Boone's boots pounded against sand. The sun rose in his face. It blinded him, despite the shades. It was hot. He felt sick. The heat made him sweat. His heart pounded in his ears in rhythm to the throbbing in his forehead. He hadn't run this hard or this fast in a very long time, hadn't needed to, and he hadn't slept in nearly fifty hours.
But if Boone was anything, he was first and foremost a soldier - whittled away until there was nothing left but a honed weapon to be used when needed. He'd been pushed to drive his body to its limit before. He could do it again. He would.
He had to.
He heard the weight of the leviathan monster charging behind him.
It lunged at him.
The attack caught the back edge of his boot. He stumbled forward onto his palms, scraping them. Without a pack though, Boone was actually fairly light and agile. He flung himself upwards out of the sand, scrambling up just as quickly as he had fallen.
He didn't dare look back to see if the deathclaw recovered as quickly. Plus, if he turned his head, he might throw up.
Jesus, he was just so tired. His eyes had begun to waver and wobble about an hour ago, but this was the end. The final stretch. The end of the mission.
The oil rig was just ahead, towering above him. Along one end was a metal radio tower, which was surrounded by a staircase that spun around the outside of the tower like a helix. The staircase, beyond a metal cage that protected people from falling, was otherwise exposed to the elements, apart from a landing about four or five stories up, at which point the stairs turned into a ladder. Beyond the ladder was the enclosed antenna perch where he now knew Juli had trapped herself, his ultimate destination.
He knew the staircase, the roof, and the ladder well by now. He'd picked deathclaws off through the night until it was just him and the alpha, and he, Gannon, and Veronica had agreed that Boone was obviously the fastest and the strongest of them. He would have to be the one to go lure the alpha out into the open - and then take it out. He was bait.
As he got closer and closer to the building's shadow, he leapt over the corpses of those deathclaws thata he'd already dispatched in the night, which gave him some feeling of putting space between him and his pursuer.
He felt his blood in his ears as he pushed his legs onwards, his lungs expanding in the cool morning breeze, the sweat having congealed and moistened on his skin dripping off his hands as he leaned into his sprint just to get to her faster, just to get to her at all. At this point, he felt like he couldn't breathe, he could hardly see straight, but the only thing that mattered anymore was to get her to safety, to see her with his own eyes.
They'd lost contact with her. Or rather, she'd stopped responding.
The bitterness, the urgency, it fueled him to run the last twenty feet in record time, and Boone flung himself through the open stairwell doorway, flinging the door shut behind him, which echoed shut with a metallic clank. For a moment, the briefest of moments, Boone leaned over to rest on his knees, spitting out blood onto the metal floor. He'd been injured. Boone's eyes struggled to focus on the blood, fading in and out as he swayed there.
But the deathclaw was not to be forgotten, and it flung itself at the door he'd slammed shut without losing any momentum, shaking the little metal cage-like structure he'd found himself in. The metal door frame began to warp, causing him to recoil and jump back into action. He had no time to look, no time to pass out. His feet carried him up the stairs of their own volition, his legs shaking from fatigue, poisoned by that moment of respite, and all at once he became truly aware of just how tired he was.
This was how missions used to be. No sleep. Long hours. Some drinking, but you recovered. You had to or people would die.
This time it was different. This time it felt personal, and it was making him sloppy, distracted.
Dammit, he couldn't even think.
"Are you there?" he heard Veronica in his head.
"Yeah!" he shouted out, rounding another corner to jump, three stairs at a time, up the stairwell.
He heard the metal cage sealing the door to the oil rig moan and give even more. Dammit, these fucking things were huge and dumb as a brahmin. It'd take the whole building down for all he knew, and it wouldn't care if it came down on them or their stupid nest - hive...whatever the fuck it was called.
He rounded another set of stairs, and now he heard the door break off. The frame of the stairwell shuddered as the monster flung itself into the opening, but it was clear from the cacophony that followed that the beast was now at least partially stuck, having tried to lodge itself through a doorway fit for only a human sized being.
It wouldn't be stuck for long.
It had taken nine long hours of sniping to lure out the alpha, and it would not be deterred by a flimsy piece of metal.
Another shudder as the deathclaw threw a tantrum befitting a vicious animal. This time Boone was thrown into the side wall. He glanced up. Two more flights. He could make it! He looked down. It was ripping through the metal, opting instead to climb up the side of the cage after him.
Fuck! Shit! Fuck!
He double-timed now, but it was bad. He felt his muscles finally giving up. He'd pushed himself too far today, and it might be too late.
Shit, shit, shit.
Once he was on the roof, he could get to her, climb that ladder with her, have the vantage point he needed. He could rest and so could she. His insides twisted around with the thought that she might not be okay, that it wasn't her up there, but her body.
The thought splashed over him, and he realized he didn't know what he'd do without the idea of getting back to her keeping him going.
None of it would matter if the beast got between him and that ladder.
The last flight, four steps at a time now. He heard the deathclaw a floor below him, leaping upwards as it clung to metal that screamed with the extra weight. Boone rounded a corner. The animal roared so loudly his ears rang. It flung its claws against the metal to reach inside to get to him. He dodged. It missed just barely.
Four more steps, only a few more. It was even with him now, much faster and much stronger. But he had to make it.
Boone flew out of the doorway onto the roof. The deathclaw's long talons sunk into the metal roof of the building for grip, but Boone couldn't wait. He ran into the ladder so hard that his momentum knocked the wind out of him. Cursing himself, knowing he didn't even have a split second to lose, Boone practically held his breath as he urged his arms to carry him up, upwards now, up just out of reach, up away from the beast. Three rungs up, four.
