to burn something. That diary I mentioned earlier."
"Didn't seem like a bestseller, but damn, that's a harsh review. Nah, something else happened..."
The fire crackled, sending a flurry of sparks shot up into the night sky. The Vaultie jumped out of her skin at the sound. A lightbulb went off. He snapped his fingers and pointed.
Someone got a little haunted."
"What? No." The way she avoided eye contact suggested otherwise.
"Uh-huh."
Before they set out, he made the Vaultie squirm with a few ghost related jabs, but the fun was short lived. Once out of view of the farmhouse, she went and ruined things by being too good-natured about the whole business.
Chicken was less than a day's travel away when the Ghoul cast a critical eye at the Vaultie.
The Vaultie sat in the narrow shadow cast by a telephone pole, shaking a canteen over her open mouth. She'd been at it for a while, as if water might release from some hidden compartment given enough time. She only stopped after realizing she was being watched.
He circled like a vulture, wheeling overhead, assessing her from all angles. The scrutiny made her go a little red-faced, though it might have been sun damage. He wasn't too sure.
"Um. Hi. Time to head out?"
"Not quite.
All that bright blue stuck out like a balloon animal at a funeral. They needed to make some changes. They should have addressed her status as a walking Vault-tec billboard sooner. Days, no, a week ago. But decades had passed since the Ghoul needed to account for anything outside of himself. He was out of practice.
"You still look fresh out the Vault."
The Vaultie blinked down, as if only now noticing the conspicuousness of her attire. "I guess you're right. I haven't found anything good enough to give up my suit. I mean, the rads resistance alone," she said with a frown. "It is pretty flashy, though."
"Yeah. You're gonna want to tone it down. That's standard precaution but goes double for the fella we're meeting. He's an information broker, and you don't want him interested in you. Marv so much as catches a whiff of valuable intel, he'll squeeze you for it."
"Welp," the Vaultie raised into a crouch and brushed dust from the backs of her legs before standing upright. "Until two weeks ago, I thought there was an America left to save. I'm squeeze-proof."
"Dunno. Picking the brain of a true-blue Vault dweller might appeal to him."
"How could it? My entire education was all Vault-tec approved literature in a Vault-tec approved curriculum." Every word dripped with self-deprecation. "Most of what I know of it is too outdated to call intel. Unless this Marv person needs someone to recite the Declaration of Independence. Then we're in trouble."
"Dunno. Plenty of organizations would pay for a write-up on how Vault-tec brainwashes their lab rats."
"Lab rat?!" She scoffed. "I'm a person!"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, Marv picking your brain could go from metaphorical to literal real quick. The man loves an excuse to carve someone up, and you don't heal quick enough for that to be a temporary setback. So just—" His palms smoothed the air in a calm, sweeping gesture. "—be as dull and uninteresting as possible."
By this point, the Vaultie was all seriousness and worry. The wheels in her head kick into overdrive as she tried to creative-problem-solve a way out of this.
"Should I stay behind? In the place we buy to sleep, I mean."
"It's called renting a room."
"Right, that." She waved a dismissive hand. "I mean, if my being there is going to be an issue, that seems like the right call."
"Soon as we step into town, he'll know we're traveling together." Marv might already have an entry on the Ghoul and his new little travel buddy. The creep had eyes all over the place. "Not showing could make him more curious."
"Okay..." She chewed on her lip. "There has to be someone else we could go to."
Other, less reliable sources existed, sure. But the agency supported radio frequencies had been quiet for the past week. Half of them were dead air, the other had only a trickle of low stakes bounties. Nothing had popped about Hank MacLean.
The Ghoul couldn't afford for the trail to go cold. Not now, when he was closer than he had ever been to finding his family—or at the very least finding out what happened them. Janey, his sweet girl...she and Barb could be could be 200 years dead, or brains in a jar, or put on ice like meat popsicles. He might even have a slew of great-great-grand-babies out there in an underground science experiment.
"Marv is a necessary evil." He said finally. "He'll steer us true."
"Well. As far as toning it down, I can still wear my Pip-boy, right? It's a useful tool, I'm sure it w—don't look at me like that, it was only a question!"
Over the better part of an hour, the Vaultie set about de-Vault-tecifying herself.
