And another one. This time Willow's getting some angsty loving, don't know why I always write angst, but that's how it comes out. (?_?) Warning: No smut, but lots of angst, so if it's not your thing... As always, I own nothing. Enjoy!
Willow sat on the crumbling wall surrounding the stairway leading up from the Metro, staring around at the dilapidated buildings, nearly hidden by the smoke and makeshift forts built by the super muties.
Taking another long drag from her cigarette, she blew the smoke out slowly from the corner of her mouth, her relaxed posture allowing the nose of her shotgun she was cradling to rest on the ruined cement.
Milky eyes watched a pair of Super Mutants walk by, the bedraggled remains of some corpse dragging behind them, blood seeping out of the battered armour and leaving a slick trail on the stones. She followed their progress and they barely looked at her, too busy grunting to each other, the words indecipherable even if they hadn't been drowned out by the heavy armour scraping along the ground behind them.
Soon, they were gone and the landscape was again undisturbed save for the random wind that pushed the smoke around. Willow sighed and took the cigarette from between her lips and turned, spitting on the ground. A slight scrape of metal, protesting against use, echoed loudly from the cement walkway. Willow threw her cigarette away and stood up, her shot gun cocked, posture tense and wary.
Leaning over the cement barrier, she aimed the gun down, prepared to blow any raider to shit. Instead, she heard vague mumbling and scraping of feet, cans kicked haphazardly into view as whoever it was tried to figure something out. A head of hair appeared, fairly clean considering the size of the body it was on, and taking into account the lack of any sort of cleaner except Abraxo in the Wasteland.
The stranger consulted something, deep masculine muttering punctuated by an odd beeping, his right hand working at something on his other wrist. Finally he looked up and around, drawing a weapon, an odd obese pistol that Willow had never seen before.
He started up the steps cautiously, turning his head this way and that until he did a full 180 halfway up the steps, freezing when he saw her. But instead of frowning or raising his strange, ringed gun, he smiled and sighed, holstering his weapon. "Finally," he huffed, turning and jogging up the steps, heavy boots crunching the debris underneath.
Willow watched him, bemused. "What do you want, tourist?" she demanded, following his movements with her gun. The man grinned and raised his hands, unruly brown hair falling over his blue eyes and making him look unbelievably young. Willow clenched her jaw and narrowed her eyes.
"Not a tourist," he said, "And looking for someone named Carol. Heard of her?"
Willow didn't relax or lower her gun and that seemed to finally check him, his steps slowing until he stopped five or so feet in front of her. "Maybe," Willow finally rasped, eyeing him over. He had on a heavy pack and his pockets seemed to be bulging with various knick knacks, whatever not acting as a pocket was covered with a gun and Willow had to admit he looked really fucking impressive. Until you got to his face and realized he was only a child.
"Okay," he said slowly, crossing his arms, his manner still easy. "Can I find her in there? Gob, her son, sent me."
Willow listened to him and relaxed when Gob's name was mentioned, lowering the nose of her gun only slightly, but enough to let him know he wasn't a threat. "Yeah," Willow replied, stepping toward the kid, narrowing her eyes at what looked like a Brother of Steel shit trying to sneak through the Super Muties forts. He looked at her a moment before turning to find what had caught her attention.
His breath caught and he reached for his gun, stepping back and about to turn when gun shots rang out and the figure fell over into one of the ditches. From there the unseen fight went on, the air punctuated with yells and shots, the deeper cries of the Mutants nearly drowning out the yells of the poor bastard they were no doubt toying with now.
Willow saw a flash of metal further down and holstered her shot gun before drawing her rifle. Grabbing the kid's arm she only registered brief surprise at the muscle there as she jerked him out of the way before a bare head popped up from one of the ditches. Sighting down the rifle, she watched him struggle to pull himself up, bloody and torn even at this distance. Then, just before large hands could drag him back, she pulled the trigger. A second after the rifle kicked back, the man's head erupted in a spray of blood and gore, his body convulsing as the Mutants roared with triumph and pulled him back down.
