"Oh, plenty of people have a story about him. He was the Wanderer, right? He wandered! But precious few ever really knew him… shame, really, 'cause he was a fine young man! Great assistant!" - Moira Brown

If someone told Beatrice when she woke up on her 26th birthday that her gift would be an arranged marriage, she would have soundly slapped them. She didn't need bulk or brains to have self-respect, which made the fact that she didn't hit the Overseer when he ordered her to marry James Walker a truly auspicious sign of her loyalty.

His gaze, as always, was uncompromising. Not from any particular intimidation, but from the same cool, quiet confidence that she had grown used to under his administration; she anticipated his tone and arguments from the expression on his face alone, but it didn't lessen the strain of actually having to hear them.

"You have always been willing to do your duty for the Vault," the Overseer said, "and while I understand this is a tad - shall we say, distasteful - it is necessary. If Mr. Walker is to join Vault 101, the people need proof of his commitment to our community."

Beatrice didn't have words; sentences half-formed and evaporated as fast she was breathing (very), and the mixture of incredulity, disgust, and confusion swiftly clogged up her throat. She lacked the means to express the totality of the concoction, and so, after a few moments, settled for asking, with an edge far harder than she expected from herself, "Why me?"

"You are unmarried," the Overseer replied simply, "most any available partners are already coupled, and we need more people."

Beatrice's felt like there was something underneath the words - just behind them, flickering amidst the syllables. Part of her - the part she did not listen to, because she had no way of getting to the bottom of it by herself - raised its eyebrows, and just as the Overseer spoke again, realization crashed over her, adding horror to her emotional quagmire.

"It does not have to occur immediately," he said, "but by the end of the year, the two of you must marry, It was a clause of our agreement Mr. Walker made with me."

"I-"

"I apologize if I am insensitive," the Overseer held up a hand, rising to his feet, "but Vault 101's continued success is of paramount importance to me; our current generation, as it currently stands, will not be enough to maintain a healthy gene pool in fifty years unless we do something."

Beatrice blinked. "What?"

"Any machinery to facilitate invitro-fertilization we have is inoperable and unrepairable," the Overseer said, adjusting a knob on his pip-boy, "and I've run the numbers," the Overseer looked back up at her, "we need new blood. It's far easier for me to order you into an arranged marriage, I know, but it is far better than dooming the rest of the Vault. In any case, if you and James cannot reproduce, I have contingencies."

"I-'' Beatrice blinked again, still incensed. She was about to speak: she had shown nothing, nothing but utter loyalty and service in her lifetime, and this was how she was rewarded? This was medieval!

As she opened her mouth, though, a pang of understanding struck her, and her mother's voice came back to her: Honey, I love you, but there isn't anything worthwhile outside the Vault. If we're lost - for any reason - that's it. You're dead, I'm dead, your father is dead. Your sisters are dead. So when the Overseer asks you to do something, big or small, do your duty.

"If he mistreats you," the Overseer said, before she could properly argue against herself, "the marriage ends. I am not an animal."

"I - I never meant to imply, sir..." Beatrice furrowed her eyebrows, "… but, surely - we're above this, right? More civilized than… whatever is out there."

The Overseer glanced away from her, "We should be. But if one distasteful action today can save tomorrow, why shan't we take it?"

Beatrice raised an eyebrow at him, and he sighed.

"Ms. Armstrong," he said, "I told you all that there is nothing worthwhile outside the Vault from the first day I took my position as Overseer. That may not be entirely true now, as Mr. Walker proves, but it is still incredibly dangerous. The steps I have already taken could doom us all, I don't-'' he pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes for a second, "this is shameful, but it's the best course of action for us at the moment; and in thirty years, God willing, our grandchildren will have a future."

"I…" Beatrice began, before trailing off. She felt another pang of understanding, which made her anger tighten into a knot. There were dozens of points for her to argue, a thousand angles, but she heard her mother's voice once more. She knew this was plainly wrong, but the reality of what lay outside the Vault had always weighed heavily on her mind; her imagination, in her tender years, had been utterly fascinated. As time wore on, however, those fantasies of survival and tribulation faded, and her teacher's rigorous emphasis on the cruelty that had marked human history before the world ended truly sank in. She couldn't argue around Mr. Brotch's Sr.'s conclusion that the chances of everyone above making a better world were inescapably low.

The Overseer took her silence and led her outside as her emotions swirled. She opened her mouth to speak on three separate occasions, but never said anything; the Overseer stared straight ahead, and as he pushed her out of his door, he said, "There will be tests we will conduct beforehand - to ensure that nothing is wrong - but those can come later; after the marriage, even," Beatrice blinked, but before she could respond, the door was sliding open with a hiss, "Oh, and happy birthday, Ms. Armstrong."

