#she's already fucking terrified and she's NINETEEN she's an adult!!!! she should be told these things!!!!!!!!!

[thefabelmans2022]

seriously what is it with parents hiding medical information from their kids that's so fucked up

[pheuthe]

not sure how busy you are, but @fyotpprompts had this one and I just would love to have an atomwave fic to go with it: “I know I was a fool, the butt of everyone’s jokes. But I was your fool, so It didn’t matter what they thought.” pls pls?

((super busy, but this caught my heart and yanked hard so I couldn't resist :D the quote is beautiful and so fitting as far as feelings go... sorry that young Ray kinda messed it up :D hope you like high school AUs because this turned out that way :’D))

Mick’s still high on adrenaline and swinging wide by the time Raymond drags him away. There’s four of them and one of Mick, and some would say it’s not really a fair fight: not in the least because they’re juniors and Mick’s nineteen, having been held back a couple times. He’s bigger, tougher, knows how to fight dirty and win, unlike the little pieces of shit who just know how to throw insults, not punches. But he doesn’t care about fair, he never really did: what he cares about is making them shut up, once and for all.

Haircut nearly catches an elbow to the face for his efforts, since Mick doesn’t give up easy. The four assholes scramble away, yelling insults in high-pitched, panicked voices, trying to salvage whatever’s left of their stupid pride. Mick spits on the ground; the dust underneath his feet is tinged pink. One of them must’ve busted his lip. He tests his teeth with his tongue while Raymond’s dragging him towards the nurse’s office, but nothing seems to be moving.

He deflates a little as they enter the sterile white room – Mick’s never liked it here and he usually avoids it like the plague, but Raymond has that stern look on his face that’s kinda hilarious on a kid his size, all long limbs and no grace at all. That look says that Mick better sit quietly, so he does, on the edge of a plastic-covered bed that makes his stomach heave with memories.

  The nurse’s out, at least; Haircut rummages through the cabinets and comes back with cotton balls and a nondescript bottle. He’s very obviously pissed, but he’s still gentle as he dabs disinfectant onto Mick’s split lip and scraped knuckles. Mick wants him to yell, to get mad, anything but this ‘kill them with kindness’ approach that’s hurting deep in Mick’s chest. But Raymond’s quiet all the way through, and he finishes with the disinfectant, he keeps Mick’s scraped-up hand between his and finally looks up.

There’s disappointment in his eyes, and worry, and a little fear, maybe. All the things Mick wanted to keep out so badly that he didn’t stop to think. That’s never been his forte, thinking before diving headfirst into a fight, but with Haircut around, it’s been harder than ever lately. 

Mick swallows and looks away, scowling at an off-white wall. Raymond’s long fingers tighten around his hand. It stings a little where Mick’s skin is split, but he’s used to this kind of pain, and he can deal with it way better than he can deal with the look in Raymond’s eyes whenever some jerk says something like those four.

“Mick,” Haircut says softly. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Then they better shut up,” Mick snaps, shoulders hunching under the weight of Raymond’s look that he doesn’t feel ready to face.

“Mick,” Raymond repeats on a sigh. It sounds like defeat, and Mick still can’t bring himself to look at the inevitable helplessness that’s bound to show up in Raymond’s eyes sooner or later.

It always does – it’s just the way people have looked at Mick since he was a little kid, shrugging and wishing they knew what to do with him. But that’s the thing: Mick doesn’t know what to do with himself most of the time, so how can anyone be expected to do better?

The wall stares back and Mick wishes he were a better kid, a better man, so that he could be the knight in shining armor Raymond deserves, instead of this messed-up asshole, always adding to the problem no matter how much he tries to make it all go away.

He pulls his hand out of Raymond’s hold and braces his hands against the bed. Not so sterile anymore, after having been graced with Mick’s dusty jeans – he doesn’t know why the thought bothers him, but all he wants is to walk out and not look back.