First, she tied her jumpsuit down at the waist. Below her pronounced collarbones, the outline of her sternum peeked through her flesh in a way that spoke of prolonged hunger. Her once white tank top was a mottled, tea-stained shade of beige. She knelt and deposited the Pip-boy into her backpack, then rummaged through the bag. A shoulder holster shook loose from a tangle of raider leathers. She shrugged on the holster and secured her pistol there. Unbuckling the now-naked gun belt, she tossed it to the ground.
The Ghoul whistled lowly. "Oh my stars, a litterbug."
"Someone will pick it up. That's how I ended up with it. Anyway, it hurt my hips."
Several other pieces made the cut: a quilted bracer for her left forearm; a tatty red bandana knotted around the neck; mismatched shin guards—one leather, one lead-lined polymer.
After lots of tugging and adjusting, and readjusting, the Vaultie presented herself for inspection. "Does this work?" Hints of foal-like newness remained, though it was not as obvious. She looked grimy and worn down as anyone else out on the wasteland. Still, it struck him as odd that someone could be pretty with two shiners and a broken nose.
"Good enough." As an afterthought, the Ghoul unclipped a knife from his belt and offered it to her handle first. "Here, so you don't look like a one-trick pony."
They started down the road again.
"Don't tell him where you're from, how old you are, favorite color, nothing. He sure as hell doesn't need to know this is a family matter right off the bat."
"I should go by a pseudonym, then." The Vaultie kept clipping and unclipping her newly acquired knife on the holster, messing with it the same way she chewed on her withered trigger finger when she wasn't thinking. Novelty was something she couldn't leave alone, like picking a scab.
"Only if you're planning to stick with it. Outright lies don't go over well. He'll always find out more than you want him to know—don't give him a head start. First name only."
"What does he call you?"
"Nothing. Same as everyone else."
Against all odds, the town of Chicken was even more dismal than the barren wasteland surrounding it.
Vaultie's face pinched like she was sucking a lemon. "What's that smell?"
"Chicken shit. Runs the generators."
A two-tiered wall of shipping containers formed a perimeter around the town. They entered unchallenged. A rusted silo jutted into the sky, leaning against the warehouse at the center of the settlement. The warehouse stood ten stories tall, and most of the long windows had been boarded up. Pipes clung to the crumbling brick like an overgrowth of ivy. Aside from a few other pre-bomb buildings, it was a shanty town. Makeshift cinderblock huts and lean-tos with canvas tarps instead of walls.
Brimming with curiosity, the Vaultie gawped at the shitty town with wide-eyed wonder, a skip in her step as if they had walked into an amusement park. Even her ponytail perked up. It almost seemed to bounce with excitement. The Ghoul jabbed her with a sharp elbow. Rubbing her arm, she gave an abashed, "Oh, right," and she adopted a practiced scowl.
The streets were clear in the high heat of the day. There were a few clumps of grim-faced people, ghouls and smoothskins alike, lingering beneath porches. He clocked a woman with a baby on her hip, who watched them with hawkish openness from the shade of a metal canopy. After they passed, she sank back into the shadows and disappeared—likely one of Marv's. He would know of their arrival.
He almost didn't recognize the inn. Time had left it more mildewed and depressing than he last remembered. At some point the rear of the building collapsed and had not been rebuilt. The sky was visible from his seat at the near-empty bar. In the corner sat a jukebox, 'out of order' painted right on the glass. The bartender—the only person working—ignored them until the Ghoul knocked his knuckles on the bartop.
She turned to them; her face half-melted by a shiny, tight burn scar. She slung a dishrag over her shoulder. "Yeah, what'll it be?"
"Any room at the inn?"
"30 caps a night."
"That's highway robbery. 25."
"Can't haggle with me. I don't set the prices."
"We can camp out." The Vaultie eyed the dark spread of mold which crept along the far wall. She did not seem overly fond with the idea of staying here, let alone paying someone for the privilege.
"Got a room with two beds?"
"Can't bunk up together? I didn't realize I was speaking to royalty." The bartender sneered. "Hello, Mister Presdient. Missus President."
"Presidents are elected officials, actually. Not royalty."
"Did I fucking ask?" The bartender said to the Vaultie, then turned back to him, "Look, if you want more beds, you pay more caps."
Not wanting to cause any more of a scene, the Ghoul slapped 30 caps down. With a jingle, the bartender counted them and stashed the caps somewhere under the bar before relinquishing a key. "Up the stairs and to the left."