Beatrice made sure to grab an extra pair of gloves as she entered the Greenhouse. At least, that's what they all called it - it was all hydroponics in reality, with specially designed simu-suns in place of genuine glass and sunlight. The name invoked something nobody in the Vault had ever seen outside of pictures, which had weighed on her when she started working in it, but was now something she dismissed handily as she noted that she would have to get the rest of the gloves washed soon.

Getting assigned to the Greenhouse was one of the few major surprises of her life. At first, she had been wary of the change, especially because her real interest lay in counseling; but it was what the GOAT said she was meant for, so followed her directions. Beatrice didn't need an in-depth explanation of why her choice to let old Mr. Abernathy rot made her well-suited to caring for the Vault's food supply. If it was what the Overseer wanted, she did it. She had a duty to Vault 101.

That particular line had most of its luster sanded down as the years wore on, but it still held enough for her to get up and accept her assignment, even as Mary vehemently petitioned the Overseer to change hers.

For the first few years, it wasn't so bad; the silence of the Greenhouse gave her space to think, and since she had her mother as company, she wasn't alone. She got very close with her for a few years - closer than anyone else, barring her father. The work hardly felt like work most days, getting to chat with her mother and do invaluable work for the Vault; sharing the secrets she'd developed over the years; weighty ones, like her unprotected one-night stands (and miracle lack of pregnancy) with Edwin Brotch, and much lighter ones, like the fact that she was the one who fiddled with the pilot light of the oven on the Christmas where Gloria had been allowed to help, because she was jealous. She'd glimpsed sides of the woman she'd never seen; learned about her own youthful misadventures and torrid affairs, which in equal parts fascinated and scandalized her.

Those two years were some of the best she'd ever known, and then Mom died. For a few months, just stepping into the Greenhouse was nauseating. The Overseer offered to get someone to fill her spot, but Beatrice knew her mother's ghost would have haunted her for the rest of her life if something went wrong, so she stayed on. She pressed through the days where her head felt like it would burst, and her thoughts spiraled into darkness as fast she could pull them out of it; through the days where her mind was quiet and silence pressed in from all sides, a hazy, dull, and powerful pressure; and through the days when the monochrome neutrality she achieved in the morning slowly rotted as the hours ticked by, each minute gnawing at every fiber of her being.

Beatrice pressed through for the Vault; for her sisters and father and especially for her mother, so her efforts that had fed them all for so long wouldn't come to naught because she let someone else take over and screw things up.

In time, her grieving came to an end, and the Greenhouse became her escape; she'd taken numerous occasions to retreat into the rows of crops, pen and paper clutched in her hand, to write until it was too late at night, because as much as she loved keeping up with the goings-on of Vault 101, she needed her time to herself, too.

So, when James Walker decided to enter unannounced, only two weeks after they received news of their arranged marriage, she could have done without the interruption.

James had slipped into their community rather well, considering the first impression he made; coming into Vault 101 dwarfed by a woman in honest-to-God power armor with some kind of sledgehammer on her back, cradling an infant in his arms. Beatrice remembered how the pair left her utterly flabbergasted; because the world outside was an irradiated hellhole, even over a hundred years after the war, and she'd always assumed there'd be more than enough left over to do some truly horrific things to those stuck outside. But James and his companion, who was apparently named Star Paladin Cross (a name as bemusing as it was pretentious), looked completely normal. The Overseer had informed her the day after her 26th that James was from another vault all the way out in the ruins of Las Vegas, number 21, but Cross wasn't from any vault; Beatrice had expected, when the announcement came down that they were letting an outsider into the vault, someone intensely deformed from the radiation, but James and Star Paladin Cross could have sat down next to her and she wouldn't be able to tell them from a real resident of the Vault.

That should have made it easier to accept him, right? James was rather handsome, all things equal, and he'd been nothing but respectful to everyone in the Vault, if more than a bit broody. But everyone else in the Vault wasn't being forced to marry him, and (should her suspicions be wrong) have his children. That wasn't even to mention that he already had a kid for her to deal with.

To his credit, he wasn't obnoxious about their situation; had yet to make any reference to it; granted, that could easily have just been because he was avoiding her like the plague after they first shook hands, and according to Gloria, who had taken her niece Susie for a check-up last week, seemed utterly focused on his work (which, exasperatingly, he was exceptionally good at).

"Yes?" Beatrice asked, turned away from him.

"I just wanted to poke my head in," James said, after taking a moment to clear his throat.

"Well, you've done that," Beatrice replied curtly.

"I wanted to talk to you," James said, "I know that I've been… morose, these past few weeks."

He looked more like he'd burst into tears if someone stepped on his toe, if Beatrice was frank. Not that that wasn't warranted, but it didn't mean that she wanted - nor had any obligation - to deal with him. Let him grieve; they still had several months before the actual marriage ceremony, after all.

"That's fine," Beatrice said, removing an empty back of nutrients, "you can take your time to grieve. I know the death of a loved one isn't something you get over in two weeks."