But Raymond’s hands come to rest on his knees, the kid still crouching in front of him, and it’s impossible to move unless he wants to knock Haircut over.

And Mick, more than anything, is terrified of hurting Raymond Palmer. So he keeps still, scowling at Raymond’s hands, no scabs or scrapes or blood anywhere, nails clean and trimmed, just resting on Mick’s knees, right over the hole he ripped in the worn material just last week. It’s no more than a square inch of bare skin, but the contact makes Mick break out in goosebumps.

“I don’t want you to fight because of me,” Raymond says, like Mick doesn’t know. He does, he fucking does, but he can’t help himself, and he wishes Raymond would understand and let him go.

“Tough luck,” he growls in response, and wishes he could say all those pretty things that people in movies say all the time. Something like I’ll always fight for you, but that sounds too much like a promise and that terrifies Mick, being bound or binding Raymond to him and keeping him away from something (someone) better.

Raymond sighs; his hands tighten minutely over Mick’s knees, slip just an inch or two up over the weary denim.

“I don’t like seeing you get hurt, Mick.”

And that’s rich, coming from him – so rich that Mick actually forgets he’s been actively avoiding meeting Raymond’s eyes. So he does, and then he can’t look away, trapped as always in the warmth and kindness of Haircut’s gaze. He scowls, but he’s aware that Raymond stopped being intimidated by him somewhere in the past four months. It’s good, mostly: Mick doesn’t want Haircut to be afraid of him. But sometimes it’s really damn inconvenient, because Mick’s best approach to emotions is to scare them away and that option’s out with Raymond.

“And I don’t like letting those assholes call you an idiot,” he snarls back.

He fully expects Raymond to sigh again, to shrug and maybe move out of the way to let Mick walk away for good. He should know better by now – Haircut can be surprisingly stubborn, in that quiet, contemplative, sweet way of his.

But Raymond just looks at him, for a moment, and then smiles and Mick’s kind of glad that he’s still sitting down because Haircut’s throwing him off-balance with that reaction. Not that it’s the first time, but Mick’s still shocked from time to time by Raymond’s capacity for forgiveness.

“Mick, I’m used to that. Sure, it sucks, but my brother has been calling me worse for as long as I can remember. And not just Sydney. I’ve always been the butt of everyone’s jokes. But you know what? It doesn’t matter, because now I’m your butt.”

Mick, unsure what to say to that, watches Raymond’s whole face turn deep, deep red as the kid realizes just what he’s just said. And sure enough, Mick can practically see Raymond’s beautiful brain overload, shut down and then reboot in the span of maybe five seconds.

“I, uh! I mean. Not… wow. It sounded really cool in my head,” Raymond groans, head hanging, and Mick can’t handle it anymore. It’s one thing to see Raymond disappointed with Mick’s behavior, but there’s no way in hell Mick’s letting Raymond look disappointed with himself, ever again.

“Sounded pretty good from where I’m standing,” Mick huffs and reaches for Raymond, cupping his reddened cheek with his clumsy, big hand. It always feels like he’s going to do it wrong, whenever he wants to be good to Raymond: like it will always backfire, no matter how gentle Mick tries to be. Even now, he leaves a thin stripe of his blood over Raymond’s cheek, and it’s almost enough for Mick to pull away, worried.

But the look in Raymond’s eyes steadies his hand and he finds the guts to run his thumb over Haircut’s cheek, as gently as he can with his fingers all rough. And then Raymond’s moving, pushing himself up and winding his arms around Mick’s shoulders, practically climbing onto Mick’s lap. All that Mick can do is hold him close, and he’s proud of himself for not reacting with panic to the sudden hug attack. He’s not used to that, from friends, from family, and definitely not from whatever it is Raymond has become over the last few months. But he wants to get used to it, wants to get to the point where he won’t freeze even for a second when Raymond gets this close. He’s well on the way already and sometimes it scares him – but then, it’s easy to turn his head a little and breathe Raymond in, soap and boy and some sort of candy and a weird old-people herbal shampoo. Mick closes his eyes for a moment, because Raymond can’t see him get vulnerable anyway, and holds on tight.