"Holy shit," came a breathless voice beside her and Willow lowered her gun, slanting her gaze toward the kid. Not so much a kid, she thought, remembering the thick muscle underneath that ridiculous jumpsuit of his.
"Carol's in Underworld, just past the entrance," Willow rasped, turning around and holstering her rifle. She drew a pack of cigarettes from her jacket and tapped one out, scraping the match against the cement wall and lighting the tip.
"What was that guy doing?" the kid asked, still staring out at the smoke and death. Willow shrugged and blew out a string of smoke. "Who cares? Just another tourist that wound up in the wrong fucking place."
The kid turned to her and opened his mouth, blue eyes blazing, but then he looked at her for a while before shutting his mouth and nodding. He drew himself up, blue eyes darting back, his head tilting just slightly as he looked back before starting toward the large doors leading in the Museum of History.
Willow watched him walk away and shook her head when the large doors creaked shut. Fucking tourists.
Willow stood over the remains of a Mutant stupid enough to try and take her on. Shaking her head, she breathed out roughly through the remains of her nose, looking over the landscape.
"Shit," she muttered, turning away from the landscape, casting a wary glance behind her before resuming her walk around. The old gates to the Metro screeched and Willow back stepped a few paces, keeping her body out of sight of the stairs and aimed her shot gun toward the stairwell.
"Just me," a soft voice said as heavy boots crunched up the steps.
"Jesus fuck, who do you think is up there?" a deep, rasping voice demanded just as two heads poked above the crumbling wall, bobbing with their steps.
"It's Willow," the kid responded easily, shrugging and turning his gaze until he found her. "It's always Willow."
Willow clenched her jaw and shook her head. "You have no fucking clue, tourist," she said, turning and walking toward the Museum entrance. "Place could have been taken by Mutants or Raiders or shit."
The kid smiled and trudged past her with a jaunty salute, the brightness of his eyes and smile not dimmed even though she hadn't seen him for months. Charon walked behind him, a hulking, glaring wall of destruction and Willow smirked at him as he snarled behind the kid.
The kid suddenly stopped and turned to her, cocking his head. "Not going to ask where I've been?" he asked, pushing his hands into the pockets of his suit, which was now starting to look a little the worse for wear. Willow turned to him, wishing she still had eyebrows so he could see the incredulous slant she felt her skin pulling into.
He seemed to get it, though, and grinned. "Gotta keep track of your friends or one day they might not come back." Willow stared at him, then laughed. Threw her head back and laughed, the barrel of her rifle scraping against the back of her head pleasantly. She lost her balance and caught herself on the cement wall, coughing. Shaking her head, she stuck her tongue out and pushed it against the corner of her mouth and tasted copper, the dry skin there cracking and stinging at the unexpected motion, the act of laughing pulling at her body in a pleasant way and she felt a familiar but long forgotten euphoria build in her.
"Jesus, tourist," she rasped, wiping at her mouth with her thumb. "Who the fuck said I was your friend?"
He just shrugged and grinned before turning to Charon. "Wait for me at Carol's" he said, watching the large ghoul grumble and shift before finally following orders, his angry mutterings cut off with the shutting of the large doors.
Willow watched him warily, pulling a cigarette out, her lips still curled in a smile. The kid heaved a sigh as he ran a hand through his dark hair, the loose strands falling into his eyes again. He hauled himself up onto the wall and sat there, his head turned to take in the landscape, blue eyes distant.
Willow ignored him, taking a drag of her cigarette and letting the nicotine travel into her lungs and spread through her system, the warmth decidedly acidic next to her newly awakened humour. Blowing out a stream of smoke, she felt the air soothe over her skin, disturbing what hair she had left.
"I just killed a tree."
Willow choked on her intake of smoke and coughed harshly, pounding her chest. She turned to look at him, about to laugh again but he seemed so serious and she wondered if it was a metaphor for something. Shaking her head, she let out a harsh breath. "Sorry," she intoned, hoping if she sounded insincere he'd move the fuck away.
