A/N: New chapter! It's a little shorter, but I think it works. I spent a while retooling it. Anyhow, thanks for reading and please review!
Pacer slept in his own bed, for the first time in months. Lately, he had taken to staying in Westside, because the militia didn't care about civilians sleeping in the streets. Last timed he'd tried it in Freeside, some younger members of the Kings brought his ass straight back to the School, sat him down in front of the King, and then he was forced to explain- read: lie- about why he was hanging out in the gutters in the first place. The King knew the real reason, and so did the recruits, but they wanted to feel omnipotent, so they made Pacer feel like an idiot.
That asshole First Recon didn't know who he was fucking with when he demanded that Pacer leave the Followers' Fort without even considering who Pacer was affiliated with. Well, he'd see just what Pacer was made of, soon enough, once he got rid of a terrible high. Dixon's jet was getting shittier and shittier; whatever he was cutting it with gave Pacer terrible tremors and made him hallucinate like crazy, which was not a normal side effect of Jet. Ant Nectar, sure, sometimes it gave him visions, but that was much harder to come by. Dixon didn't usually have it in his special little bag. He liked Buffout as well, which made him feel like he could smash things with his bare hands, but made his head swim horribly. He only used it when he couldn't afford the Jet. Mentats, well, they weren't fun at all. If he wanted to be smarter and more charming, he would've gone to finishing school.
Jet had always been there for him. It put pep in his step, kept him awake for days at a time and as long as he kept using, never let him down. Lately, there hadn't been enough caps to string the uses together, and withdrawal set in hard between. Dixon mentioned that he had a new source for Rocket, which supposedly, was just like Jet but better. Rebound was okay, but not as fulfilling.
Yes, the drugs were pretty much all he thought about, they were first when he awoke in the morning and last when he finally fell asleep after days of binging. Occasionally, he would try and get sober, because he knew that he could get the Followers to give him a lot of Fixer, which he could trade for the Jet. Arcade Gannon had not found a way to refuse him. The head doctor there, some dumb lady, kept saying that one day, Pacer would be drug free, and the Fixer was the first stop on that road. What a dumb ass. Arcade knew better, but he had no other alternatives and gave Pacer whatever he wanted. Fixer was the worst, especially when somebody was in the deepest throws of addiction. It made Pacer vomit uncontrollably, sweat until he was drenched, and gave him the worst anxiety. No, he couldn't handle sobriety on his own. Once, Charlie had given him reason, but now she was gone and it was just him in this terrible place with all these people who didn't give a damn about him.
When he woke, his throat was so dry that it took two beers to do the trick before he could speak. Inhaling all the Jet had ruined his lungs and his mucus membranes, whatever they were. Arcade told him that, pretending like it would scare Pacer into giving up his favorite treat. It didn't. The notion of his heart just up and giving out, well, that had scared the shit out of him, just a little bit. Arcade had slipped that bit of information in about two weeks before Charlie came back to town, said that the drug had eaten several holes in his heart, and every time he used, they were getting bigger.
Fuck Arcade Gannon. He didn't know anything. Pacer would have to get a second opinion from the Farkas lady.
And fuck that sniper. Where had he been as Charlie lay on her deathbed? Who did he think he was? Pacer had been in the fort since a King recruit had flippantly remarked that a Legionary had attacked Charlie in the streets of New Vegas. The Legionary was dead; his head was shot clean off, exploded all over the sidewalk. Pacer had been there, had just spoken to her maybe ten yards away from that particular spot, standing in the gate to Freeside. He probably saw her attacker and didn't even know it. It was his fault. He should've stood his ground, made her come with him to the Wrangler so they could talk like normal adults, but let her persuade him to leave her alone. She probably wouldn't have let him in the Lucky 38 the next day anyway, if she'd been healthy enough to do it. But he needed to use, Charlie made his head swim in the most uncomfortable way, like his addled emotions were trying to break free. So he left her all alone. What an asshole.
He hadn't even meant to bump into her, but he saw her leaving the school, not even sure at first that it was Charlie, the first time he'd seen her since the night that she left him alone with his addiction. Pacer didn't forgive her for that, but on his most sober days, didn't blame her either.
