He wakes up in a blind panic, thrashing against the sheets as sunlight slices ribbons through the darkness.
Sun's up, I don't even have my shoes on, Moriarty's going to kill me if I don't set up the bar… he thinks, the tiny animal part of him that's been locked up for so long gibbering in mindless fear as he swings his legs out of the bed, instinctively reaching for—
And then the memory hits him like brick, smashing through his skull and releasing yesterday's memories in a flood. He's free, free of Moriarty and the saloon and living in this strange town full of smoothskins that never really felt like home despite having spent fifteen years here. Free of being yelled at, cussed at, kicked and ducking from the expected harshness of strangers and living for those few precious moments where it's just him and Nova by the bar and the radio plays the news of Little Miss 101 and her adventures…
Gob cannot resist smiling at the thought, the familiar fantasy easy to slip back into. He's free, and could follow her wherever she leads. Maybe learn to use that pistol she gave him, don leather combat armor and become her faithful ghoul manservant, sweep her away (and here his imagination become much more vague; rescuing her from something, or maybe boldly twirling her into his arms as the sun sets in the distance…) and they could wander as companions.
But it is only a moment before the cold weight of reality sets in. Fifteen years tending the bar have not improved his survival skills any from the starry-eyed ghoul that set forth from Underworld only to get captured by slavers in less than a week. He swallows, throat abruptly dry. It takes something special to survive the Wastelands, much less thrive, and he doubts he has it now. If he ever did to begin with.
Much less rescuing Jinx. He thinks back to last night's game as he pulls on his shirt, the worn material much finer than anything he's had a chance to wear while 'working' for Moriarty. How Fawkes had tried to rescue her from Enclave forces, only to find that she had already escaped on her own. He has never seen an Enclave soldier, of course, but he's heard Jinx's stories and Three Dog's broadcasts. But the one thing they never mentioned was just what had happened with Charon.
'Faithful ghoul manservant.' He hadn't looked so faithful that day at the bar…
He swallows, throat dry as he finishes the last button before slipping into his pants. Jinx had laughed so brightly, swinging her arm about him and squeezing close, playfully teasing and flirting like always, like she had no idea what it was like to feel so painfully alone that every small touch fed an unnamed hunger that wasn't even sexual, exactly, but just so desperate for belonging and contact—
—or maybe that's why she holds so tight, afraid to let go of those around her.
He had asked about Charon, but she only smiled, eyes shining bright, too bright, like a star about to die and maybe it'll be years before anyone notices. "He's safe. That's all that matters," she had said, throwing her head back and laughing like it was just a big game, her laughter flying away like birds struggling against the sky…
But he remembers Charon stopping by the bar only a few days earlier. The tall ghoul was wearing that suit of power armor, making him even larger and more intimidating. Charon had only stayed a few moments, just long enough to inform Gob that Dogmeat was being left in Megaton and that Charon was going to Underworld.
"Per my former mistress' detestation, I am to return to Underworld and offer my contract to Carol. In anticipation of my future employer's request, I ask you this: How are you?"
The words had been delivered precisely, each syllable meticulously measured as if Charon had been hoarding his words for just this moment. This was a veritable wealth of chatter for the taciturn man, and Gob had only been able to choke out a forced 'okay' under the weight of the other ghoul's filmy gaze. Charon is a fighting man, and has been fighting for far longer than any other that Gob has known—and suspects will ever know. He had never been friends with the bodyguard even when they were both in Underworld and mostly recalls him as a silent, glowering presence. Jinx had always treated him just like anyone else though, laughing and teasing and impervious to his lack of response.
He had licked his lips, feeling his skin crack under the strain of movement. "What happened to Jinx?"
Charon's face was impassive, wooden as ever as he responded. "She has gone where I cannot follow."
"Is she dead?" Gob asked, feeling pathetically weak, his shoulders shaking as he unwillingly recalled all the nightmares that can happen in the Wasteland. Because it's not just him who lights up when she's present, but the fact that she's the closest thing to a hero that the Capital Wasteland has ever seen, and if she's gone, there are so many who will mourn, and more who will never have the chance to mourn because they hadn't the chance to meet her…
"She has gone where I cannot follow." The ghoul leaned in, hands on the bar as he glared full into Gob's eyes. "Without a master, I cannot stay long. But she has gone where I cannot follow. But once my contract is in other hands, things will change. Perhaps many things." There had been a strange weight to those words, hints of a snarl buried beneath the precise dictation. Finally, Charon pushed himself upright, fitting his helmet back over his head and into place with a heavy clank of metal on metal. Through the distortions of the voice synth, he crackled, "Let it be."