"Yeah," he said, the crumbled cement grinding underneath him as he shifted. A Super Mutant roared and she heard the material of his suit shift, probably reaching for his gun. She stood there as he sat, neither speaking and Willow began to get itchy, an uncomfortable feeling building up behind her shoulders.
"So why is it always you? Greeting people here." Willow clenched her jaw at the question, innocuous but flooding her with memories.
She shrugged and rolled her neck, feeling the muscles pull. She heard him shift, cloth catching on the broken cement as he moved closer. "I don't talk," she grumbled, raising her gun and moving away.
"Yeah," he said, settling beside her and looking out over the Wasteland. She stood there and felt his warmth jump the small gap between them, inconceivably running through the air and soaking through her leathers, her arm beginning to tingle. She felt her lips pull up further but continued to look out, watching the Wasteland shift and turn, shadows elongating in the setting sun, the grey sky unbelievably monochromatic but when she looked hard she imagined she could still see the rainbow the sky would light up in before ash and nuclear residue completely blotted out the ever changing blues.
She sometimes wished she was dead in these times, more so than she usually did, wished she'd been crushed or burnt like the rest of the poor bastards in the Museum because when the sky stayed grey in the setting sun, she sometimes thought it would still be a rainbow if she were dead.
She turned her head when dust and cement crumbled to the ground, clacking against the dirt and stone. "Thanks," the kid said with a small smile, nudging her arm with his elbow. Willow narrowed her eyes but nodded before turning back to the dull landscape. She heard him close the door and watched the dying light play over the grey clouds and dust and wondered if rainbows still existed up there.
She was sitting in Carol's Place when the kid returned with his large body guard trailing behind. He pulled up a seat beside her, Charon turning and leaning on the bar, surveying the near empty establishment with a murky glare.
"Heard some shit," Willow said as greeting, tipping her beer back and letting the stale, lukewarm hops soothe down her throat and settle a little uncomfortably in her belly. She rarely drank, spending most of her time standing guard and not wanting to be impaired, but when she had a rare night off, when one of the others finally decided they were bored enough to help her out, she always had at least one so she'd never forget the simple pleasure.
The kid grunted and she glanced at him, taking in his shiny new armour with some surprise. Smirking, she nudged his shoulder with the base of her bottle, the glass clinking against the heavy metal. "Nice duds."
He nodded, his hair a little greasier but still falling into his blue eyes, the perfect length and style, with just enough wave to make you want to run your hands through it. "Guy's gonna get me killed," he groused as Charon snorted beside him, the radio blaring loudly another triumph.
"But it's nice to know someone cares, right?" Willow asked, looking forward again and downing the rest of her beer. Setting it down hard, she nodded at Carol who bustled forward with a large grin and fresh beer.
"Mark, dear," she rasped, her voice somehow still sweet even after all the destruction, "how're you, lately? We've heard such good things, and your father, oh my dear, I am so sorry." Carol leaned over and gave the armoured arm a comforting pat, her dress rustling as it pressed against the bar. The kid smiled and turned his arm over, grasping her hand with his gauntlet and squeezing. Carol smiled back and brought a thick packet of papers up from her dress, sliding them over the bar.
"For Gob," she said cheerily. Willow looked around the bar, prepared for Greta's inevitable grumbling presence but was surprised when no one showed up. In fact, if she thought about it she hadn't seen Greta in a while. The little bitch usually came out to complain about everything, usually revolving around how no one was interested in her bitchy little life and how she wished she were better with guns so she could get the fuck away and into the world. Willow mentally shrugged, figuring the girl finally got her wish and not caring enough to ask.
The kid pocketed the letters with a smile and brought his own up, thinner than Carol's but the barkeep held it like a precious item and looked at the kid like he was God incarnate; which he might as well have been, if the radio was right.
"How long you staying?" Willow asked when Carol turned away after serving the kid and Charon some noodles. The kid shrugged, surprisingly reticent. Willow shrugged as well and tilted her beer, the lip bumping her teeth noisily and she decided to call it after this last one.