"... Right." James sounded intensely awkward, "Well, if that's the case-"

"What do you want?" Beatrice cut him off, spinning on her heel, "I have important work to do."

She felt a twinge of guilt at the way James flinched, but brushed it off well enough. Her work was crucial to the survival of Vault 101: without food, they'd all starve in weeks. Interruptions didn't make her crops grow any faster.

"I'm sorry," James eventually said, straightening himself, "I didn't intend for this to happen. I argued against it, even."

"Within fifty years, we won't have a gene pool large enough to sustain us without inbreeding," Beatrice said, "we're doing our duty to the Vault."

"Of course," James replied, "but that doesn't mean we always enjoy it."

Beatrice huffed, shaking her head, "You aren't one of us. Don't talk like you are."

She could feel Walker's eyes on the back of her head for several moments, but refused to acknowledge them. Just because she was doing her duty to the Vault didn't mean she'd have to enjoy it - or deal with her intended if she didn't want to.

"I intend to be," James said, "I was wondering how I could… meet your family. We're going to be dealing with each other for quite a long time."

Beatrice sighed, creasing her brow. He had a point, of course. Everyone had a point these days, and it was always something she could understand, but not effectively argue against. Her own personal satisfaction wasn't much of anything when compared to the danger posed by time; Vault 101, whether they wanted to be or not, were one of the few - possibly the only remaining - vanguards against the loss of the world before the bombs fell. Even as she (rightfully) seethed, she knew that it would help both of them if they could at least get along. If not for her, then for the kid; not that she cared about him all that much - he wasn't her kid, he was Walker's - but growing up with his parents at each other's throats could do some damage, and she knew that kid didn't do anything to deserve that.

"One week," Beatrice said evenly, "I'll talk to them."

"Thank you," James said, before adding, "if it's anything, I didn't ask for this. The Overseer forced it on me as much as he did on you."

"All for the Vault," Beatrice said automatically, before huffing out the cousin of a laugh, "all for the Vault."

In the reflection of a pipe, she saw a distorted, rueful smile from Walker, "Yes," he responded, "all for the vault."

Beatrice came back to her apartment and immediately let herself collapse onto the couch. The Greenhouse certainly could be relaxing, but it was serious work; it required most of her focus, and while she wasn't stupid, her family had never been known for its brainpower. She had a solid grasp on her work, of course, but that only assuaged so many of its taxes.

After about twenty minutes of laying down, sleep began to call to her, and she dragged herself off of her couch. The sooner she had the walker conversation, the better; her family was about as pleased with the Overseer as they were, which meant that the chances of them liking Walker's proposal (not that kind… yet) were small indeed.

She talked to her father first. While he scowled at the mention of Walker's name, he agreed in short enough order, which was relieving.

"I suppose it would be good to properly meet him," he said, shaking his head, "and his baby - Roman, right?" Beatrice nodded, and Stanley continued "I suppose he could meet the other kids. Or, at least - socialize more. I'm kinda concerned about Stevie…" he trailed off, then swiftly cleared his throat, "Anyways, it's a great idea, sweetie. Soon enough…"

"Mm-hmm," Beatrice hummed, "soon enough."

"I'll talk to Gloria and Mary," her father said, "you look tired."

Beatrice smiled a bit, "Thanks, Dad."

Her father pulled her in for one of his bear hugs, "It's no problem, sweetie. Go get some rest."

His daughter certainly attempted to. But that night, it took her nearly two hours to fall asleep properly.

"He's gone," Beatrice repeated to herself, shaking her head, "he's gone. He's gone."

Gloria took her hand in hers, her thumb ghosting over her sister's knuckles. She said nothing.

Not that Beatrice could blame her, really. After what he'd done… they were lucky the Vault was functional, let alone peaceful.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I know what - I know what he did. But he's…" Beatrice trailed off, shutting. Her mind's eye dutifully conjured up the look Roman had given her when everything went wrong; the bald-faced uncertainty that had so quickly - effortlessly - morphed into pure and utter disgust.

Gloria took her other hand, squeezed it tightly. "You don't have to explain. I understand."

Beatrice stared at her sister - her only sister, now - before she descended into crackling sobs.

"He's gone," she said, "he's gone, and he hates me."

Compared to the disasters she had concocted in her mind in the week preceding it, meeting her family went… fine.

They were all cautious around Walker - he had to have survived somehow, right? How did they know he wasn't dangerous? - but he remained polite throughout the entire evening. Even when Allen Mack, Gloria's husband, asked him rather insensitive questions pertaining as to how his son had been born, James didn't rise to the bait; in fact, he didn't seem at all fazed; just tired. Beatrice knew that if someone had talked to her in such a way, she would have tried to bite back. But Walker said he was already married when Roman had been conceived and then asked Mary how she made the night's casserole.