“Please don’t punch Sydney again,” Raymond mumbles into Mick’s shoulder. “Mom’s going to worry.”

And that’s another thing Mick doesn’t know, having a mother who would actually give two shits about him, a mother he could give a shit about in turn. He doesn’t really care about Mrs. Palmer too much: the one time they met, she watched him with that wary look adults always get whenever he shows up within fifty feet of their perfect little families, and then she pointedly told Raymond that he had homework to do and maybe his ‘friend’ could visit another day. He’d gladly worry her with Sydney’s busted face, the guy deserves it for being a dick and she deserves it for not telling one of her kids not to be a dick to the other.

But if she worries, Raymond will worry, and Mick wants to avoid that. Maybe his track record at protecting Raymond sucks so far, but he can always try to even out the score.

He nods, slowly, and sighs into Raymond’s hair. It’s getting long, and Mick likes it a lot, all soft and curling a little at the nape of his neck. Maybe one day soon, he won’t be afraid of running his fingers through the dark strands; he can almost feel it already.

“Yeah. You win.”

“…honestly I’d like to say something cool here but I think it would just come out all wrong again.”

Raymond’s chuckling now, squirming a bit in Mick’s arms, and Mick, unseen, can’t help the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. He doesn’t know how long Raymond will manage to forgive him for everything wrong that Mick does and is, but for now, he’s willing to take it day by day. And maybe, he’ll manage to learn how to do something right just in time.

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Kindness; Epilogue

Fandom: Fallout (3)

Pairing: Female Lone Wanderer/Charon

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Thank you for enjoying!

Charon yawned, stretching with a low groan. Beside him, Spoon snuggled into his ribs. Spoon?! Charon started, half out of the bed before he recalled what had happened between them. A slow grin crept across his face. Holy shit, smoothskin. He relaxed back against her, noticing a tiny notebook clutched in her left hand. That's...

  Charon remembered the little book from when they had been mauled by super mutants. Before they were sneak-attacked by raiders. In the brief interlude when they had fought and then awkwardly flirted. She'd been reading it when he had left to go 'keep watch'. His grin faded. Something like that can't ever happen again. I won't let it. Charon carefully, carefully managed to tug the notebook free of Spoon's fingers. A little stump of lead tumbled out when he opened it, and Charon caught it absently with his other hand.

  'This book property of Eleanor Grace!' screamed the inside of the cover, the Vault-Tec insignia emblazoned over the neat, small handwriting. Charon closed the book a little harder than he intended, quickly putting it on the windowsill with the pencil as Spoon stirred.

  Eleanor . Her name is Eleanor. Charon's head spun. Eleanor Grace.

  “Y' can look at it if you want. Nothin' in there's secret.” Spoon slurred through a yawn. “Just my journey log.”

  Charon fought back an embarrassed wince at being caught so easily, shrugging in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner. “It fell open. I wasn't actually looking at it.”

  “Mmhm.” Spoon hummed, her drowsy look no-nonsense as she took the notebook and pressed it into Charon's hands. “Study up. Test tomorrow.”

  “Smoothskin...” She was either pretending to sleep or had already passed back out. Charon huffed in exasperation, propping himself up against the metal piping that served as a headboard and gingerly opening the notebook again.

  'This book property of Eleanor Grace! Vault 101.'

  The first page had a picture glued to it. A man and a woman wearing white lab coats, smiling for the camera. He had to fight the urge to see them as something awful, used and over-used to distrusting scientists.

  'Always know that your mother and I love you very, very much, little one. Remember her verse, Rev. 21:6. You are our precious beautiful daughter. Happy birthday, Eleanor.'