"Got some things to finish," the kid said in between bites of his meal. His armour scraped as he lifted his fork, noodles sliding loose and plopping back into the soup, hot broth splashing onto his breast plate. Willow nodded, staring over the bar into nothing. The silence should have calmed her; she was so used to it, but not from him. Even when he didn't speak, there was a nervous energy about him; right now he seemed too quiet, as if the Wasteland had finally gotten to him.
"Sorry about your dad," she said, not knowing what to do but needing to feel his energy again. She looked up as he did, blue eyes finding milky ones and stared at her. She watched him back, taking in the lines around his mouth that hadn't been there two months ago, the blue eyes that were still bright but feverishly so, as if he was just waiting for a crash.
She frowned, not sure why that look bugged her; she'd seen it a million times, the bright gazes that suddenly realized the world wasn't fixeable and changed accordingly, accepting the death and imperfection with a sort of defeated exhaustion.
"Would you say fuck it?" he asked, and Willow turned her head. Charon was grumbling quietly beside him and the kid tilted his head, looking up at the massive ghoul. Charon looked down at the kid and shook his head before rolling his eyes and pushing off from the counter and walking out the door. Willow watched him leave, turning an inquisitive gaze in the kid.
"Would you?" he asked again, pushing the small bits of noodle around his bowl, swirling the cooling broth around and Willow couldn't believe how young he was.
"Fuck what?" she asked, rubbing her thumb against the peeling sticker on her bottle, pad catching on the adhesive and stuttering over the course paper.
He shrugged, eyes staring into his broth, dark hair falling over his brow. "Just…if you had a chance to save the world, or even a person, but the only person you wanted was…Would you say fuck it?" He looked up at her and his eyes were dimmer and larger, a boy needing a pat on the hand.
Willow sighed and dropped her gaze, looking at the beer bottle and the sticker she had been shredding with her fingernail. "Hypothetical?" she asked, even though she knew it wasn't. She'd heard a lot of things on the radio and seen the black Vertibirds. She didn't wait for him to speak. Pushing away from the bar, she hopped off the stool and checked her guns. "I think the world's a shit hole, and it's gonna continue to be a shit hole and no one's gonna know the difference either way." She turned away, the world just a little wobbly and she congratulated herself on not falling over.
A strong hand, gauntleted and cool, grasped her shoulder and squeezed. "I'll know," the kid said, his voice a little harsher and choked. Willow sighed and turned to him, grabbing his hand and blaming the alcohol. "Then the question is whether you can deal with it," she said, holding the metal and imagining the warmth. He furrowed his brow, dark eye brows pulling up in the centre as blue eyes narrowed only slightly in contemplation.
He nodded finally and looked at her again, taking his hand away and standing up. She looked up at him, only a few inches taller than her, though his armour made him more formidable. "Thanks, Willow," he said, watching her for a moment, his blue eyes darker, before stepping around and leaving, the doors closing with a soft click behind him.
She stood in the bar, something about the previous moment tugging at her alcohol-fuzzed mind. When she made the connection, she turned and stared at the doors. "How the fuck did he get my name?"
Willow sat on the cement wall, watching the Super Mutants wander around and listening to the crack of a fire fight somewhere beyond her sight.
After her last encounter with the kid, she'd ducked into Underworld regularly, listening to the radio in Carol's Place in two minute increments, straining for any news. It was mostly repeats, but she heard some things about a vault and an old lady with a steady hand praising some violin.
Every time she sat on the wall or walked around her little territory, shot gun cocked, she had one ear open for the scrape of metal against stone, waiting for the familiar voice to float to her. She'd seen him three times, three times in nearly half a year, and all times he'd only stayed a week, never more. Carol always nattered on happily whenever Willow showed up, filling the empty space with noise and distraction, never once commenting on the guard's increasingly frequent visits. She didn't know why, but there was something about the kid, maybe in his bright blue eyes or inconceivably perfect hair. Or maybe that for the first time she had something to look forward to, something pleasant she'd gotten used to.
