Author's Note (as of 8/26/2015):I am massively re-editing It's Not Forever. There are numerous reasons why, starting with some formatting problems and ending with a few other issues that have bugged me since I first published in April. There will be some added text; dialogue cleaned up, added to, or replaced entirely; and some of the more boring chapters should have a bit more bell and whistle. (I know they're boring, boy howdy I can spin some dry stuff. I bored myself.)

I am making the chapters shorter, so there will be a lot more of them, and hopefully this makes the story easier to read. They will not be of uniform length, as I had presented them before. You might not notice the changes, but don't worry. It's still the same story. Enjoy!

This one's (still) for Cathy

because patience is still a virtue in the wasteland

She'd run away again.

Lionel was patient. There weren't many places that a ghoul could go, in the wastes, without being shot at or chased off. Even decent folk still harbored unspoken animosity toward them. Couldn't see them as human, only saw the rotting muscle and missing facial features.

Only a ghoul could know another ghoul's pain. She still hoped to find that one soul who would look past the ripped skin, the raw muscles, the tiny but gruesome smile she gave. Lionel had lived a long time. He'd never met anyone who treated ghouls as fairly as she wanted to be treated, except himself.

So when she ran away, he waited. She always came back, usually crying without tears, and he would comfort her. Until then he left the radio on, sat on the rock wall outside his shack, and watched the distance with his revolver on his lap. Giant ants scuttled about the dry lake bed, looking for bits of food. It was peaceful.

He was patient. He'd always been patient with Lilian, but even in the time before the War he'd been irritatingly calm in times of panic. The crush of bodies in the nuclear light above the earth, the radioactive rain that had fallen, the oppressive heat as the world went to hell around him... Lionel smiled grimly to himself. She was young, yet. Still had memories of being whole. She'd lose them in time. He could wait.

After all, there wasn't much else to do out in the wastes.

Lionel dozed in the sunlight. The holes where his ears used to be, open to the elements, picked up the sounds of the world. A lone gunshot in the distance, the ants skittering across the dry earth, dust picked up and scattered through the bushes and trees. He could remember when the world was full of noise. Now, silence pressed down like an enormous hand.

Lionel no longer believed in God. If he had believed, once, he couldn't say. Things in this world happened because some person made them happen; Lilian ran away because her heart was as soft as her head. Lionel waited for her because he was too tired to chase her.

He'd waited for three weeks, last time. She'd gone off, met a group of mercenaries. Escaped by the seat of her pants when they attempted to take her into slavery. That was what she'd told him, sobbing on his shoulder, when she wobbled her way back to his shack northwest of Grayling.

He wondered if she was really that stupid, or if she was damn lucky. Stupid, because she kept going away even though she was safe, well-fed, and provided with company. But lucky, because she was able to return each and every time. Lucky that he'd been around to take her in. Lucky that he cared for her.

This time, he waited for three weeks and longer. The food stores he kept dwindled, and he was forced to visit Grayling. Lionel hated money. It was trouble to keep track of what he had, which was very little, and caused too much strife when one had too much of it. He gathered a few things to barter with, and set out across the wastes.

He walked slowly. Others might think this was because he was old. Lionel was capable of moving just as quickly, if not quicker, than most smoothskins, and the ones who thought he was easy pickings would learn that his Navy training hadn't gone to ruin. The only people who knew better, knew him by name and didn't assume.

Lionel's legs ached, though. In the never-changing season of the wasteland, he recalled his grandfather rambling on about arthritis and the deep-seated ache in his knees when it rained.

He approached Grayling, calling up to the gate guard. Grayling kept a close eye on the wastes, minding the occasional raider, ant, or bloatfly that might lurk nearby. On at least one occasion, a group of men in power armor had rounded up non-residents and marched them south. Lionel hadn't witnessed that one, and didn't care. People were subject to all manner of horrible things, out here. In the past, he'd been one of those things.

He smiled grimly to himself. Lillian hadn't learned that lesson, yet. But that was why she had him, to take care of her.

Grayling had three large Pre-War houses that acted as clinic, town hall, and common house. All other buildings were either cobbled together from debris and corrugated metal sheets, like his own shack, or were open areas with crumbling walls. He bought as much food as he could barter for, in one of the open food stalls. The food was all shit, but his stomach didn't care. Wasn't much left of it, anyway.

"You're quiet today," the woman running the stall said. He tried to remember her name. She had pretty red hair and heavy eyes. He shrugged. "Not much to say?" she asked.

"Cat got my tongue," he muttered.

"Beg pardon?"

He shook his head and handed over the scrap metal and other odds and ends he'd brought. After, he walked to the lean-to that served as general store. He prided himself on his mechanical skills; the mechanic that ran the store occasionally offered him a job. Needed to make some caps and get some more food.

"Lionel!" the man called, waving him over. "Been waiting for you. I got this thing with your name all over it." He kicked a filter to the corner of the lean-to, and gestured for him to follow.

Lionel was embarrassed, now. He'd been away from the town for so long, he'd forgotten everyone's name. He looked down and muttered to himself.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Fine," he rumbled. "What is it?"

He spent the rest of the afternoon fixing an engine that had seen far better days. Lionel ran a hand along the frame, peering into it with cataract-covered eyes. He could still see fine. Not everyone was that lucky.

"Where's Lil?" the mechanic asked.

Lionel grunted, in response.

"Oh," the man replied. An awkward silence filled the room. Then, "How long she been gone, this time?"

"Couldn't say," Lionel rasped. He didn't want to think about it.

The mechanic switched topics, quickly. "There's a stranger in town," he said. "Some girl, calling herself a historian."

Lionel patiently listened to the man as he talked about this homeless girl who offered to write down the stories of the townsfolk in exchange for a solid meal. Will wonders never cease, he thought.

"Anyway, I thought you might be interested," the mechanic said.

Lionel barked a laugh. "I'd be feeding her for three months." He adjusted a bolt, felt a knuckle dislocate in his hand. "You're done, here," he said, and popped his finger back into place with a practiced motion.

He took the payment the mechanic offered, grabbed up his sack, and hit the food stall again. Didn't want to have to come back for a long time. He bought food, sat down, and let the stares that always came bounce off of him.

One person, a young-looking girl in dark clothing that reminded him of a Franciscan monk, watched him as he ate the entire bowl of squirrel stew. It wasn't bad, if you couldn't taste the "squirrel". He ignored her curiosity, but rolled his eyes. Must be that "historian" girl. She was watching him real intently, and it started to annoy him.

Lionel left the bowl on the table once he'd finished and stalked off. Maybe he'd get lucky, and escape town without having to answer awkward questions.