I Watched Over You From Afar

Chapter 1

At the top of a rocky hill Sawyer was struck again by the desire to look behind him, born of the neurosis plaguing him for weeks that whispered to him that it wasn't too late to turn back the way he came. The red sun sunk on the dusty trail of the life he left behind, winding though the lifeless craggy hills like a snake shedding it's skin. He paused against a grove of naked black trees, savoring the last puff of his cigarette before throwing it down and stamping it out with the toe of his foot, then turned towards the painfully familiar Commonwealth he'd left behind so many years ago.

At that point he wasn't so much walking as he was staggering along the paths that thread like thick gray veins across the Commonwealth. Shifting the sweaty pack on his back once more and adjusting the hat he'd stolen off a scarecrow forward on his head, he longed for the motorcycle he'd been forced to abandon somewhere on the outskirts of the Capital Wasteland. The green prewar relic had finally bit the dust for good, taking a few gunshots to the rusted gas tank and the back tire blowing out before sending them fishtailing off the broken asphalt one last time. By the time he narrowly escaped death and clamored over the nearest cover the damn thing exploded as the gang of raiders tailing him closed in to investigate the wreckage, leaving nothing but a mangled metal skeleton at the base of a black cone of smoke. He'd poured out a sentimental shot of whiskey into the dust for it later that night.

The days kind of blurred together after that, on foot for the final stretch before arriving in the Commonwealth. He plunged headlong towards the first real landmark he'd seen in days.

It was a ramshackle farmhouse slapped together around the base of a dead power pylon, looking out on a stretch of tilled earth striped with tato plants. He glimpsed a water pump that bounced up and down on a loose hinge, squeaking loudly in the light breeze as it squirted tiny jets of water rhythmically. The property was surrounded by a weather-flogged wired fence that sagged between it's posts. The glow of a cat's green eyes watched him, perched on a rusty workbench. Someone, possibly a bunch of someones, was calling this place home.

Trepidation bubbled in his hungry stomach. Meeting new people in the wasteland was a gamble. Sometimes people just suck, or have twitchy trigger fingers, or both. The long days he'd spent alone on the road and the handful of nerve wracking moments staring down the wrong end of a gun had worn on his psyche, so despite his thirst for the stimulation of a simple hello, he hesitated. With his luck he could be walking into a psycho cult family of cannibals who'd happily skin him for a nice throw blanket or meat pillow. At his best he could fend for himself well enough against reasonable odds, and the old beat up hunting rifle slung over his shoulder was enough of a visual deterrent for the casual thug. But he wasn't up for much after a few thousand miles on the road, tired, hungry, grumpy, and up against cannibal interior decorators. He loomed unsteadily at the edge of the fence, unsure of what to do.

Just as he began to sigh while the cogs in his head turned, the crisp crack of a rifle cut through the humid evening and a dime sized hole pierced the wide brim of his hat, sending it spinning off his crown into the dirt. He ducked out of reflex despite there being no cover nearby whatsoever, and threw his hands up in surrender while searching for the shooter within the darkened farm.

"That's close enough, stranger." A woman's voice murmured out from the darkness, clear enough as though she'd materialized out of the ether and now stood directly behind him. "We're a peaceful farm. We don't want any trouble."

Sawyer cleared his throat in an attempt to gather himself. "Huh, well that's good, since I'm fresh out of trouble. I'm just looking for a place to sleep where I won't get gnawed at by wolves. I don't have much in the way of caps, but I can work."

"You can talk to my father about that. But fair warning, we're armed here. Don't get any cute ideas."

"Armed and peaceful, huh?" Sawyer cocked his chin slightly in a sly attempt to catch a glimpse of the speaker behind him. In the fading light all he could see was the outline of a person as tall and bulky as he was, and not much else.

A rude nudge on the back of his head prodded him forward. They walked towards the farmhouse, until Sawyer could see an ember glowing bright orange next to the battered workbench stationed by the door frame. Sawyer squinted, barely making out the shadow of a man, scrutinizing him from within the cloak of darkness. The woman behind him spoke first. "This guy needs a bunk for the night."

A soft chuckle drifted from the darkness as plume of smoke rose into the air, before responding firmly. "No."

Well, shit. Sawyer cleared his throat again, squashing down his rising frustration. "Look, I've been on the road for months now. I came all the way from the west coast to get here. All I'm asking for is a safe place to rest for a little bit."

"I got a family to protect and no reason to trust you. Move. Along."

"I'm skilled, I can work. And I know how to fix your water pump." That part wasn't completely true, but he had a hunch that could pass as a partial truth, which was a good enough base to build a lie off of. "And you know, to be honest, I don't have a much of a reason to trust you either. I'm at the end of my rope, I just-"

The woman behind him interjected. "We don't care. You should go."

Sawyer clenched his molars together. "Listen, I don't want to be here in the ass end of nowhere either, but I've also got family, over down in Quincy. My Gran is all I have left and I need to find her. Here." Sawyer let his rifle slip down his shoulder and offered it out, but just out of arm's reach. "Take it, as collateral while I'm taking up your space. I'll be on my way before you can get tired of looking at me."

"Quincy?" The voice from within the farmhouse sounded surprised. "You have family in Quincy?"

"Yes!" Sawyer's knees nearly buckled in relief at whatever conversational traction he was making. He didn't like being deceitful, but the crooked red riding hood spiel hooked in all the sentimental suckers.

"Oh, son," The man's voice grew heavy with something Sawyer didn't like, something that sounded suspiciously like pity. It made his insides churn anxiously. The farmer stepped forward into the light of the dying sunset, revealing a honey eyed man with a face wrinkled from laughter and worry. "I'm sorry you have to hear it from a stranger like me, but Quincy's been overrun by Gunners. The Minutemen are wiped out. They're all gone."