  The ghoul's throat tightened and he cleared it angrily. She wanted me to read this, dammit. Charon leafed through the pages. The first of them were covered with clippings from different books and magazines...maybe even some scientific papers, scaring up a few uneasy echos of the Institute. An Overseer. Stasis pods. The safety and comfort of a Vault-Tec vault.

  There was a defined part where it became obvious that Spoon-- Eleanor had left the Vault. Heated, young-adult rants about tunnel snakes were traded for blood spattered across one of the pages, now old and brick red-brown against the beaten paper. On the other side was tiny, immaculate writing. Charon's heart clenched as he read the words of an obviously shaken young woman, a terrified girl baptized in the fire that was the Capital Wasteland.

  'Dad is gone. The air out here is poison. The light burns. But if I stay down there, they'll kill me. Butch's mom almost got eaten alive by the huge...bugs. They bit me and I don't feel good. My stomach hurts. My arm hurts. Butch gave me his jacket and promised me I'd see him again if I'd stop being such a pussy. I punched him for that. My legs are okay. I can walk. I should walk. Far far far away.

  Dad why did you leave me here?'

  Charon flipped ahead a little ways, his stomach twisting when he caught sight of scrawled, capital letters. Silent screaming trailed across the page, a girl's plea to her father who had abandoned her. 'THIS IS WHAT YOU LEFT ME TO YOU DAD I'M BLEEDING I SHOULD BE GRATEFUL THAT HE DIDN'T KILL ME BUT I WANT TO DIE I FEEL FILTHY WHAT DO I DO DAD WHAT DO I--'

  Charon shook his head, fighting the nausea that surged in the back of his throat as he hurriedly turned past those pages. What the hell kind of parent is this guy? Leaving his kid alone in a world like this...Christ. Next to him, Spoon groaned in her sleep. Charon pulled the blanket up over her, smoothing it across her shoulders.

  'I disarmed the bomb! I did it! I spent half the day chewing Mentats and reading all of Moira's old Duck and Cover issues. That, plus what I remembered from James's jabbering about nukes. Guess the old bastard had something to offer me after all. It's weird. For the first time since I was. Well. I felt surprisingly alive with my arms elbow deep in that bomb, clipping wires and listening to Simms hold his breath. Alive but at peace. Out here there seems to be this screaming insanity people mistake for living, the rushrushrush of survival. But today up to my armpits in nuke I realized that not much of it matters. I cut one wrong wire and I'm very very dead. Maybe it was the Mentats but I was alright with it. I just knew that I couldn't fail, that's all.'

  'I got drunk for the first time last night. Vodka burns but apparently it gives me the strength of an angry Brahmin. Jericho was nursing a busted nose come morning, and Gob high-fived me when Moriarty wasn't looking. Poor Nova was tired out from the festivities though, and I 'rented' her for the day so she could get some sleep. It's getting a little more difficult to keep up this male ruse, especially with my hair being how it is, so technically getting Nova's room was a strategic move. I'm still flattered that Nova seems to think I'm a goddamn gentleman either way. But even if I was a guy I don't think I'd do that to Gob. Poor bastard.'

  'The wasteland is so much bigger than I am. The vault was tiny compared to this world I have now. Moira says I'm suffering from depression, but she doesn't understand. I know what depression is. Depression is being trapped in a sunless hellhole, with no one around who actually cares about you. Depression is being used, being left battered and broken in a ditch somewhere. Moira has some jobs for me to 'get me out of the house' and I'll do my best to complete them. She's worried about me. I hate that. She shouldn't worry. I'm fine.'

  Charon's brow furrowed and he looked down. Spoon was soundly sleeping against his side. He stroked her hair absently as he continued to read.

  'People wonder why I'm Spoon. Not anything special, honestly. I'm not Eleanor anymore, so I picked a different name. One that lets me fit in a little better out here. And yeah, Spoon doesn't have the same impact as 'Murder' when you introduce yourself, but spoons are useful. I'd rather be useful than scary. Also it's unassuming. Who expects a person named Spoon to murder them in their sleep?'