And then… Gob remembers the door swinging shut behind Charon, and his own dazed stare at the wall following that strange pronouncement. He never understood Charon, or his contract, or any of that—and not for the first time, wonders how much of Charon's nature is a result of who he is, or how much of it is because of what he has become.
He looks around the room, for the first time taking in how sterile it feels. This had been Charon's room; he remembers because Jinx's room had been obviously hers, with a teddy bear lying on the floor and dog hair coating everything. In contrast, this room feels… empty. Blank. A few neatly stowed articles of clothing, a partially disassembled assault rifle laid on the desk with meticulous precision, but other than the weapon, this room could have been completely uninhabited.
Or inhabited only by a weapon.
He swallows, the thought echoing uncomfortably. Charon is a fighting man, but he is more akin to a weapon than a man, Azrukhal's guard dog and then Jinx's… what, precisely? Employee? Bodyguard? Friend? Jinx had always claimed him as friend, but would he do the same?
He had not told Jinx about Charon's visit, for fear of releasing the flood of tears that lurk beneath each false laugh and bright smile. He does not think he will tell her unless she asks, or some other opportunity presents itself. There would be no point in relaying that brief conversation.
Or so he tells himself. Does he owe her that truth, no matter how painful?
Even if the mechanical routine of getting dressed had not woken him, his own panicked thoughts would not allow him to sleep. He feels raw and empty, an unpleasant contrast to the sheer pleasure of dinner or drinking while chatting and laughing amongst friends. Even with that strange super mutant, or maybe especially with that strange mutant—the empathy of finally meeting someone even more out of place than a ghoul in a smoothskin town.
He pushes the door open slowly, and can hear Jinx's voice, all rapid twitters even with her volume low. "Whatcha thinking, Fawkes?"
The super mutant's response is slow and hesitant, and Gob uncertainly hovers in the doorway. "Your arsenal." The big man sounds vaguely ashamed of that observation, and a faint up-tilt turns his next sentence into a question. "You have quite a collection."
"Yeah. I started with just a little pistol and a baseball bat—then found a combat knife. Took down a raider, got another pistol. Just started working my way up from there." Jinx laughs softly, blithe and oblivious. Not for the first time, Gob wonders if she is truly innocent of all the unspoken implications and unanswered nightmares lurking below those words, or if she simply plays at being a sweet little fool, trying to use a simple bandage to cover a gaping wound. She's bright, he knows that, but charming as she is, she remains selectively blind to certain elements of social interaction. Not that he is always comfortable when talking with people, but at least he is aware of the rules and barriers. Shyly, he creeps out of the room, moving to the edge of the railing so he can look down at the two.
Fawkes is sitting upright on that ridiculous bed, absently petting Dogmeat with one massive hand as Jinx stands next to them, working her way through a set of stretches. She is clad only in her underclothes, and Fawkes' gaze remains firmly fixed on one of the lockers by the door. Jinx twists in place, lacing her hands together and pushing them away from her torso. Gob finds himself strangely mesmerized by the number of scars on her body, mementoes etched in her flesh. He had never realized quite how badly injured so many of her 'adventures' had left her.
"Each weapon got me another step closer to something better—either parts, or being able to sell it to get tools. I started hoarding them just because I never knew what sort of ammo I'd be able to scrounge or what I might use for other repairs." Her eyes are pale, almost glowing from the yellow lights strung overhead. With a wistful tone, she adds, "Plus, there is something… reassuring. Safety. I know I won't touch most of 'em beyond cleaning or maintenance, but just knowing that I have them…"
"It is security," Fawkes finishes for her, instinctively reaching for the charge pack for his Gatling laser. He strokes its boxy lines and metal body almost as gently as he pets Dogmeat with his other hand.
Her mouth splits in a wide, white smile. "Exactly. Because no matter what, here I stand. This house, this place, this time—it is mine and mine alone. Should raiders knock or Enclave shock, then I shall rain the righteous fury of a thousand bullets upon their heads." The sing-song cadence of her words is like a child's skip-song, slightly out of tune in some minor key. "This is my home. It's a safe haven, and I'd—I'd do about anything to protect it."
Gob's chest swells, constricts, and leaves him crumpled, struggling for breath as he tries not to think of her as a child. She's almost Nova's age when Nova started working for Moriarty, older than some of the caravan guards who come through—but she looks so young, especially when she sings like that, and he sees the light fall across her form and the subtle shadows of her hair falling over one ear. Like she is only playing at being a hero, just as she plays at hide and seek or 'sardines' or telling stories about the stars.
He finally coughs, announcing his presence. "Good morning. Sorry if I overslept." Fishing the red bandanna out of one pocket, he loosely ties it about one wrist as he moves down the stairs.