She looked exactly the same. The long curly hair she normally kept braided atop her head and then swirled into a bun was free, bouncing upon her freckled shoulders. He saw her sunburned plenty of times, as though she were from a place covered in shade. Most women were so tanned they were brown, but not Charlie. That was the palest skin he'd ever laid eyes upon, ivory and soft, and if he closed his eyes, it was still there, underneath his fingertips. The Jet hadn't stolen that memory from him. No, as much as he used in order to forget, Pacer could never remove Charlie from his mind. Seeing her in Freeside, wearing that dress, the one that she wore on their first date, Pacer knew he couldn't let her go without talking to her. That dress was one of the prettiest things he'd ever seen, tiny multi-colored daisies printed on a navy blue background. It was strapless, a Pre-War fashion that one didn't see every day, Charlie's shoulder exposed in the Mojave sun. If there was a more beautiful sight than a woman's bare shoulders, Pacer didn't know it.
Charlie was always nervous about the way that she looked, mostly because of the pale pink scar on the right side of her face. Pacer had told her countless times that it wasn't noticeably unless he looked for it, which she never truly believed. It wasn't that she was vain, just unsure. Perhaps if Pacer had woken up in a ditch with zero memory of the last twenty-something years of his life, he'd be startled every time he looked into a mirror. It couldn't be easy, looking at something she couldn't remember. Of course, she must've looked exactly the same before the shooting, but Charlie always seemed shocked to see her reflection. Pacer still thought it was the strangest thing.
From the first moment he spotted Charlie at the School, Pacer was sure that he would never meet anybody like her again. She wasn't from Freeside, but she wasn't from the Mojave either. Perhaps that's the quality he liked most, the absence of the jaded nature most Wastelanders carry around like chains. It'd taken him a whole date to elicit a true smile from Charlie, but once he earned it, she never withheld it again. Love had weaved its way onto Pacer's tongue very quickly, and maybe a month after he first laid eyes on Charlie, he told her that he'd fallen for her. She'd grinned broadly and kissed him, and they went back to his room at the School. Charlie loved him. It'd been the first and last time that he heard her utter those three crucial words, for it was the same day that she discovered the jet. The look in her green and gold eyes as she confronted him, the sheer disappointment, would be something he'd always remember.
It was her face that Pacer saw as he drifted into sleep, Charlie's freckled cheeks and coral lips leading him away from reality.
Like all nights, Pacer had the dream.
She stands on the stage in the School, wearing a floor length emerald green evening dress. Every time Charlie moves, sparkles in the fabric catch the spotlights, her whole body shimmering. The King is there, along with everybody that Pacer knows; they are all wearing tuxes and drinking champagne. There is a whole band behind Charlie, and they begin to play as she cups the microphone in her bejeweled fingers, smiling broadly at the crowd. She sings Mad About the Boy, her voice so miserable, and as she finishes, she tells the room that it was in Pacer's honor. He knows that she wants him to meet her up there. They make eye contact for a moment, but Pacer cannot move. He is stuck at the back of the theater, and no matter how many people turn to look at him, he stays. His heart beats so loudly as Charlie leaves the stage, walking down the center of the room to him. She kisses him, her wet cheek pressing against his, and Pacer realizes that she is weeping.
"Rest in peace, Pacer. I hope your next life is better than this." Charlie whispers, standing still until the King shuffles her away, tucking her underneath his arm.
At that point, no matter how many times Pacer has had this same dream, he wakes completely startled. The realization that it was his body lying in a coffin, that those people were attending his funeral, never ceased to surprise him.
Death didn't scare him. Dying alone in a gutter, forgotten by everyone who Pacer has ever loved, was a more frightening contemplation than he could bear. In some ways though, the dream was kind of reassuring; after all, Charlie did attend his funeral in that alternate universe. And she was heartbroken to see him gone, the only one without a grin. If Charlie would miss Pacer when he died, maybe his life would truly mean something. But she hated him. He understood.
He reached for the Jet, pressing the inhaler hard, before he realized that it was empty. Well, he'd have to figure out this morning somewhat sober, pop a few Fixers just to distract him before he tracked down Dixon. It was so early that Pacer wasn't sure where he'd be, but he'd find him eventually.
However, he should really see Charlie. Maybe that First Recon would be gone, and Pacer could have a real conversation with her. It was probably too far fetched to hope to convince her to fall for him again, but that little bit of faith didn't hurt.