  'James if you're still out there, I'll find you. I want answers, you fuck. Why did you leave me in the vault? I'm so lost. Like you always said, I'm too cocky and sloppy for my own good. Is that why you left me behind? Because I'm messy? Or because I was just in the way of your favorite kid, your goddamn Project Purity? I'm punching you in the face when I find you, you selfish prick.'

  Charon cocked his head. Project Purity?

  'Set out from Megaton today to go to...

  I met the Brotherhood of Steel! And I killed a...

  Underworld is so strange! Ghouls everywhere. Winthrop asked me...'

  Water had obviously gotten onto the pages at some point, a few of them dried together or smeared. He couldn't hold back his chuckle when he came across the entries involving him.

  'I'm finding myself a companion, little book. I've decided that it's lonely as hell out here and extra protection from something terrible happening again wouldn't be so bad. One I've got my sights set on for sure. His name is Charon, like the ferryman of the Styx. He's a big, big ghoul, and he's bored to tears. I don't know why he sticks around The Ninth Circle really. I would ask him but he appears to be under some strict fucking orders. I wonder what Ahzrukhal did to him to have a huge guy like that so pliant. I hope he isn't abusing him. I thought ghouls didn't abuse one another? Out of some kind of mutual understanding that they already have it bad enough? Maybe I've got it all wrong.'

  'Sometimes I catch him looking at me. Out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he thinks I'm trouble. Maybe I irritate him by not being so scared of him. Shit, maybe he just flat-out doesn't like me. It's probably my funny hat. Or how I talk. I wonder if he would try to kill me if I was able to hire him. He's obviously not a giant fan of 'smoothskins'. No one down here really seems to be but I guess I'm tolerable enough.'

  'Wow was I nervous talking business with Ahzrukhal! That ghoul is a goddamn snakey motherfucker. He wants so many caps for that precious contract. I'm going to have to go clear to Rivet to get that amount for the crap that I scavenge. And that's on top of keeping all the scrap metal so I can trade it to Winthrop. This bleeding heart stuff is exhausting sometimes. Still no new leads on James. Fuck it. I hope this is all worth it. I told Charon I'd be back soon. I saw his arms flex, so I know he's at least interested!'

  'The way Ahzrukhal stressed the word “employee” has me colored nineteen shades of curious. Maybe suspicious would be a better word. I feel like there's a lot more going on there than he's letting on. Did he get Charon from slavers? Raiders? Watching Charon hoist Patches like he weighed nothing was a little terrifying. I think I surprised him though. He turned around to head back to The Ninth Circle and his eyes got all kinds of spooked when he saw me there. Touching him definitely used up most of my very limited courage store. He radiates heat like a furnace. It was odd. Are all ghouls that hot? Have to ask Gob. That must be awful.'

  'He's six-ten if he's an inch. The hair he has left is a rusty red color. I think his eyes were blue at one point. Hard to tell with the ghoul film over them. I wish there was more research done on ghouls! I'm so curious about why it happens only to certain people...it's strange. The only weapon I've seen him with is an old combat shotgun. Drum mag-fed, back holster. I've never actually seen him use it though. Normally he just hefts ghouls up bodily to toss them out.'

  Charon rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a little overwhelmed. His smoothskin didn't miss a trick. “Observant little fuck, aren't you.” He grunted. “I did think you were up to no good. You'd nurse your fucking vodka and just watch everyone in the place. And the weird way people would talk to you and ask for help like you guys were old friends confused me.” The ghoul stroked her hair again, carefully separating out the seven braids. “I think I understand a little better now.”