Roman got along well with the other children, too. A bit hesitant, and hardly a social butterfly, but well enough. He cried when Wally took his toy, but that was hardly surprising to anyone. It was an interesting toy, Beatrice thought wryly as Gloria went over to intervene. She watched as her sister mediated between the two boys, eventually getting Wally to give the toy back. Beatrice watched with some grim curiosity; she would be stuck with this kid in less than a year, so getting a measure of what he would be like - separate from the assurances Walker would doubtlessly provide to make her more amenable to their situation - wasn't the worst idea.

Allen made several more attempts to shoehorn in a few more questions about life outside the Vault, but Walker deflected each one with noncommittal and vague waves of his hands. "It's a security concern," Allen would say later that night, according to Gloria. Beatrice understood his wariness, but felt he was being more than a bit dense about it; Walker's late wife was clearly at the center of all of this, alongside concern for his son. If he were some sort of killer, they would probably be fine. And if anyone in the Vault had a snowball's chance in hell of getting anything out of him, it wasn't Allen Mack.

By the night's end, Beatrice was, in spite of her resentment,assuaged about the marriage. Slightly, mind you, but she took some comfort in knowing that Walker could at least handle himself in public.

When Walker offered to walk her to her apartment, she politely declined. "No need, Mr. Walker," she said smoothly, proffering them all a smile, "I'll be fine."

An awkward moment passed, before Walker nodded, "Of course."

"Thanks for the casserole, Mary," she said to her sister, pulling her into an embrace, "it was lovely."

"Anytime," Mary nodded.

Beatrice hugged Gloria next, before finally embracing her father. She pecked him on the cheek and whispered a thank you, which he, naturally, responded to by saying: "You're welcome, sweetheart."

When she fell asleep that night, it still took her a good bit to finally rest, but her mind was, if only slightly, quieter.

Beatrice didn't see Walker again for another two months, which she was perfectly fine with; her days were better if she didn't have to think about the arranged marriage at all. More peaceful less resentment screaming toward nowhere, less time she had to spend pulling herself back onto the emotional straight and narrow, especially because that particular path had only been gaining twists and turns in the aftermath of the Overseer's oh so wise decision.

"When will the next batch of carrots be ready?" Mary asked her one day, scrubbing dishes, "I've been using my reserves. They're the only vegetable Christine will eat without a tantrum."

"Next week," Beatrice answered, as Christine cooed in her arms. Her sister looked downright exhausted. "sorry."

"Well, it can't be helped," Mary sighed, then offered Beatrice a weary smile, "thanks for watching her tonight. John and I haven't had a proper date night…" she paused, then chuckled to herself, "y'know what? I won't think about it."

"It's no problem," Beatrice said, "no problem at all."

Mary glanced at the clock, and started, "Oh! God, John's shift just ended. I told him I'd meet him at the office," her eyes swept over her small kitchen, lingering on the sink full of dishes, "would you be alright with doing those?"

Beatrice nodded, and Mary promptly swooped forward, collecting her daughter and kissing her on the head, "Be good for Aunt Beatrice, okay?"

Christine giggled, and Mary handed her back to Beatrice, "Sorry. Thank you so much for doing this."

"You know what Mom told you about apologizing," Beatrice smirked a bit, "don't worry about it."

Mary nodded and bustled out of the room. Christine's wide green eyes followed her until she disappeared, lingering on the door for a few moments before settling back on her aunt. She giggled, and Beatrice smiled.

It didn't last long, though. As Christine's giggles escalated into laughs, and in spite of her every desire, she was struck with the thought that in less than a year, she would have to deal with her own baby. Except, of course, it wasn't hers; it was Catherine's, Walker's late wife. From what Mary and Gloria told her, Roman was very well-behaved, although after an altercation between him, Wally, and Butch, he'd been less social. Beatrice pinched her nose, shaking her head, and sat up.

She placed Christine back in her crib, leaving the door open, and attempted to lose herself in Mary's dishes, only met with the success she wanted by half. Thankfully, it burned enough time that she was done right when it was time for Christine's dinner. Although, when she tried to feed her niece peas, she did indeed throw a tantrum.

After putting Christine to bed, Beatrice reread The Four Quartets, getting caught on Burnt Norton until Mary and John returned home. They exchanged their goodnights, and Beatrice made her way back to her apartment, where her dreams were filled with distorted cries of "Ma! Ma!".

She babysat for Gloria the next day. She'd agreed to it the previous week, and so there was no backing out now. She ignored as best she could the way Wally also cried for his "Ma! Ma!" while she tried to make him eat his veggies. Beatrice read The Four Quartets with a bit more fervency that night - it didn't help much when she was once again struck with dreams of a distorted voice crying out for its "Ma! Ma!"

Bad idea number one was willingly visiting Walker.

After yet more babysitting, her mind slowly fixated on the reality that would come crashing down on her in six months; living with someone she didn't know and didn't love, shoehorned into the role of mother for another woman's child. She didn't have any particular reservations against starting a family, but she had expected to have some goddamned choice in the matter, and each day that passed with just her and her thoughts, she only got more agitated.

