Hallelujah: It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year (Preston)


It's a comfort, being around so many people. There haven't been so many souls in his care since Quincy. Preston isn't sure if he deserves them, but he's going to try his best to make sure everyone is safe, protected.

They're all congregated around a tree at the end of the cul-de-sac, the large one in the garden at the center of the road. Someone - the old Mr. Handy, if he's to believe the gossip - has hung decorations from it, and they glint in the moonlight that glints off the snow on the ground. For the first time in months, since before Quincy, Preston feels an intense pride flickering in his chest.

These are his people, he thinks. His people, and they have cause to celebrate.

Even Marcy Long is quiet for once, her constant griping silenced by the miracle of the winking fairy lights in the tree. Jun pulls her to him with a gentle arm around her shoulder and for a moment Preston indulges in a pang of yearning; he's been alone for so long, been everyone else's protector, and he's so very tired.

The General walks past, that massive dog trotting at her side and he perks up, the realization hitting him at once.

He may be lonely, but Preston is not alone. He has help now, he has someone who will help him keep these people safe and fed and warm in the bleak Commonwealth winter. He has someone who makes them feel safe enough that the phenomenon of snow is cause for celebration and not fear. He sees Jun Long take a nip from a small glass bottle and pass it off to his right, away from Preston, to Sturges, who grins his lopsided smile and takes it gladly. Little Mary Jackson whose family moved in last week lets out a whoop and grabs armfuls of snow, throwing it at anyone who dares get within ten feet of her.

Despite himself, despite the desperation that's plagued him for months, Preston feels a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. For what feels like the first time in a year, he lowers his rifle and sets it down to gaze in wonder at the tree. He hears the General approach, but he's too transfixed by the glitter of the lights to look at her.

"I guess this means you like it," there's a teasing smile in her voice. A glass bottle is thrust into his hand, and Preston takes a gulp without looking, then another. Whiskey, not the cheap stuff but not the best either; it burns its way down his throat in a hot flash, deep into the pit of him. He tries not to wince at the burn of it but does anyway, earning a sympathetic smile from his General.

"It's...been a difficult year," he finally says. He looks back at the gilded tree, the green and red lights blinking on and off. A generator hums below but somehow even the sound of that doesn't ruin the effect of the lights winking at him in the desolate darkness around them. "Thank you for this." He gestures lamely at the tree, at the improbably glittering of the glass ornaments from the branches.

The General laughed, not unkindly. "I had nothing to do with this." Then, softer, "It was a surprise to me, too. Codsworth arranged it."

Well that's a surprise. Preston doesn't have any negative thoughts about robots, exactly, but he's still surprised by the fact that the Mr. Handy came up with the idea of this for himself.

"Really?" He tears his eyes from the tree and meets her steady gaze.

"Really," she says with a barely-suppressed smile. Preston finds his own lips quirking up into a smile in return, and he takes another sip from the bottle, swallowing more easily this time and passing it on to the next person. The glass is cold as it leaves his hand, but inside his chest is warm, heated by the whiskey and the companionship.

Across from them, almost on the other side of the tree, Mary Jackson and Mark Brendanowicz start a game of tag, throwing snowballs near each other as they run, hiding behind battered shrubs and parts of long-destroyed houses. When he looks back to the General, he sees for the first time how tired she is; dark smudges mark the tender skin below her eyes. This project he's dumped on her and all the responsibility that goes with it is wearing her down, grinding her down to grit.

For a moment, Preston feels a flicker of remorse, and then he looks at the smiling faces around the tree, at Marcy and Jun Long, who he never thought to see smiles from ever again. At Sturges, laughing at something Art Jackson said. At Mama Murphy, smiling her gap-toothed grin in her tattered chair; looking at them, at the new hope in their eyes where two months ago was nothing but despair, he knows he did the right thing.

It's better to grind down one person to dust than for five to die; no matter how he feels about that one, the math holds up. He's run it, every time he sees how tired she looks, how the weight of this new world weighs her down, and no matter how guilty it makes him feel, he knows that he made the right call.

They needed a new General and he found one. His instincts led him to the right person, insane as it is, and she will protect him, as she did before. Her hair glints darkly in the flashing bulbs, lighting her like a pre-war saint, the halo of light drifting around her head, illuminating the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the curve of her lips.

Still -

Still, he wonders if he made the right choice.