Sawyer felt as though he'd been plunged in ice water, his heart constricting painfully as he swallowed the bile that suddenly rose in his throat. No. He clenched his teeth. Not like this, not when there was too much left unsaid. He remembered the ferocious look in her bloodshot eyes the night he walked out, absently throwing a table aside like it was made of feathers. He'd traveled too far and for too long for her to just wink out like the frail old woman the appeared to be. So close...

The farmer watched the turmoil on Sawyer's face, gesturing to a place behind the farm, past a blurry melon patch to a dingy gray blob. Startled, Sawyer quickly swiped away the build up of tears he hadn't noticed form. "Take the camper." The farmer said, "We'll talk about work in the morning."

Before Sawyer could even come up with a proper thank you, he felt the hard bite of rifle barrel press against the back of his head. He hiked up his surrendered hands up higher into the air before the woman growled, "Dad, are you sure?"

"Put down the gun, Mary." Loaded seconds ticked by with no reaction, and for a moment Sawyer thought he should have just kept walking past the damn farmhouse into the darkness, facing the weird creatures that hung out and prowled between the lights of civilization. The farmer's eyes narrowed, and suddenly Sawyer felt like fixing his posture, though luckily the look wasn't directed at him. "You heard me, young lady. I won't say it again."

She grumbled quietly but did as she was ordered. Before Sawyer could even roll his stiff shoulders, she snatched his gun from his weakened grip. "For collateral." She growled, moving to stand next to the farmer. A deep hood hid her face in shadows, but the line of her shoulders was rigid and he could feel the scowl burning a hole in his skull. He held back the ire rushing through his veins, balling his hands into fists, but said nothing. He couldn't risk losing the scant ground he'd been given over a few choice vulgar words.

The farmer scrutinized Sawyer up and down. "Let me tell ya, farming ain't easy. Out in the field, all day, everyday? And every minute of it spent watching your back."

It took effort to summon the right response, and when he said them there wasn't much feeling in them."I know what that's like, though I'm more of a black thumb than a green one, if you catch my drift. Put a wrench in my hand and I can make your generators purr like kittens."

"Nothing goes to waste here." The farmer inhaled from his cigarette, the bright orange ember reflecting briefly in his eyes before flicking it away, extending his hand out. "Blake Abernathy."

"Sawyer Murphy." He replied as he accepted the handshake. The farmer's hand was rough and rock steady.

The older man gave him a short nod of satisfaction."Well met, Sawyer. You say you're no stranger to the Commonwealth?"

"Uh, I was born here, but I took to the road a decade ago." He swallowed hard. "Were there … is there any word of survivors?"

"None that I've heard, but news takes a long time to reach us all the way up here. The caravans might swing by with news, but other than that you'd have to check in at Diamond City. The way is dangerous though." Blake retrieved the rifle from his daughter. It looked like it'd been lobbed off a cliff and the pieces hastily duct taped back together by a drunken mole rat. Sawyer bit his lip in sullen embarrassment as the farmer inspected it. Blake raised a skeptical eyebrow up at him, one that Sawyer one hundred percent deserved. The younger man shrugged and attempted to smile sheepishly.

"I don't aim to rob you, you got my word. You'll get this back once you've decided to move on." Blake turned back towards the farmhouse. "Get some rest, we'll talk again in the morning."

Sawyer gave a curt nod and quickly peeled away from them, taking a deep breath and counting slowly to ten. He sat down on the rusty foot stool stamped in front of the entrance of the camper trailer, the warped door sagging uselessly to the side on a broken hinge. He yanked off a boot, dumping out a stream of dirt and bits of debris. Three months and a few thousand miles … for what? He couldn't help but let the hot ugly mess of emotions in his chest broil and steam out his nostrils in quick succession. Whatever closure he'd hoped to find was stolen away. The bitter echoes of all the things he'd never get to say bounced around in his skull. Even if through some miracle Gran was alive, where would he begin to look for her? He bit his tongue, refusing to delve further into self-indulgent nihilism. One thing at a time...

Inside the camper was an old mattress pushed into one corner that Sawyer laid his sleeping bag over. Using his arm as a pillow, he finally lay down and let his muscles relax some of the tension he'd been carrying while his brain whirled. He watched the inky sea of stars drift through the sky through the window slats until he was nearly dozing off when he heard a soft voice. "Hey."

Mary stood just outside the threshold of where the camper's door used to fit. How the hell was she able to sneak up on him so easily? He propped himself up on his elbows, glaring stonily. She set down a canteen of water and a bundle of cloth down on the floor beside his matress, then almost as an afterthought, placed his forgotten hat next to them. "Sorry. I hope you find what you're looking for."

Then she was gone, leaving Sawyer blinking at the space she'd so briefly occupied. Upon inspection, the bundle contained come canned food and scraps of jerky. He sighed, flopping back down with a frown. He hadn't asked for food and hadn't expected any out of charity. She'd even gone back out in the dark to return the ridiculous wide brimmed hat that had sheltered his eyes from the harsh sun. They were just scared, and he knew there was nothing wrong with trying to protect one's self in a world full of gray areas. A surge of guilt replaced the space in his chest where the misplaced anger had evaporated. He didn't deserve this kindness.

He closed his eyes, wishing for sleep to claim his consciousness. If nothing else, he would do all the good that he could manage while he was there, and hope that was enough to break his streak of bad luck.

Hello guys, I hope you enjoyed my first published fic ever and yes, I AM losing my mind over it! Lemme know what you think, critique and ask me anything and I might just give you a spoiler for the next chapter. ;D