The small room crowded with furniture. There was a freestanding vanity with a pitcher of stale water—only lightly irradiated, as confirmed by the secreted away Pip-boy—and a lumpy twin bed on a metal frame. The bedding was coarse as burlap. The Ghoul flopped down with a sigh, crossing his booted ankles. If his shoulders were any wider, he'd be hanging off the bed.
"Probably only a couple of ghosts rattling around in here." He teased.
"Good, we can split the bill." She said, unaffected.
He rolled his eyes and absently picked at the covers. "Looks you get to camp out on the ground after all." He said after a second, gesturing to the ground. He anticipated at least some kickback, but the Vaultie just gave a little affirmative hum before laying out her bedroll on the dusty floor. She had already run through her settling-in routine. Boots off, socks hung to dry (sweaty feet got blisters, a painful lesson she learned the hard way). A water bowl set out for Dogmeat, which the Vaultie filled and refill until the dog stopped drinking.
"You always pick a couch or something," she said after sitting on her bedroll, legs hugged to her body. "I thought you didn't like sleeping in beds."
"Don't like the idea of being in someone else's bed. Can't get comfortable in 'em. No point in rest if it isn't restful."
She didn't try to hide her skepticism. "Whatever works, I guess. I haven't gotten a decent night's sleep since...well, since I left home, actually." There was a sad dip in her voice. "It probably doesn't help that my bloodstream has been completely replaced by cortisol and catecholamines."
She might as well have been speaking another language. The Ghoul stared, but she didn't have anything to add to that. "Care to translate?"
"Huh?"
"I'm gonna need you to define 'cortisol'. I won't even try the other one."
"Oh. They're stress hormones. Cortisol regulates stress responses over longer time periods. Catecholamines are more immediate. They facilitate the fight-or-flight response."
"Right." It was like talking to a walking encyclopedia, if the encyclopedia was on the brink of a nervous meltdown. She might could do with a distraction, so he said: "I had a buddy who called it the fuck-or-fight response." The buddy was Seabass, who had featured heavily in his thoughts since the dead man's voice crackled from that Mister Handy.
The diversion was successful. At least, the Vaultie puffed a little laugh. "I mean, sex as conflict resolution doesn't sound so bad in theory. Depends on the people involved."
"Everything does."
"Hm. The last person I had sex with tried to kill me after."
"No shit?" He croaked, then wheezed in a way that had him and patting around for the saddlebag. Loading up a vial, he said: "I'm a card-carrying member of that club. What's your story?"
"Oh, y'know. Husband stabbed me with a broken bottle on our wedding night." She said matter-of-factly. Same old, same old. She rested her cheek on her knee, staring up at him with threadbare tiredness. "You?"
A little smile played on her lips. Something in his guts went topsy-turvy at the sight. He turned away and cleared his throat. Hit the inhaler like it owed him money.
"Had a thing with this woman out in Texas. I still got the bullets in me." The Ghoul pointed at his back with business end of the inhaler. He couldn't reach to dig them out, so the skin healed over them.
"Must have been a rough break up."
"Not as rough as your divorce, I'll wager."
"We don't divorce in Vault 33." She said, prim and proper. "I'm a widow."
The delivery had him cackling and kicking the air. Soon, though, his laughter choked him. The Vaultie sprang to her feet. He waved her away. Slamming a fist into his chest a few times dislodged what felt like a loose-leaf bit of esophageal lining. He swallowed it.
It was a surprise when the inhaler was set in his open hand, loaded with a fresh vial. He looked between it and the Vaultie who now knelt beside the bed, wide-eyed with worry.
"I was only kidding! Divorce is legal." Then, softer, she said, "I am actually a widow, though."
"Jesus Christ," he wheezed again, and took a deep huff of chems. "You're going to kill me."
The Ghoul assured her that yes, he was actually okay, and no, he would neither die nor go feral in the immediate future. Once he put her fears to bed, the Vaultie nestled on the ground beside Dogmeat and slept. Or, considering her prior admission, pretended to sleep. The slow rise and fall of her ribcage suggested the former. He watched for a while with some interest.
It had been a long time since he had of rolled around in bed with another person. Sixty years at least.