  'Talon Mercs. How on earth did I attract them? Took a damned hunk out of my hip too. Good thing I'm not queasy about blood, otherwise I'd be screwed. I've patched myself up as best as I can with what I've got, but it might be a little trickier than I thought getting back to Underworld. Especially with all the stuff in my pack I couldn't pawn off on Flak or Shrapnel. Butch laughed at me for saving up to buy Charon's contract, saying that I was such a pussy. Why didn't I just shoot Ahzrukhal? Even after I explained to him that I was at least slightly trusted in Underworld and I didn't want to ruin it with murder, he didn't understand. I wasn't really all that surprised. He said I was pretty after that though. That surprised me. He didn't try to do anything about it though, except wink at me and add, “For a little nosebleed like yourself”. Also surprising. The Bitch Butch I grew up with would have jumped at a chance to coerce a decent looking girl to grease his genitals. Maybe since he got out of the vault, he's had more options and it's evened him out? ...oh no, what if he's grown up?'

  'Willow is a goddamn lifesaver! I'd been out of ammo for a little while and my knifework wasn't cutting it (forgive the pun). I was sure I was a goner and then that red-lipped beauty popped the last Talon square in the head. I gave her a pack of cigs for that, and I promised her another before I left. She just rumpled my hair and told me I was the worst tourist she'd ever seen. I went straight to the Chop Shop. In fact, that's where I am right now. Doc Barrows told me Ethyl and Meat can't see through the glass of their prison, but I'm pretty sure they can. I don't mind them though, they seem okay. Glowing ones out in the Wasteland I'd pump full of lead for sure, and I guess a lot of other ghouls would do the same.'

  Charon suppressed a shudder. Glowing ones gave him the creeps, and he was pretty sure Barrows keeping them around was a bad move for everyone in Underworld. The pull that they had over the ferals was a little too much like mind control for Charon to be comfortable around them. The few times he had seen them they did look oddly docile, even bored. Not exactly the blood-thirsty, pack-leading 'Pulsers' he was used to.

  'Barrows says I lost a lot of blood and my hip is missing a chunk of bone about the size of a golf ball. A Stim would've reset the bone if it was still there. Ah well. I told him not to worry about it, it just 'added character'. He swore at me for that, but he laughed afterward so I think I did good. I've got to get over to The Ninth Circle soon though. I want to make sure Charon knows I'm back before I go trade the rest of my bits and pieces. I want Ahzrukhal to shake in his greasy boots with the knowledge that I'm coming to take his giant buddy away. Hell, this is probably the most proactive thing I've ever done! I'm grinning from ear to ear like some stupid little kid. I wonder if once I get his contract, I can give it to him or something? I'll have to ask Charon about that, once he can talk to me freely. One thing's for sure, I don't want to stick him in a corner like a damn chair or lamp.'

  'What an asskicker! Charon is the man with the goddamn plan not a doubt in my mind about that. It's awful that I can't give him his contract and set him free, but...I'm okay with having him around for a while I think. I've been keeping up this 'man' facade for some time now, just because it makes me feel safer. I never thought...after what happened, I figured I'd never want to be a girl again. But being around Charon makes me want to be okay, if just for a little while. He makes me feel safe. Hopefully writing these things down will help me work them out of my system.'

  'Charon says it's not a problem that I'm a girl. “I don't recall your gender ever coming up in conversation”. Just like that. He's not angry. He fucking carried me home. He helped patch me up. ...I don't know what to do with myself. It's almost a relief that someone knows. At the same time I'm sorry for making his job tougher. Now he has to...to worry about something happening like I have to worry.'

  Charon grumbled low in his throat, watching Spoon's chest rise and fall as she slept beside him. Smoothskin...

  He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling a little less exhausted after his long nap. Charon shimmied up to slump against the headboard, his movements sending dust motes spiraling up into the shafts of sunlight that seared their way through the partially-boarded windows. He turned his attention back to the chronicle, patchworked fingers turning the pages slowly.