It was crazy, she decided, looking over the cement wall into the littered stairwell, hoping to see a familiar head casually walk into view. A little over a week ago, the water had started running clear again, though they still irradiated theirs, it being a balm to their already damaged skin. The kid had done something, but she had a feeling, like she had in the bar, that those eyes were too weary and bright. Too close to ending.
She sighed and stared out over the landscape and let a small smile twitch over her lips, sad and distant. "One day they won't come back."
Above her the clouds rolled by underneath the hidden sun, grey on grey.
She was leaning against the tree when he came back, his tall form covered in the heavy armour still, body covered with weapons and bulging sack on his back. Charon wasn't with him; instead a large dog walked beside him, tongue lolling happily as he panted along.
The kid raised his hand in greeting and Willow pushed off the tree, the rough bark scraping her ruined skin pleasantly and she started forward, her shotgun cradled to her body. As she got closer, the dog stopped and seemed prepared to crouch, looking up at the kid who waved him away. The dog barked happily and trotted forward, tail held high and stared up at her curiously.
Willow spared the animal a glance before looking up at the kid. Hardly, she thought, looking up his body and into his face. She was surprised that he had a scar at his forehead, clean and white against his darker skin. His hair looked washed, cleaner than the last time, almost as she'd first seen him.
"Welcome back, tourist," she rasped, unsure what to do. She didn't know why she'd advanced to greet him, hadn't realized she had nothing to do or say until she was in front of him. But he grinned at her, his teeth unbelievably white and threw his arms out. Willow flinched and stepped back a bit, hands tightening around her shotgun involuntarily, her entire body seizing and preparing at that simple gesture. She stopped, halted right in the middle of raising her gun, her elbows sticking out awkwardly as his large metal form closed around her and brought her close.
"Good to be back," he laughed, his combat knife digging into her hip uncomfortable, her shot gun caught between his breastplate and her belly. He released her and stepped back with another laugh, gently palming her shot gun down.
"I'd ask if you're happy to see me, but that would be weird, seeing as you're a girl," he said, his voice and gaze lighter and brighter. Willow frowned at him and shook her head, but he just shrugged and slung an arm around her shoulders, turning her and herding her toward the doors.
"Got time for a drink?" he asked, the joints of his armour moving against the back of her neck, fingers carelessly bumping against her arm with every mismatched step they took. Willow ducked out from his arm and stepped back, turning her body slightly away from him.
"Gotta stay and watch," she said, nodding toward the Wasteland. The kid raised his brow and laughed. "It's been six months, Willow. Someone's gotta be able to take over for a night."
Willow narrowed her eyes but stared resolutely over the Wasteland, carefully watching the shifting smoke as if it would morph and change into a monster should she let her guard down. The kid sighed and trudged back toward her, walking past her and sitting on the wall. Willow watched him get comfortable, resting his pack on the ground and petting his dog which, for some reason, was named Dogmeat.
"Yours?" she asked as she leaned against the tree again, glancing over the ruined landscape, anything to avoid staring at her odd companion. He snorted softly and said, "Nah, he doesn't belong to me and I don't belong to him." Willow smiled softly, a pre-war movie popping into her head, the sweet accented voice surprisingly strong and sweet even after so many years.
"A couple of no name slobs?"
She heard his armour creak and saw in her peripheral vision as he looked up and frowned. She didn't care; it had been so long since anything had made her so carelessly happy and she didn't want to lose the memory by talking about it.
He stayed silent, watching her a moment longer before leaning down and rubbing the dog, smiling as the long tongue lolled out and the beast gave a happy little whine. They passed the time, he eventually sliding down off the wall and sitting on the ground as the sun moved across the sky, unseen behind the grey. He dug around in his pack, various odds and ends clanking around and placed aside before he found what he was looking for. Repacking everything, he closed the bag and set it down before turning and laying on the dirty stone and loose rubble, propping himself up on his pack.