By that chapter of his life, he had long accepted the loss of anything resembling a healthy attachment style. Really, he just wanted a gal to step on him (literally, figuratively, dealer's choice). Down in Texas, dark-eyed Pearl was happy to oblige.
There were good times, and bad. He even saw her through the ghoulification process when her rad-levels tipped over. Her face rotted away, leaving behind gruesome windows to the tendons and yellowed teeth below. The Ghoul had liked the way his blood looked dripping from the holes in Pearl's cheeks like molasses. Getting shot in the back five times and left for dead had cured him of romantic urges. Thanks, Pearl—may she rot in hell.
He eyed the Vaultie again. Her bare shoulders were pink from sun exposure. Still paler than her face, which had been taking the full brunt of the sun.
They should get her a hat.
The heat of the day died down and Chicken came to life.
The Vaultie sat on the windowsill, peeking past the shabby curtains. "Do you ever get used to seeing so many strangers?"
"Smaller than Filly."
"Still."
They got a move on to see the big man. They left Dogmeat behind, and the Ghoul led the Vaultie through the streets, his head on a swivel until they got to a side door at the warehouse, manned by one armed guard.
"Marv in?"
"You're late." The guard opened the door to them.
"Didn't have an appointment."
They walked down a dim hallway, condensation dripping from the pipes. The ammonia scent of chickenshit was stronger here. He pushed through the next door, and they were spat out onto a high, grated walkway. Fluorescent lights burned down, bright as the sun, hanging from the vaulted ceiling by long wires. A babbling sea of white chickens roiled on the floor below, a maze of troughs winding through. The smell was eye-watering. The Vaultie made a little retching sound, and covered her mouth, waving him forward with some urgency when he looked back. They hustled down the walkway to a glass fishbowl of an office that overlooked the whole outfit.
The door to the office was slightly ajar. He knocked anyway.
"Come in!" Seated at the desk was a ghoul. Stacks of books lined the walls, not organized in any discernible way. As they entered loose papers rustled underfoot like dry leaves.
"Marv, long time no see."
Marv cast his arms wide in greeting. "My friend! My dear, dear friend!" They were not friends. The Ghoul hated the strange, oily way Marv spoke, both overfamiliar and too polite, like he was on an eternal campaign to be mayor of nowhere. Marv hobbled over to greet the Ghoul with a solid handshake. Ghoulification had not treated him kindly. Swollen, black veins ringed his toadish eyes and his stomach was so distended that it seemed his innards might become out-ards at any second. "Words cannot express how happy I am that you have darkened my door, old friend," he said with full sincerity. "It has been ages."
"Yeah, about that. Sorry I haven't stopped in a while to visit. I got a little tied up."
"That business with Dom Pedro?"
"The very same."
"Horrible man. Simply horrible!" Marv said. Then he cast his eyes beyond the Ghoul. A switch flipped. Something predatory slithered behind that mask of friendliness. "And who might this vision be?"
The Vaultie stuck out her hand, no frills, no fluff, like he'd told her. "Lucy. Good to meet you."
With the swiftness of a snake, Marv trapped her hand in both of his. The Vaultie squared her shoulders, plainly fighting the urge to break away.
Marv was almost frantic. His eyes roved back and forth between them, babbling, "Oh my! Yes, yes, how wonderful to meet you, Miss Lucy! Truly wonderful!" He then addressed the Ghoul: "And here I thought you had sworn off working with outside parties! What a surprise that you found such a charming travelling companion." Without waiting for a reply, Marv inclined his head toward the Vaultie.
His voice took on a thick, dark quality, like an oil spill. "Though, darling, I see someone has hurt you—" Stone-faced as Lucy was, there was the nervous flutter of a pulse on her neck. Lucy cast a sidelong glance at the Ghoul. Marv caught the look. His lips twisted into a grotesque pout. "—not our friend, I hope."
The Ghoul stared unblinking. His fingers flexed slowly before curling into a fist at his side. He could picture it clear as day: Marv, bleeding out on the concrete floor. No, choking on his own severed tongue. No, disemboweled and hanging from the clock tower for all to see. The other ghoul's filthy satin waistcoat seemed to hold his guts in more than his skin. Shouldn't be hard to open him up.
"Nope." Lucy said with forced pleasantness. "We got into a scrape with some raiders on the road. Easy peasy."