Walker and his son plagued her thoughts; there so many unknowns about this whole thing, and while on one hand she appreciated the Overseer not forcing anything between her and Walker, as well as the man's aversion to her presence following the dinner with her family, she knew that sooner or later, she would have to get to know him and his child. And… being dropped cold turkey into their world - and them into hers - probably wouldn't help anything.

She still resented the marriage, of course, and a decent chunk of her would rather not talk to Walker for the next six months, but she also knew that going into this cold turkey probably wouldn't help much of anything.

Even still, she was conflicted as she made the walk to his office; because they still didn't know each other at all. The only connective tissue between them was the marriage. But that connective tissue, artificial as it was, proved far stronger than Beatrice expected; not in a good way, of course, but strong nonetheless. Much as she loathed her lot right now, she couldn't quite sidestep the thought that while their marriage didn't necessarily require love, per se. The Overseer hadn't ever said that she had to care for Walker; only have his children. Hardly inoffensive, but it didn't make love a prerequisite; and if she and Walker could figure out how to tolerate each other… it would be better than constantly fighting with him, wouldn't it?

(Oh, this was a bad idea.)

Either way (assuming her suspicions were wrong, and the Overseer didn't end the marriage, in which case she had no idea how the hell she would feel about anything), there was also a child in the mix here, and an environment where he was constantly exposed to conflict probably wouldn't be good for him. Beatrice didn't feel anything in particular for the kid, but she would be lying to herself if she said she wouldn't be saddened, or even feel guilty, if her and Walker's fighting hurt him in some way.

None of that reasoning, of course, meant that purposefully seeking him out was something Beatrice enjoyed doing.

The clinic was easy enough to find. Right outside the Vault's classroom, and just as spacious. Beatrice knew it was closing soon and had thought to catch Walker at the end of the workday, to take away any reason for him to run off.

The space was sparsely decorated, but well put together nonetheless. Pretty close to spotless, in fact; a fresh coat of white paint along the walls, with a nice (albeit small) waiting area, that had some of the old magazines scattered about the Vault. When she entered, Edwin Brotch was seated in the waiting area, reading an issue of Today's Physician.

He gave her a friendly wave, along with a smile, which she returned without the same amicability. Nothing to do with him, of course, Edwin was wonderful, but he could offer little respite when she was met with the presence of James Walker.

Walker was sitting at his desk, typing away at the last physician's terminal. Beatrice paused for just a second before clearing her throat and striding toward the desk.

"Just a moment, Mr. Brotch," James said, not looking up even as he gave a little sigh, "third time this month I've gotten this error message. Someone needs to do something about the system here…"

Beatrice cleared her throat a second time, but it took Walker another several seconds to actually look up like he should have. When he did, he paled slightly.

"Ms. Armstrong," he said, "What - what can I do for you?"

"Can I speak to you for a moment?" Beatrice asked, surprising herself with how much edge wormed its way into her tone.

"Mr. Brotch has an appointment right now," Walker said, "or," he paused, "fifteen minutes ago. I thought I'd set up my account right…" he shook his head, "nevermind. If you're willing to wait until his appointment is over, I'd be - glad. Glad to talk."

"It's no problem," Beatrice said, "no problem at all."

It took Walker another fifteen minutes to solve his computer problem. Beatrice had a pleasant enough conversation with Edwin in the meantime; it seemed that the rumors she'd heard were true: Edwin really was planning to adopt little Stevie.

"I'm glad," Beatrice told him, "my father is always so busy down in maintenance. You'll make a great parent."

"I hope so," Edwin said, smiling just a bit before his expression became pensive, "when those roaches got to his parents… you know I lived right next door..."

Beatrice nodded, "Oh, it was horrible."

Edwin nodded back, then Walker appeared, offering a short apology, which Edwin shrugged off, "It's alright. I had the same problems getting myself into the gradebook. I could take a look at your terminal sometime if you'd like."

"Perhaps," Walker said, his smile wilting somewhat after briefly meeting Beatrice's gaze, "but it's time for your physical, Mr. Brotch."

Edwin's appointment took up another fifteen minutes, and Beatrice realized with displeasure that the magazines in the waiting area were all ones she'd read before, aside from another issue of Today's Physician with a section titled Exclusive: An interview with Frederick Sinclair reveals the medical miracles of the Sierra Madre!

Beatrice idly read it over as Edwin finished his appointment. She waved him goodbye as he left and swiftly rose to her feet, faced with Walker eyeing her with some curiosity and wariness. She shook her head, "I'm not going to bite your head off."

Walker looked a bit embarrassed as he said, "Sorry. I'm still… adapting."

"'Adapting'?"

"It's been almost fifteen years since I've been inside a vault," Walker explained, "that's all."