Willow looked at him, stretched out with a book, his dog resting his shaggy heady on the kid's stomach. "Staying?" she asked, shifting the shot gun in her arms. The kid didn't look up, just turned a page with a loud crinkle of paper, the yellowing pages frayed around the edges. "Until the light's gone," he said, reaching down and scratching the dog behind his ear. Willow bit the inside of her cheek to keep the smile from blooming.
"So what are you doing?" she asked as they sat in Carol's place, their noodles cooling on the bar. The kid shrugged, watching Carol write out another sheet for Gob. "Dunno, haven't got many pressing duties at the moment."
Willow snorted, scratching her cheek. "Really? I didn't know by the two months you've spent here." The kid grinned and slurped up some noodles, his youth showing itself. Willow smiled and shovelled her own food into her mouth.
"I don't have a lot going on, do you?"
Willow shrugged, washing the salty noodles down with a beer. Carlos had been taking over for her more and more now that the kid was back, allowing for some pleasant and inebriated nights. He was curious about everything, question after question poured out to her and Carol about everything under the sun. Especially about the world before the War, something Carol loved discussing and Willow always relinquished the stage to the older woman.
"Yeah," he said quietly, chugging back his own beer. He looked at his Pip-boy, the ridiculous thing he kept strapped around his wrist. Dogmeat whined beside him and the kid lowered his bowl, letting the dog lap up the remnants of the noodles. Carol came forward finally and pushed a large package across the counter.
"For my Gobby," she said, beaming at the kid. "And Mark, thank you so much, my dear, these letters warm a poor lonely woman's heart. Ah, if only Greta were still here; where that girl got off to, who knows." Willow watched Carol turn and walk off with the empty bowls. She turned to the kid, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable, his cheeks a slight red and eyes staring at the letters. When he felt her regard, he glanced up and smiled, a small lopsided quirk of his lips that made Willow grin.
"Come on," she said, standing and swaying slightly. It had been years since she'd been able to drink so much in so short a period of time and she was starting to remember why she hated it. He nodded and stood as well, slinging an arm around her shoulder, the pre war suit he had on a ridiculous contrast to her armour. "So," he said, his eyes bright and unfocussed, "your place or mine?"
Willow shook her head and started to the doors, grinning when they half fell through them. They struggled down the steps, his arm still holding her close. They got to her room, hidden just outside of Barrows' office, and laughed as they stumbled inside.
She turned to him, prepared to wish him good night as she always did before he retired to the couch. She wasn't prepared for the warm lips meeting her own, moist and clumsy with drink, but so soft and familiar even through the long years.
She later blamed the alcohol, blamed it at the moment even but didn't care so much when he kicked her door closed, his arms winding around her back and holding her close. She wound her hands through his hair, the thick strands always neatly trimmed by Snowflake. He groaned, his warm breath smelling like alcohol and something long forgotten. She opened her mouth and pushed her tongue against his lips, sliding over his teeth. Her hands gripped his hair, holding him close and he breathed deeply, strong arms pulling her harder against him.
Willow felt him move, felt herself stumble as she walked backward until the back of her knees hit the bed and she fell backward. Her instinct kicked in, though, and when he started to fall on top of her she caught him and roughly reversed their positions, him landing with a slight huff of breath, her landing on top of him, gripping his shoulders, her thumbs positioned at the dip of his clavicle.
He laughed, his blue eyes bright, dark brows lifted. Grasping her waist, he turned them over, his hands running over her leather and buckles. He lowered his head and Willow let her hands relax, the combat instinct hiding itself again and she slid her hands over the curve of his shoulders and down his back, the smooth material of his suit catching on her rough skin.
She felt his warm lips meet hers again, less sloppy this time, his lips moving over hers and hot tongue urging her open again. She felt him shift as he undid her buckles, tugging at the leather. She arched her back, letting the armour slide out from under her, her skin bare and cool in the air.