  Sometimes there were sketches. Her rifle, the view from what he assumed was the door of Vault 101. A few of him, the muscle groups in his face and shoulders clearly labeled. Charon snorted when he came across a rather gratuitous sketch of himself with his pants unbuttoned, his fingers resting on his belt and the muscles of his legs clearly visible and labeled through his pants. Sometimes he stumbled over words, having to sound them out in his head. Sometimes Spoon's writing was illegible, too small or smeared to read. She had a habit of cramming words together if she was coming towards the end of a page, her loops and lines squashing themselves in a vain effort to make more room. Have to keep an eye out for extra paper. Don't want her running low.

  'I could have lost him today with those super mutants. I panicked. He could have died. He could have died and I can't fix that. I can't fix that. What the hell am I going to do? I'm already way more attached than I should be but he's been through more than enough! What is wrong with me?! Why the heck did I get so worked up? Jesus. I can't afford to be this way! 'This thing did a number on me' he says like he got love-tapped instead of thrown across the room. Stupid me I'm so stupid! We're okay now but God do I feel like an idiot.'

  'Caring for someone else is weird. It's been ages. I mean yeah Wadsworth Gob and Nova. Moira. Carol. Even Winthrop. Just since James I figured I never would again. Thought it would be easy. Then I met Gob in the bar and I knew I was screwed. He's the first ghoul I ever saw and he was just...he was so sad all the time and it made me so angry. He didn't do anything wrong and yet here's this other guy spitting on his existence! Making him his free labor! I don't understand how people can get away with that. Simms frustrates the hell out of me sometimes because he ignores it. I know he's just trying to keep the peace but really?'

  'Charon says he's been passed around and that he's broken. I can understand at least one of those things and I'm going to do everything I can to help. I'm tired of pretending we're just partners. We're friends damn it. From the day I followed him tossing out Patches I knew I needed to help. Even while I was getting turned into Swiss cheese by the Talons I understood that failure wasn't an option. I don't have much to live for out here honestly. The allure of finding my dad and punching him in the groin for abandoning me kind of wore off years ago. But if I can keep helping...keep doing what I think is right even after everything else...I don't know. Maybe I'll make a difference. Three Dog talks about me and it's like he's talking about a different person. I can't do great things. I can barely clean my rifle right. I can do good things though. I think.'

  Charon closed the notebook, trying to collect his thoughts. He took a deep breath to clear his head and felt Spoon's fingers close around his limp hand slowly, like a reflex while she was asleep. “You're wrong, Spoon.” He rasped, his throat rougher than usual. The smoothskin hummed, obviously not awake. Charon felt his chin quiver a little. “Fuck's sake, you don't even see how much you do, you...you fuckin'...you disarmed a nuke for these people. You're so damn good and you can't even see it, spitting in the damn face of the Talons and raiders and slavers.” He slid down until he was laying beside her again, taking her face in his hands and shakily kissing her forehead. “Christ, smoothskin. Jesus fucking Christ. I told you I'd follow, 'I will make my services worth your kindness'. But I fucking can't. I failed. You've done so much more for me than I could ever...so much awful shit has happened to me and then your contrary ass comes walking in acting like I still deserve to have good in my life.” Charon shook his head in disbelief.

  “Don' cry.” Spoon murmured, putting a finger over his mouth. Charon hadn't even noticed the tears making their way down his face. “S'okay. No bad dreams. I'm here. Gotcha'.”

  “Spoon...”

  “M' here.” She repeated, wrapping herself around him protectively. “Right here. M' gonna' be here when y' wake up. Then we gotta' kill s'more baddies.”

  “Of course.” Charon tried to smile, wiping at his cheeks haphazardly. “For good or ill, remember?”

  “How 'bout 'for quiet an' let Spoon sleep', s'at sound okay?” The smoothskin mumbled, scrunching up her nose when Charon kissed it. “M'poss'ble bigass ghouly-ghoul, stoppit.”

  “I've been called much worse than that, smoothskin.”

  You are my heart. I will be with you always, for good or ill, and I promise I will be worth your kindness. Thank you.