"So it's true, then?" Beatrice asked, "You're from another vault?"

Wariness flitted across Walker's expression, "Yes, I am."

There was a pause where Beatrice regarded him with a raised eyebrow, before deciding to drop both her brow and her curiosity. Those topics could be pursued later.

"Anyways," Walker said, "what did you want to talk about?"

Beatrice, in spite of herself, needed a moment to say, "I'd like to meet your son."

Walker blinked. "What?"

"Your son," Beatrice repeated, raising her chin somewhat, "I'd like to meet him. If we're going to be a family, he should know me."

"That's - a fair point," Walker said, nodding slowly, "yes, that's rather thoughtful. It would be good for Roman to meet you. Come on then."

Walker moved briskly through the halls; Beatrice had some difficulty keeping up with him. She wasn't exactly pleased, and said as much, but Walker gave only a slight apology before continuing at the same pace. Childish!

Although, if she were honest (and an honest citizen was a good citizen), Beatrice found a bit of sympathy for him; she couldn't say in good faith that she would be particularly amused with someone who was for all intents and purposes a stranger asking to see her child with no preamble. And she supposed he was thinking of his late wife, too, in all likelihood.

Her sympathy was limited, though, because she knew she was right: they were going to be a family, whether they liked it or not, and getting to know Roman now would make the future easier on all of them, no matter how the situation disgusted her.

Walker swung by his apartment to grab his son's stroller so fast she barely even got to glimpse all of the nothing he'd decorated it with. Then they were off to the daycare, where he interrupted Roman's game of… something with Alphonse Almodóvar's daughter, Amata. Beatrice found herself struck with a deep pang of uncertainty, watching Walker kneel down and talk to his son as she watched from the doorway.

"You'll be fine," someone said from behind her. Beatrice jumped a bit, and found herself face-to-face with Alphonse's wife, who gave her a warm smile. "It's scary, yes, but in time, it'll be easier."

Beatrice felt herself paling for some godforsaken reason, and cleared her throat, "Right. Of course."

"Thank you," Alphonse's wife said, "for this. You're helping to ensure our future."

"Of course," Beatrice nodded along, "I'm doing my duty."

Alphonse's wife studied her for a moment more, then beamed as she picked up Amata. She cooed and her daughter laughed as she placed her in her stroller. Beatrice looked away from them, feeling another pang of disquiet. This had seemed like an infinitely better idea ten minutes ago.

Her gaze slowly gravitated toward Walker and his son, who was also laughing. Beatrice didn't see anything particularly amusing in the odd face Walker was making, but clearly, it was uproariously funny.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet, if you'd like," Walker said, before giving Beatrice a pointed look. She hesitated for a moment too long before making her way over to the pair.

Walker's son looked at her curiously for a moment, and she cleared her throat.

"Hello," Beatrice said, forcing a smile as her mind completely drew a blank, "aren't you… uhm…"

Roman, promptly, began to cry.

"What did you do?" Gloria asked her once she calmed down, "Why would he hate you?"

Beatrice's gaze fell straight to the floor; she felt her insides clench, and her mind's eye, ever attentive, progressed to the unadulterated anger that swiftly took over for the disgust on Roman's face.

"You'd hate me, too, if you knew."

Gloria studied her for a moment, before saying delicately, "How often did we yell and scream at Mom and Dad in our twenties?"

"He's nineteen," Beatrice corrected monotonously, eyes laser-focused on a patch of rust, "he isn't twenty yet."

"Then you shouldn't give up hope. You'll see him again."

Beatrice trembled, as her memory proceeded to the part where Roman's anger melted away, and the hurt - Christ, she couldn't stand it, even as a memory. She'd only ever wanted him to be safe.

"Don't you understand what it's like out there?" she finally looked up, and her sister's concern was distorted by the tears welling up in her eyes, "He's probably dead."

"No," Gloria said, gripping her shoulder, "he's with those - those Brotherhood people, right? He'll be fine."

"He's a soldier," Beatrice said, "they say where he goes. And they'll probably just end up marching him to his death one of these days."

"You're spiraling," Gloria said firmly, "slow down."

"And even if he doesn't-"

"Beatrice-"

"He'll never forgive me."

"Alright," Gloria sighed slightly, squeezing her shoulder, "Beatrice - what did you do?"

Beatrice hadn't intended to rush her morning work, but she'd been struck with an idea for a poem, so she sort of did; checking the balance of mineral solution, washing what had grown (Mary would be relieved, they would be overflowing with carrots for a few weeks), and preparing other crops to be moved into the cafeteria.

She was sitting behind a row of potatoes, having just written down the title for her newest work when the door slid open, and Walker waltzed on in.

Beatrice sighed, looking mournfully at the only words she'd written in months: Those Who Cast the Stones.

"Don't you have a clinic to run?" she said, frowning.

"Where are you?" she caught a glimpse of Walker's lab coat as he poked his head around a row of corn.