She didn't give a shit about what it looked like and hoped the alcohol would last. He tugged at his own clothing, finally sitting up and pulling his shirt over his head and pushing his pants down and off. Willow sat up and undid the buckles of her pants, hands shaking and breathing harsh.
He settled over her again, his skin pressing into her own. Willow sighed and arched into him, running her fingertips down his back, revelling in the feel of the tiny hairs that covered his body, something ghouls lost in the radiation. He groaned and palmed her breast, the sensation dulled by her rougher, thicker skin but so welcome and new that she arched into it with a loud groan, her head sliding on the crisp sheets.
She felt a hot tongue lave her nipple and she suddenly froze, looking down her body at him. She wasn't pretty, something she'd accepted long ago; but contrasted by him, staring down at his prefect flesh laid next to her exposed muscle and darker hide, she felt ill. She had never considered herself a beauty before the bombs, but what she had become was more than she could bear sometimes and the thought of ruining what they had with a drunken night they'd both regret was too much, even with the beer turning her veins molten. She pushed at his shoulders and he looked up at her, blue eyes inquisitive and slightly blurred with alcohol.
"Fuck," she hissed, reaching down and pressing into the nerve just below his collar bone. He cried out and rolled away from the pain. Willow took the opportunity and sat up, reaching for her pants and armour. She stood up too quickly and nearly stumbled, the alcohol still running through her body.
"Hey," a soft voice came from the bed. Willow moved away, buckling her trousers and pulling on her shirt. Her chest was too tight and she felt a sharp, painful ball press against her stomach. She breathed quickly and unevenly, jerkily doing up her buckles before she reached for her guns, laid out on the workbench. But the world still swayed, so when she picked her shotgun up, the weight was enough to pull her down to the wooden work table.
"Shit," she hissed, gripping her shot gun and willing her vision to stop swimming. She heard the sheets rustle and turned around, leaning against the workbench, her shot gun held up in one hand.
The kid stood there, naked and smooth and aroused. She hadn't had a chance to study him, and now that she had, she decided she needed to stop thinking of him as a kid. She stared at his smooth body, covered as it was with various scars but still so very, very young. He glanced between the gun and her, his blue eyes wary, one hand rubbing his collarbone. "What's wrong?" he asked.
Willow clenched her jaw and rubbed a hand over her face, stopping at where her nose would be and rubbed at the broken and gaping flesh there. "You're drunk," she snarled, unable to look at him and so pissed at her own cowardice. But she felt a hard lump forming in her throat, the tell tale burning beginning behind her eyes and was mortified that after nearly a century, the thing that would get her crying again was a child.
"Yeah," he shot back, his voice closer.
"Jesus, you're just a tourist," she snapped, looking up finally and wishing she hadn't when her voice caught. "And you're drunk and god knows you'd probably fuck Winthrope in your state." Grimacing, she closed her eyes again and lowered her head, raising her hand and pinching the skin between her brows. She felt the warm trickle and growled, the sound horrible and wet even to her ears. Raising the shot gun, she was surprised when the tip impacted with something and heard a wheeze as the air was knocked from the kid's lungs.
She huffed and turned away, wiping at her face and walking to the bed. Hell if she'd leave in her state. She threw his shirt at him, or somewhere behind her in his general direction. "Okay," he wheezed, coughing, "no."
Willow snorted and shook her head, cocking the shot gun. "No, what?" she demanded, watching the rumpled sheets swirl in her vision, blurring with tears.
She heard him sigh and walk up behind her, his warm hands grasping her upper arms. "No, I wouldn't fuck Winthrope; he's not nearly as pretty." Willow tried to pull away from him, but he had her caught between the bed and himself, so she stood there and waited. She felt his hair whisper over the skin of her scalp before his smooth forehead pressed into the back of her head, his hands loosening and winding around her front, holding her against him.
"Willow, don't cry."
The shot gun hung from her fingers loosely, her eyes closing tight as she fought against more tears. She opened them and felt the warmth slide down her cheeks, cooling in the air and dipping between her lips, the alcohol and salt a sick combination.