"Glad to hear it." Marv went on petting her hand. They needed information, and Marv would give them that—the Ghoul threw the thought on his growing need for violence like water onto a fire.
With a big, Hollywood-bullshit smile, The Ghoul clapped him on the shoulder. "Good. Now we all know each other." He applied more pressure than was friendly. A reminder of who he was. An associate. A business partner. Not some spineless assholes who tripped and fell into this spiderweb of bullshit.
A beat passed.
A twitch of the lip betrayed the other ghoul's realization of his misstep, and Marv opened his hands. It was like a Venus flytrap coughing up a bug. The Vaultie retreated, face locked in that polite, nothing expression. The Ghoul let go in turn and made a big show of brushing off Marv's waistcoat as if anything short of a blowtorch would get the dirt out. "Now, I love seeing you, Marv, but this ain't a social visit. I'm calling in my favor."
"Oh?" The other ghoul bobbed a nod and staggered around his desk, and set about sifting through the drawer before pulling out a massive ledger. "To what degree?"
"I need information. Top off our weapons, and some rations for the road, and I'll call us square."
A pair of half-moon spectacles now sat on Marv's squashy face. He gestured to the only other chair in the room opposite the desk. "Please, sit." Each page of the ledger was so large that it made a breeze when turned, rustling the loose papers strewn across his workspace.
The Ghoul took a seat. The Vaultie remained standing, her arms crossed in her best mannequin impression. He jutted his chin up at her, a kind of silent, 'Good job, buddy.'
"Here we are—" Marv had found what he was looking for. He set a paper weight—a human mandible—on one corner of the book and tapped a thick finger on the page, "—'Ghoul, The', a family name, isn't it? This is my longest held debt. I look forward to striking it out. What can I help you with, friend?"
"We're looking for a man named Henry MacLean. Also goes by Hank. Vault-tec affiliations. Had him on the run a few weeks back, headed due north from Shady Sands in a T-60 power suit."
"Gracious." Marv said, scribbling down the details. "Something to do with that mess the Brotherhood of Steel is making?"
"What the Brotherhood's got going on isn't my concern."
"Yes, but is it of concern to Henry 'Hank' MacLean?"
"Insomuch as it concerns his masters."
"Hm." Scratching his temple with the end of the pen, Marv sat back. "I must tap my network."
"Timeline?"
"Three days. And if there is anything to know, I will know it. Meanwhile, I will see to it that you are properly outfitted, and our darling Miss Lucy can rest. She seems unwell."
He wasn't kidding. She did seem unwell.
The Vaultie was quiet the whole way back to the inn. Her skin looked almost grey. She seemed two seconds away from puking, even after they escaped the chicken smell.
On entering the room, Dogmeat nosed insistently at her hand: something the dog did when either of them did something to raise concern. 'Are you okay?' in Enclave dog speak. She ran her fingers through the dog's fur. Her eyes were a million miles away. He'd say it was radiation sickness if he didn't see her double dip in RadX and RadAway on the daily. She must be put off by Marv then, which was fair.
"A real charmer, that guy," said the Ghoul. "Three days and we'll be long gone."
The Vaultie nodded but said nothing. Didn't even look at him. She slumped down on her bedroll facing the wall. She didn't even take off her boots. He kicked back on the lumpy mattress. She'd get over it soon. Didn't she always?
Some hours later, the sound of piano music from the bar roused him and he pulled the hat from his head. The Vaultie was awake, sitting up at the vanity. She'd lit the gas lamp. Dumb to burn oil if you didn't need it, but they wouldn't be there for long. For 30 caps a night, he'd drink the dregs of the lamp before they left, just to feel like he got his money's worth.
Her gun laid beside her, one finger absently tracing the barrel.
A chill ran down his spine. With careful slowness, he propped himself up on his elbows. The finger on the gun stopped. She didn't move a muscle. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, as slow as he'd risen. The Ghoul rested his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together.
"If you're thinking about killing me, might as well give it a go."
"Are you going to sell me to him? To that...that ghoul?"
"Now why the hell would I do that?"
"You sold me once already."
"That was a different set of circumstances."