"In the back left corner." Beatrice eventually supplied. When Walker finally found her, the lights made him look far older than he should have.

"I have a suggestion," James said, "if you'd like to hear it."

Beatrice's eyes flickered down toward her poem, before she shook her head. "You have one minute."

"I learned, while conducting Mr. Brotch's physical," Walker said slowly, "that he slept with you multiple times without protection."

Beatrice blinked, then swiftly began to glare at him. "And?"

"The Overseer wants us to marry in order to bring me into the Vault," James said, unfazed, "and to have us start a family. But..."

Beatrice's glare deepened, "Yes?"

Walker paused, before clearing his throat, "Well, if you cannot conceive, then we cannot have a family. The Overseer may call it off if he knows."

Beatrice continued to glare at him for several moments, before shaking her head. "Get out."

Walker nodded, and quickly slunk away, leaving Beatrice to stew with her offense, betrayal, and frustrating ability to kind of see what he was getting at. She didn't much feel like writing anymore, though.

Walker had the decency to leave her alone for another week - physically, anyways. Mentally, his little suggestion rattled around her skull, turning quiet moments into thick hazes of argument with herself.

"Ignore him," Mary told her firmly, "just ignore him."

"He isn't…" Beatrice was seated in her sister's living room, as John and Christine watched a rerun of RALPHIE the Robot's Incredible Odyssey! Beatrice's gaze lingered on the two for a second, before she felt a spike of bitterness and turned back to her sister, frowning, "... it could work. The Overseer said he wanted me to-"

"That was the last Overseer, his son is running things now" Mary cut in, taking her hand.

"Alphonse hasn't called things off," Beatrice said heavily.

"Fuck him," Mary said. John's head swiveled over to her, and he raised an eyebrow. Mary flushed somewhat, apologizing as her daughter glanced between her parents. John turned back to the TV, and Christine giggled as RALPHIE as Tommy said emphatically, "RALPHIE, fly far! Fly fast!"

Beatrice sighed heavily, "He's the Overseer, at least for now. If we don't follow our own rules, what do we have?"

"A better society," Mary said, "right, John?"

"Absolutely," he said, leaning over to turn the TV off, "I normally agree with the Overseer, but you haven't done anything to deserve this."

Beatrice smiled, even though she didn't much feel like smiling, "I'll think about it."

"I'm serious," Mary told her, "this isn't right. Object - what'll he do?"

"It's not about that," Beatrice said, "it's about the laws that we have."

"And what law chooses who you marry?"

Beatrice didn't have a response to that, and so she cleared her throat and left the apartment, breathing out very slowly. Mary had a point, of course - she always had a point; a lot like Mom in that way.

But… the Vault - everything inside it - it was bigger than her; it had the entire library of Congress digitized, as well as enough paperbacks and hardcovers for a small army, even if at least half of them were sealed away in the lower levels for preservation. If she, in a way, contributed to the loss of that - she wasn't sure if she could ever forgive herself.

But…

Beatrice sighed again, and marched back to her apartment. She needed some rest; she'd mull it over more tomorrow.

Bad decision number two was agreeing with Walker's plan.

The tests were done under the guise of her annual physical, which she needed anyway. Beatrice did her utmost to disengage from the entire affair, staring intently at the wall and attempting to compose lines of poetry in her mind as Walker mechanically completed the process. It was over before she knew it and simultaneously took far too long.

The Overseer won't like this, she thought over and over again, the Overseer won't like this. She was only doing this to try and countermand his orders; or… not countermand, that wasn't the right word, but - this wasn't loyalty, and her parents had always stressed loyalty. Loyalty to the Vault, loyalty to the Overseer, because if everyone stopped following the law, there was nothing standing between them and the collapse of the Vault in its entirety. And, yes, this probably wouldn't make the reactor explode, but it was still an act of rebellion, and that wasn't what Armstrongs did; Armstrongs were pillars of the community that understood who, what, where, and when to follow, and each of those things were still pointing toward Alphonse Almodóvar right now.

But...

She waited for Walker to tell her she could go, bustling out as soon as opportunity shone at the end of the tunnel. She took the walk home a bit faster than normal, feeling deeply false each time she passed someone and gave them a smile and wave. When Beatrice at last found the safety of her apartment, the guilt felt crushing, even as she argued against it with everything she had.

You have a duty to the Vault, Mom said so often, there's nothing else outside here. It's all we have.

She'd betrayed that. What the Overseer wanted was reprehensible, but the world outside was far, far worse than anything in the Vault; and in her own small way, she'd risked disturbing the peace that let them survive.

A week after her "physical", Beatrice was one stanza into her poem when Walker, once again, decided to waltz into her space; she'd once again powered through her work for the day, and into some of the work she'd have tomorrow, so she could feel justified in writing uninterrupted. She made sure not cut any corners whatsoever.