"No worries. We aren't moving out until after breakfast anyway," Jinx says, reaching for a suit of some thin black material and pulling it on as she speaks. Gob notes that Fawkes keeps his gaze averted until she is fully dressed. "I don't want to wake Nova up just yet, but—"
"I'm awake, I'm awake," a bleary voice calls, and Nova stumbles out of her room looking disheveled, as if she just slept in last night's clothing. Probably did; Gob can't imagine she took her normal sexy sleepwear from Moriarty's. "Not used to getting up this early."
"Sorry," Jinx says sheepishly, holding her hands up to shield her pink cheeks. "You can stay here until you're ready to face Moriarty. Or stay here until—well, whenever you want. I can leave the key."
"Nice offer, but no. I'm a big girl and can do some things on my own, hon." Nova's smile is wan but genuine as she descends the steps, reaching out to tousle Jinx's hair affectionately. "How about that breakfast? Then you three can go on your adventures and I can go talk with Simms a bit before haggling with Moriarty."
Breakfast ends up being noodles and mutfruit. Then Jinx dons her power armor and even finds a set of leather armor that fits Gob, encouraging the ghoul to wear it as a modicum of protection. It is bulky and strange rather than reassuring, making him feel as if he is play-acting at being an adventurer. He shivers slightly, wondering just what would happen if he really were to ask to join Jinx…
Nothing good. And she already has all the aid she needs with Fawkes. It is strange to watch them circle about one another, all hesitancy and awkward pauses. It reminds him of seeing some of the men who would enter the saloon on occasion, purchasing drinks and never quite daring to meet Nova's eyes, only glancing up when her face is turned, slowly edging themselves closer over the course of the night until they finally worked up the courage to pay her the caps and go upstairs.
The difference is that this time, both are playing that game. And he doesn't think it's about sex—not really, but Nova might know better about that—but trying to establish whatever their boundaries are even as they commit to traveling together.
He watches her wrinkle her nose at Fawkes' vault suit, reaching as if to stroke one tattered sleeve before pulling back. "That thing is absolutely no protection. We'll have to visit Moira when we come back. She gave me an armored vault suit before, and I bet she could rig something similar for you."
"An excellent suggestion," Fawkes rumbles, flexing his fingers and popping his knuckles to prominence as he slowly curls his hand into a fist. "Thick as my hide is, I would appreciate any additional aid."
And it'll help you look less like one of the hostiles,Gob thinks, but does not voice. Clothing, even the ragged and simple items that so many settlers or vagabonds make do with, establish a certain level of civilization—among the ghouls of Underworld, the state of your clothing would serve as a visual cue for how close to going feral you were. That was often the first sign of whenever the isolation or the years pressed too closely and a ghoul just stopped caring, letting their wardrobe fall into tattered rags and then those around them would try, gently, to talk and see if sanity has fled or if this was just a momentary aberration…
As if losing half one's flesh and skin is any less an aberration. But at least with companionship, it could be bearable.
No ghoul would dance naked under the moonlight.
Jinx passes him a satchel containing food and water, but most of their other supplies end up going into the compartments of her power armor or onto Fawkes' back, the large man hoisting it all without complaint. Not that it appears to take him much effort on his part. Fawkes seems too much of a gentleman to be deliberately flexing for either of the ladies present, but watching his chest and arms ripple makes Gob fleetingly wish he still had all his own skin and hair.
"Ready to head on out?" Jinx asks, her voice tinny through her helmet. Fawkes nods assent, and Gob follows suit.
They leave the Megaton house to Wadsworth's attentive housecleaning efforts and Jinx locks the door behind them. Then it's just a matter of waving goodbye to Nova, the prostitute giving Jinx a warm embrace, Fawkes a genial pat on the arm, and then a gentle hug for Gob, murmuring, "Take care, Gobbie," in his ear. If he still had skin to blush, he would—but from her knowing smile, Nova understands. Gob can count the number of times Nova has hugged him on one hand and have fingers remaining. This is a final goodbye.
Then it is the beginning of a long march across the wastes, taking in the grey sunlight and the dust and grit everywhere, the world looking so unchanged from when he first entered Megaton as Moriarty's 'indentured servant.' Jinx moves with an easy, loose-limbed gait, her armor lending her a weight and gravity that she normally lacks. Fawkes moves just as easily for all that he has only been out of his vault for two days, as if he had been created for this world. In fact, designed for this world, if the rumors about super mutants being some prewar super-soldier experiment are to be believed. For a moment, Gob tries to imagine seeing them as an outsider might. Fawkes would be the most obvious threat, but Jinx in her power armor could also pose a problem. If one didn't know Fawkes' intelligence, one might think taking the woman out first would leave him less able to plan, but knowing Fawkes and knowing the way they circle about each other like junkyard dogs…
In his heart, he still thinks Jinx would be the true danger. But then again, he has never seen Fawkes angry.