"Don't lie to me!" She slammed her hand down on the vanity, rattling the gun and the pitcher of water. She stood, and he rose to meet her, seething: "I ain't ly—"
"You are!" She shouted getting up in his face. "You're going to leave me here!" The accusation was heavy in her voice, and her eyes were lit from behind by something desperate and unpredictable. Beneath the bandage, her nostrils flared. Her chest heaved with labored breaths as she searched his face for confirmation of betrayal.
"Fine. If you're so convinced, go on and grab your little peashooter. Shoot me like that ghoul out in old Hollywood."
Her face folded in with sadness. "Don't. Please."
"Think of it as a mercy killing." He stepped forward, forcing her to move back until she bumped into the vanity. The gun was right there. He could grab it and put a bullet in her head before she knew what was coming. "Come on, killer. Kill me."
"Please don't, sir," it came out as a hiccup. She choked back a little sob as she shook her head, refusing to make eye contact. Begging like their roles were reversed. Like she was the one who had risen to find him with a gun all oiled up and ready to go.
"You must have some soft spots in your brain from spending all that time underground." He tapped her forehead. "I guess the batshit apple doesn't fall far from the batshit tree. Hank didn't seem too sharp, either."
That did it. Something broke in the Vaultie, and she reared back. The punch was sloppy, emotional. He snagged her fist easily, holding it in place. The Ghoul's grip tightened around the sharp ridge of her knuckles. Her breath caught with a stitch of pain—then, like nothing, she bent her elbow and twisted, and was free. His hand closed around nothing. She slipped out from between him and the vanity.
Dogmeat gave a soft bark, pacing an agitated path back and forth along the far wall.
"Stay," commanded the Ghoul at the same time the Vaultie cooed, "We're all right, sugar bomb."
They locked eyes. The Ghoul squared off and rolled his shoulders with a pop. She fell into a fighting stance.
"Think real careful about your next move." If looks could kill, he'd be six feet under, but damn if those big doll eyes weren't as sweet as chocolate chips. There wasn't much room to escape. He stepped forward quickly and she froze. Held her breath. "That's what I thought. You ain't gonna do shi—"
Just then, she pitched forward. One of her knees slid between his. The Ghoul sidestepped the same time she made to hook his leg—the momentum would have toppled him. The Ghoul grabbed hold of her arm and twisted it until she yelped like a hurt dog. A surge of adrenaline joined the rest of the chems in his bloodstream and he smiled, baring all his teeth.
The victory was short-lived. He caught a knee to the belly, followed by two strikes of an elbow: one to the chin, one to the solar plexus. He bowled over. Lucy, the little shit, slapped a palm over his nose which sent a rush of air stinging into his sinus cavity. He sputtered a curse, a protective hand cupped over his hollowed-out nose. What happened after that was unclear, but he slammed onto his back, vision starry with pain. The water damage on the ceiling seemed to swim a little. He laughed, punchdrunk and joyful. He wanted to keep fighting. He felt alive.
The Ghoul rolled to his feet and barreled forward.
She braced for impact, but he steamrolled her. Together, they slammed against the wall. He had her pinned with a forearm against the base of her neck. She used his arm like a pullup bar, holding herself up to keep from choking. The tips of her toes scuffled at the ground. The dog barked again, louder this time.
"Down, girl. Stay." That was directed as much at the Vaultie as it was at Dogmeat.
He pressed forward, closing her airway. A few thin inhales were all she could manage. Not enough, apparently. Panic began to roll off her in waves. He himself was breathless. The way the blood rose to her cheeks, the way her focus hazed—watching felt just on the edge of dirty. Softcore porn disguised as an arthouse film.
After a few futile attempts to knee his crotch, the Vaultie swung her hips up. Her legs wrapped around his middle, offsetting her weight. The pressure eased on her throat. She took big anxious gulps of air, like he would revoke oxygen rights at any second. The Ghoul held her there as her eyes sharpened again. Feeling the drum of her heart through her soft, smooth skin. Getting big whiffs of that unwashed human scent. Old sweat, dried blood. New blood wetted her lips.
A supportive hand slid under her back. The arm across her neck lifted and he braced it against the wall. The silence that stretched between them seemed to go on forever.
There was a dull thud as the Vaultie drove her palm up into his chin, snapping his head back.
"You little—" he hissed and stumbled backward. She landed on her feet like a cat and dodged past him. When he turned, there was a gun pointed at him. Safety off, ready to fire. He eyed the gun, then the woman beyond. She stared back unflinchingly, her expression aggressively blank.