This time, Beatrice didn't tell him where she was. Not that Walker didn't ask, of course; he asked three times, but she didn't dignify him with responses. He didn't deserve that.

When he finally found her, he had the gall to look cautious. It gave Beatrice a chuckle, until her eyes found the papers getting warped in the grip of his hands.

"I've got the results," he said slowly, "I think… well, I believe they are of concern to you, as my patient."

Beatrice's stomach began to sink, although she wasn't certain which outcome she was more afraid of. For a long moment, she held Walker's gaze, before placing her poem to her left, and apprehensively taking the test results from his hands; the patch that Walker had been gripping had some darker areas where his palms had been.

She turned away from Walker and read them over, barely getting time to react before the door to the Greenhouse slid open again. She continued to stare at the wall, until she heard John bark, "Walker! Beatrice! The Overseer wants you in his office, now!"

Beatrice barely remembered being escorted to the Overseer's office; in later years, she would recall with unending clarity how the test results ruffled from the way John snatched them from her hands, and the way Walker's face went so swiftly from blatant shock, to anger, to an unreadable neutral in the span of three – no, four – seconds.

The halls blended together like they had after Mom's death; a blue and gray maze, punctuated by spits of yellow and hints of rust. Beatrice felt herself sweating just a few steps outside the Greenhouse, and her guilt and shame had swamped her by the time they were outside the Overseer's office.

Walker went in first and came out with that same unreadable neutral. He apologized for ever putting her through the fertility tests, and then, flanked by John, disappeared behind the corner.

Beatrice was escorted into the Overseer's office by another guard, who Alphonse ordered outside with a wave of his hand. Obediently, the guard exited the room, and Beatrice was left sitting across from Alphonse.

"I assume you know why I called you here today?" he asked.

Beatrice swallowed, but nodded. "Yes, sir. I-"

"My father is dead," Alphonse cut in, "his expedition outside the Vault has not come back in four months."

Beatrice blinked, then said, "I'm so sorry for your loss, sir, I never meant…"

"There is little worthwhile outside the Vault," the Overseer said, "do you understand that Ms. Armstrong?"

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"The world outside of the Vault is dangerous; far more than my father planned for. Mr. Walker was a risk we needn't have taken."

"Yes, sir." Beatrice nodded, nervously folding her hands in her lap.

"But he knows too much to be set loose," Alphonse said, "and we are in need of medical expertise, so he must stay."

"I – yes, sir."

"I apologize for what he did to you," Alphonse said, "and you have my permission to take some leave while you process the results of your fertility tests."

"I – thank you, sir."

"But once this marriage occurs," he said, "I need you to do something for me."

"Anything, sir." Beatrice said automatically.

"Mr. Walker has proven himself to be a rogue element," Alphonse said, "my men can only get so close to him," Beatrice nodded along, slightly confused, "but as his wife, you will have far more access to him," Beatrice blinked again, still confused, "so, what I need from you is reports on him."

Beatrice blinked for third time, her mind slowing to a stop. "What?"

"Reports," he replied simply, "each week, give me a summary of Walker's behavior; odd actions, what he seems to be interested in, etcetera."

"I…" Beatrice was at a loss for words, "… sir, I'm not a spy."

"Of course you're not," Alphonse nodded, "you're a citizen of this Vault, and I am requesting a service of you as your Overseer. I need to ensure Walker does not do anything to disturb the peace, that make sure his son is raised properly, without any ideas from the horror show outside the Vault."

"I…"

"This is of paramount importance, Ms. Armstrong," Alphonse said, "I know I am asking much, but I will ensure you are rewarded. Your family will receive extra rations and privileges so long as you give me reports."

"I…" Beatrice was starting to sweat profusely; her gaze flickered about the Overseer's office, and she heard Mary's voice, and Mom's voice, and Dad's voice, and so many others she thought she would burst from the way they refracted and combined together to form one immeasurable cacophony.

"This isn't just for me," Alphonse said, "this is for everyone. Your sisters, your nieces, your nephews, your father. As well, this is for Walker's son – we would have all failed as a community if we let his father corrupt him."

"B-but," Beatrice said, "sir, with all due respect – Walker's son isn't mine."

Alphonse studied her for a moment, before his expression took on a slightly apologetic lilt, "Of course. You don't have to love the boy, or even be much of a parent, if you would like – just keep Walker from corrupting him."

The cacophony in Beatrice's head escalated, resentment mixing with disgust and fear and understanding; the emotions fed the noise in her mind, accelerating it to a crescendo that forced her to let out a slow, deep breath, before giving Alphonse – no, her new Overseer – one final, slow nod.

"… Yes, sir."

To be perfectly honest, I feel like this is a bit thin in places, but I've been working on it for long enough. It's been beta'd and edited and that's good enough for me.

Either way, I hope you enjoyed reading this! It was great fun to write! Any and all follows/favs/reviews would make my day!