Thinking these things helps take his mind off the grueling pace of the trek and the way the air burns his lungs. He might still be physically strong, but his endurance hasn't been improved at all by tending bar for fifteen years. And he forgot how dry the air was—ghouls might not perspire the way smoothskins do (something about the sweat glands from what he remembers Barrows saying), but they still retain heat and he feels his gut ache. Every shadow or unexpected gravel click makes him uneasy, only the weight of the armor keeping him from jumping out of what's left of his skin. He knows it must be safe, and he feels safe while with them, but he has had so many years to dream of that nightmare in the slavers' caravan, with the sun burning overhead and the heavy collar about his neck as he was herded along. The history sometimes feels more real than the present.
"Hey Gob. You doing alright there?" Jinx asks, her concern obvious even through her helmet's distortion.
He nods, instinctively wiping one hand across his forehead. Not that he's sweating much, but the motion at least feels like he's doing something.
"It's no rush. I'd like to at least make it to the metro station before calling a break, but we can take a rest if you need it."
"No." Gob knows very well he does not need a break, even if he wants one. Jinx and Fawkes are already doing a kindness by escorting him to Underworld, and he does not want to slow them further.
Fawkes twitches his brow at that, perhaps as if raising an eyebrow. Being hairless makes the gesture a bit more difficult to read. Gob wonders if this is how humans feel when dealing with ghouls.
The long walk is made marginally easier when Jinx flips the radio on, soft strains of 'Let's Go Sunning' coloring the landscape. Fawkes continues scanning the horizon for threats even as Jinx keeps an eye out for red blips on her Pip-Boy's navigation, but nothing disturbs the tentative safety of their journey until they cross a prewar bridge erected over the river.
"Dammit. Three reds up ahead, and looks like raiders. I recognize the mutilated corpses," Jinx mutters, immediately killing the radio and plunging them into silence. "No good way to sneak past. So… Fawkes, feel like making a suicidal frontal assault?"
"Ready and willing," the mutant rumbles in response, the calm in his voice at odds with the way he casually aims his Gatling laser.
"Then Gob, you stay here. Dogmeat, guard!" she orders, then she races ahead. Gob swallows, immediately diving behind one of crumbling walls that serve as road dividers and wondering if he should question her sanity. Or perhaps her judgment. Would even the most chem-addled of raiders decide that attacking a figure in power armor accompanied by a super mutant would be a wise decision? And if they did…
From what she's said, raider weapons tend to be of poor quality and ill-maintained, especially against her almost obsessively well-loved equipment, but it still takes a strange sort of courage to face bullets head-on.
Courage or insanity. He has always wondered a bit about Jinx's sanity.
And Fawkes' too, now that he watches the man charge. Jinx is quicksilver motion and twists, darting like a hummingbird. Fawkes has less grace but more force, each footfall landing like an elephant's tread. He does not bother strafing, instead releasing a primal roar that echoes through Gob's ears and bones, down to the very core of him where nightmares lurk. The raiders immediately fire at Fawkes, practically ignoring Jinx and—
Oh shit. I'm still exposed, Gob thinks, brought to his senses as Dogmeat growls, butting his head against the ghoul. Moving crabwise to the side, he leans against the low stone wall. The gunfire still sounds close, far too close, and even recognizing the foolishness of staring at the fight, he peeks over the edge. Otherwise, it is far too easy for his mind to spin visions of approaching raiders, laughing with bloody knives and bloodier teeth.
Heart hammering in his throat, he watches Jinx and Fawkes dominate the battlefield. Fawkes shrugs bullets off like flies, dropping raiders with a sizzle of red energy and a guttural laugh. But easy as it is to watch Fawkes, Jinx is taking down her own targets. More than one raider dissolves to a puddle of green goo before the chem-addled attackers realize that the little girl in power armor is just as much of a threat.
They're fucking terrifying.
For one brief moment, Gob feels hyperaware of everything about him. The scorching heat on his skin. The grit of the wall under his fingers, digging into dry flesh. The miserable chafing of his armor, the realization that despite having been given a weapon, he failed to fire a single shot…
And he's not sure if the 'they' he's thinking about are the raiders or a tiny laughing girl who holds too close and a soft-spoken super mutant who only seems to laugh during battle.
Some stalwart ghoul manservant he would be.
But watching them move together, another thought crosses Gob's mind.
Fawkes is brave. Loyal. Courageous.
Stalwart.