He let the tension bleed out of his shoulders. With purposeful ease, the Ghoul grabbed his hat from the bed and blew a bit of dirt off before settling it onto his head. "I'm going downstairs to get a drink."
The Vaultie's gun arm tracked him with deadly steadiness as he sauntered past.
He opened the door and tipped the rim to her. "Don't wait up."
In the bar down below, the piano music was still going. Two people sat at the keys, neither of whom could play very well. The rest of the room didn't seem to care and sang tunelessly along. No one paid mind to him as he descended, but he caught sight of Marv, holding court at a small, round table next to the jukebox.
The Ghoul sidled up to the bar and waved down the bartender, whose rudeness seemed to be offset by how busy she was. She pointed at him, with a brusque, "What are you having?"
"Depends. What's on the menu?"
"Liquor. Brown."
He took that. It was easy to make a drink order when there was only one option. The booze was sharp and strong as battery acid. He downed two glasses of the stuff, trying to wash his mind from whatever bullshit happened up in the room. Midway through his third, the bartender tapped the bartop in front of him. She jutted her chin, gesturing behind him.
"Boss wants you."
"Whose boss?"
"Everybody's boss."
The Ghoul nodded and finished his glass, and got a refill before sauntering over to Marv.
"Fancy seeing you here."
"Let's just say I know the owner." Marv said with a wink, raising his own cup.
"Yeah, well, I'd appreciate it if you two had a chat." The Ghoul played along, dancing around the fact that this creep owned everyone and everything in Chicken. "Renting a room for 30 caps? I'm feeling a little taken advantage of."
"The rate is 20, if I recall."
"Huh. Your bartender is up charging, then."
"How enterprising. I must give her a raise."
"Sure. Why not?"
The Ghoul took another swig and let his gaze go fuzzy. He had not felt this soggily miserable in some time. Then it was quiet. Marv studied the Ghoul. The weighty silence carried a significance that he did not want to consider. "I want her," said Marv, finally. They weren't talking about the bartender anymore. He wanted Lucy. Said it like it wasn't the most embarrassingly obvious thing in the world, the way he had been frothing at the mouth.
The Ghoul swirled the anonymous brown liquor. "Gonna have to be more specific than that."
"Lovely Lucy. Such a delightful creature. You must forgive me for my behavior with her earlier—I did not intend to undermine your authority, such as it is. There is an order to things, after all."
"Authority. Order. Right."
"She needs a more delicate touch, wouldn't you agree? You were always too rough on your toys."
His lip curled. "She ain't my toy."
"No? What then? She's hardly your usual associate."
"I've run with worse."
"Oh, yes. The worst of the worst, which is what I find this so strange. You know, they still talk about the bad old days out in the Mojave territories."
When the Ghoul did not reply, Marv leaned in. "Humor me. If I can't have her outright, what harm would a bit of sharing do? One a night to indulge my curiosity. Friends share. We are still friends?"
"Yeah, Marv," he said darkly. "We're friends."
The Ghoul had sold out plenty of people to plenty of friends. Turned on folks before they had the chance to do the same—two-timing was just the way of things. Now that he and Marv were back on equal footing, the other ghoul toed the boundaries of their fucked-up friendship, testing for weak spots. Seeking shows of loyalty. Denying the request for no good reason would sow the seeds of a grudge—and what use was the Vaultie, anyway? He could give Vault-tec the middle finger, with or without her. Giving her up would even ease things along, just one less thing to worry about, out on the road. The Ghoul and his dog.
Alone again.
There was blood in the water. Marv went in for the kill. He put a light hand on the Ghoul's shoulder. "I will return the little doll with her parts screwed on right," he coaxed.
The Ghoul's skin crawled at the idea of what Marv would do to the Vaultie if she didn't fight back. What he would do if she did. She would probably kill the sick fuck, sure—but would she want to live after?
He thought about Lucy, curled up on the ground with the dog upstairs, trying to sleep. He thought about how cool her skin felt. The way her brown eyes caramelized in the sun. Something occurred to the Ghoul, in that moment.
Marv cared about debt...oaths...promises. Til-death-do-you-part type shit.
With a heavy exhale, the Ghoul set down his drink and looked Marv square in the face.
This was going to be a whole thing.
"You can't have her. She's my fucking wife."