Disclaimer: Well, I do own a copy of Fallout 3.
Warnings: Keep in mind that this is a fanfic of an M-rated game. So, swearing, violence, drug use and sexual themes are possible. Most of them are probable, too.
An obituary for the Lone Wanderer, through the eyes of the people who knew him. A continuation of Humanity, so you should read that first of you want this to make sense. Also, past Harkness/OMC is mentioned so, y'know, don't freak out if that bothers you.
Epilogue
Harkness
I knew. I don't know how, or when, but I felt it. He's gone, and I am terrified. Because I'm never going to see him again.
He is human, after all, and I am… not quite. Not quite anything. I wasn't born, I was made. And so while other people get to dream of afterlives and heavens and returning to Atom, I don't even know if I can die; I have no idea what might happen to me after.
I'm terrified and I'm distraught and grief and loneliness and anger are clawing their way up my throat, trying to smother me, trying to consume me.
I don't know what to do!
James is holding something out, his expression expectant. I see his Pip-Boy, overlarge in James' hands, and have to bite my cheek to control myself. Everything of his provokes vivid memories of the happiness that we had - that I will never have again - and I don't think I can take it. I do, however, take the Pip-Boy and download all the files into a storage device of my own. I want to keep the Pip-Boy myself, but I don't think I could stand the memories it conjures up, and James is looking at it with a desperate sort of longing on his face.
I sigh and hand it to him, wondering whether I'll regret my act of kindness. I see the joy and surprise on his face and decide that maybe I won't. The dog nuzzles my leg, and I rub his head sadly. His eyes look like mine probably do – desperate and confused and bereaved.
James and C.J. walk with me to the bar (the Weatherly, because the Muddy Rudder has gotten worse, not better), and tell me what exactly happened to him. It is just typical of him to go martyr on me. I guess that once I stop feeling hollow - a giant gaping hole in the middle of my chest, threatening to pull me into the hungry, cavernous darkness - I will be glad that he left me for something so worthwhile. Right now, though, I'm just glad that I haven't broken down yet.
I thank them both, hollowly, and leave the Weatherly. The dog follows me. I walk down the hallway - I smiled at him, and made him trip over his own feet there; held him there for a few long moments when he didn't come back when he said he would, right there - and through the stairwells - he sat on that stair patching himself up after finding Pinkerton in the bow; we kissed in the darkness behind this staircase - both far too full of moments in time, frozen and crystallized in my memory.
I shut the door behind me and have to shut my eyes and lean into a wall. He would stay here, with me, when ever he was here, which was more and more often lately - and never, ever again – and I can see evidence of him, all over the room, in little things.
A disassembled gun of his on my table; a pair of boots shoved haphazardly under the cabinet, which is full of his clothes as well as mine; his coat hanging by the door next to mine; his books sitting on my shelf and the table beside my bed, with his favourite sunglasses.
And the bed, god, the bed. Bigger than the one I would have had if this was a room just for me. I remember the sex, of course. Fast and hot and heavy, slow and soft and loving, and everything in between. Worse than that, I remember the nights when we would sit up and talk, or not, and he would lay there beside me. I remember waking up to him, too many times to count – not nearly often enough, never enough – and it's too much, it's not enough, it isn't fair, and I can't breathe. I can't see; my eyes are too full of tears and visions of the past. I can't hear anything but his voice that I'll never hear again, can't feel anything but his touch that will never touch me again…
I would have continued, following a tight downward spiral of loss and despair, but the dog licks me across the face (am I sitting on the floor?), repeatedly, and whines pathetically. I sit up and stroke his back absently.
I suppose I should read the little message that he left for me. I'm afraid to, though. I don't really know why.
Ignoring my little insecurities, I plug it into the fixed up terminal sitting in the back corner of the room. All the message says is, Look in my coat pocket.
I frown, perplexed, and walk over to the coat hanging from the wall near the door. I feel through the pockets, and I don't find anything initially. Then I search through the inside pockets, and pull out a piece of old, thick paper, with meticulous, Vault-neat writing on it, folded around a ring on a chain. I run the chain through my fingers as I read the letter.
I love you.
I don't think I said that enough. I don't think I could ever say it often enough. I love you, I love you, I love you.
I'm afraid sometimes that you don't know that. But I do. I love the way you laugh, and I love your smile, and I love your courage and your kindness and I love who you are. I love your hands, and your face, and everything else about you. It's hard for me to say that, sometimes. But I mean it, all the time. I love you so much that it hurts some days. When I'm away from you, especially.
And I would have liked to be with you forever, but obviously that didn't work out if you're reading this note. So I don't want you to be unhappy.
We both sort of knew this would happen, eventually. But I'm with you, I promise. It's not like I'd leave. I'm still there, somewhere, with you, and I will stay with you always. And when you deactivate, or pass on, or whatever it is you'll decide to do, whenever you decide to do it, I'll be waiting for you. No matter how long you make me wait. So be happy while you're still here, for my sake as well as yours.
I love you. I wanted to say it again. I love you. It really feels good, actually. I love you. I wish I had done it more, when I had the chance. I love you.
Good bye.
I shut my eyes against the onslaught of tears threatening to batter down the defences I throw up against them. I fold the note up again, holding it close to my nose and wondering, foolishly, if I could smell him on it. I can't, but when I open my eyes I catch a glimpse of more writing that I had missed.
p.s. I almost forgot this. The ring is something I wanted to give to you, when I was still… well, when I had the chance. This isn't like a 'never love anyone again' sort of thing that I'm giving you (because who knows how long never-again is for you, anyways?). I just wanted you to have it, to let you know that I wanted to, even if we couldn't.
I can hear his voice in my head, the strange calmness of it, and the way he seemed to speak only rarely, but to ramble hopelessly when he did. I look at the ring on the chain. It has the old, worn look of something made in the Pre-War times, the feeling that many fingers have worn this down to smoothness before you've even touched it. Everything from before has this… weight of history attached to it. Sometimes I don't like that feeling, that hundreds of years of anger and pain and waste are being carried within this one, harmless little thing. But this one feels like it carries love, and safety and deep, secure happiness. It feels like he does – did – sometimes.
I slip the chain around my neck and fasten it at the back, then sigh. I like the way it falls against my chest, the chain thick and heavy enough that I can feel it, and I run my finger over the ring once, absently. It brings to mind, strangely enough, the feeling of having him in my arms.
Instead of the towering, looming onslaught of despair, the knot in my chest loosens, just a little bit. I miss him, I always will. But maybe this isn't the end of the game.
/\/\/\
The second part of the two-shot. Not so sure about that ending. It's so weird that I seem to be writing nothing but guys, despite the fact that I'm a chick myself. On that note, I have to ask; am I chick-ifying them? Tell me if I am, tell me if I'm not, tell me if this rules or sucks. Thanks!
Colvine