"I worked in the Museum," she began, staring at the sheets, the white cloth blurring and confusing into familiar shapes. "As a greeter, a fucking greeter. Not much of a change." She snorted but didn't move, lost in memories she constantly replayed but never told anyone about.
"When the bombs fell, I was in the Archives with one of the librarians, gossiping about the rumours of the war; shit. The screams woke me up, hell how anyone survived it, but they did; not for long, though, thank God. I survived because I got buried with some sad fucks who'd been toasted up top before the floor collapsed and they got thrown in with me. The poor librarian was crushed, but I survived. Used to be religious," she snorted, hand going up in the remembered movement, fingers sliding against smooth leather instead of a metal crucifix.
"Not so much anymore, or maybe I still am and I'm stuck in Hell. Who gives a fuck. Shit, fucking beer." She sighed, blinking as she came back to hot breath against her neck, warm and wet lips pressed into her skin.
"Anyway, moral is I'm really fucking old and tired, kid. Too fucking tired, and I stood out there, day after day because the thought of being in here was too painful, and the hope of getting shot in the head was too promising and I never left because after the bombs, there was nothing; this was the closest thing I had to a life, so I stayed. I can't deal with a hormonal, alcoholic one night fuck, and you don't want a broken, suicidal ghoul following you around. So put on your clothes, turn the fuck around and let me get back to my life."
She held her breath when the warm arms held her closer, her lip trembling and when she finally let her breath out, it came out on a shaky sob. She threw the gun onto the bed and covered her face with one hand, trying like all hell to regain her composure. But it was like she told the kid; she was really fucking old and tired.
She felt him lower her to the bed and pull the sheets up. She heard him move, heard metal click lightly against wood, and then he was back, slipping under the sheets and pressing against her clothed body.
Willow sighed shakily and closed her eyes.
"I'm not saying you need to leave, or we don't even need to do this. But Willow," his hot breath ghosted over her skin, his strong arms tightening around her front as he held her, "I'm gonna want this tomorrow, and probably the next day."
Willow snorted and bit her lip, some odd jagged and heavy thing rising in her, unfamiliar and long forgotten. "Kid-."
"Mark."
"Kid," she sighed and turned around, propping herself up on her elbow and looking down at him. But she had nothing to say, the constant objections and practical reasoning gone when she looked at him, his blue eyes staring up at her through that impossible fringe. And she began to recognize the heavy feeling as bits and pieces were chipped away.
So instead she shook her head, lighter than she had been in centuries, and lay back down. "Well, at least they got Carlos," she muttered. The kid grinned and pulled her closer.
She stared up at the sky as they walked, the monochromatic grey rolling around in the dying light. The kid walked beside her, the dog trotting a little in front of them.
"So, a space ship, huh?" she asked, turning her gaze to him. He grinned at her and nodded.
"Hand to God, and such," he answered, stepping closer and nudging her. Willow smiled and shook her head, adjusting her grip so she could let the backs of her fingers brush the back of his hand. He grinned at her and squeezed her hand, looking ahead again.
"And we're going back there, why?" The kid just grinned and raised her hand, tugging her closer. Willow kept an eye on the horizon even as he wound his other arm around her waist and began dancing her in a slow circle. She stared at him and shook her head, grinning. "Ever fucked in a space ship?" he asked, letting her go with a small flourish. Willow heard something crunch underneath her boot and looked down at a shattered Nuka-Cola bottle, the contents long since soaked into the earth. She retrieved her hand and bent down to grab the intact bottle cap.
"No, but I'm guessing that's the plan?" The kid nodded and grasped her hand again, tugging her along eagerly.
Willow looked up at the sky as they walked, watched the dying light and imagined she could still see the rainbow streak across the sky, haloing the blazing gold her lover would never know and she would always remember.
So there it is, something I had running through my head. As always, R&R appreciated. Hope y'all enjoyed! I like Willow, actually any tragic character. The quote is from Breakfast at Tiffany's, in case anyone was curious.