It swung again. He felt its weight in the swing. It sliced right through his boot. Boone cried out, didn't really feel it, but he felt his calf begin to bleed.
Didn't matter. He saw Juli's blood now. Couldn't hear her.
A ringing grew in his ears.
Maybe he shouldn't. Maybe the deathclaw was too loud.
He jumped upwards now, a last ditch effort, jumping just out of reach (he hoped) the last shreds of his energy expended as his fingers found the rungs of the enclosed ladder to support his weight.
He held on.
Boone heard the deathclaw leap up again to no avail. He was too high now, and there wasn't really any good place for the thing to latch onto, not like the stairs. This antenna perch was supported by a long cement beam that shot upwards far into the sky.
He was up here now, for better or worse. He was in it.
"Ren?" he called out.
He felt his lungs scream for rest, but he willed down this need.
There was no answer.
"Ju!"
A nickname, sputtering out of his mouth so fast that he didn't have time to stop it, didn't have time to care.
He managed the last few rungs as he approached the trap door, which he shoved up and out of the way unceremoniously. He didn't stop. Whatever was here, however she was, he just needed to see it and get it over with, just needed to see it all at once. Averting his eyes, he pushed through the door, flipped it back down, and looked up.
His stomach dropped. She was lengthwise against the far end of the perch, one arm curled into her side like it was a wounded wing, the other outstretched beneath her head, collapsed into a pool of her own blood. Her fingers were outstretched towards the radio she'd obviously been using, which apparently had fallen just out of reach of her fingers. Her eyes didn't open.
She's dead.
"No, no, no, no..." he whispered through gritted teeth, adrenaline of an entirely different kind forcing his eyes to widen with alertness.
The perch was small, not even big enough for him to lay down in. She took up one half of the small enclosure, and the space felt claustrophobic, too cramped to breathe. What he did smell was desperation and blood, a sickeningly familiar mixture of bodily fluids and iron in his nostrils.
She died. I wasn't fast enough. Too sloppy. Too slow.
He breathlessly scooted over to her on his knees, feeling like he was suddenly too big and that she was a tiny doll made of thin glass. He fumbled uselessly with his belt for the things Veronica had given him - a stimpak, gauze, some med-x, a canteen of water.
What use was it if she had died?
Her form was very still, which was very obvious next to his animated form. His limbs shook, his fingers screamed at him, long since blistered since last night. His legs felt like jelly. He could barely see straight. He couldn't catch his breath.
"Juli..." he whispered, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
The weight of her in his hands brought tears to his eyes, and he felt the knotting in his stomach when she didn't move.
He was too late. Again. Always too late.
But she sucked in a breath, as if startled, her breathing shallow. He saw her eyes flit, struggling to open. She didn't succeed.
Something inside of him that had been coiled tightly began to unravel. He thought he might actually cry now and was glad for the sunglasses. He pursed his lips, willed back the contractions in his abdomen that sucked the breath out of his lungs.
Dammit, he wanted to hear her, wanted to know she was okay, like he'd never wanted anything else in his life.
He couldn't breathe.
"Hey!" he managed, fighting to keep his normally placid, cool voice strong and unwavering.
Her lips spread and ticked upwards, eyes closed.
"You...made it..." was all she managed.
He heard it there again.
Doubt.
It twisted a knife into his gut.
He was scum. Trash. Garbage. Worse than garbage.
"Where are you bleeding?" he demanded, his voice cold.
"Don't," she told him, her voice sharp.
Her hands fought with his to get them away, and, confused, resolve wilting, he began to plead with her.
"Come on, I need to-"
"No!" she whispered back more firmly.
Now he was begging.
"I have to stop the bleeding or you'll die," he rationalized, the knot in his throat growing.
The unraveling accelerated now, like it was a ball of yarn rolling downhill. The more string that unfurled, the more the soft, fleshy heart was exposed. Boone gritted his teeth, ignoring the tear that spilled past his right eye, pooling around the lower rims of his glasses. He could easily overpower her, but the thought of it hurt him.
"I have to!" he told her again.
"Please..." she protested, "don't!"
"You'll die," he told her. "Why are you fighting me?"
"...see me..." was all she said.
The words confused him, but she was exhausted now, and her hands stopped fighting his. He placed her wrists down gingerly and watched her think.
"Back..." she finally whispered. "Got my..."
She didn't finish. Her breathing was labored.
"I...fell down...and it...opened...again..."
The source. He had it. He'd fix it.
But he also realized the cause of her consternation. Yes, he might be able to see her back, but it would also expose her to him more than she ever had been. Despite the weeks and weeks of separation, he knew her to be a modest, quiet, reserved woman whose body she treated with reverence, like a temple.
He had to treat her like a temple too.
"I'll be careful," he rushed out.
Then, reaching to pick her up, he took her shoulder and lifted her away from the console face-first. The squelching sounds made by her sticky, wet clothing detaching from the metal disturbed the contents of his stomach. He continued to move her - until she cried out in anguish, her sounds raw and desperate, loose and uncontrolled, very unlike the woman he'd come to know. Her hand found his forearm, where her weak digits squeezed in agony.
Boone stopped in mid-motion, as if her cries physically burned his skin.
"It hurts!" she begged, collapsing head-first into his chest. "Please!"
As she did so, he got a full view of the damage that had been done to her.
Fucking hell.
An ugly, raw, now blackened gash had torn through her clothes straight into her muscles diagonally across her back from her shoulder blade to the lowest curve of her back. In some spots, the blood had caked and dried, sticking to her.
It was worse than he'd thought.
She moaned into his wheezing chest, her arms curled up beneath her, caked between his sweaty chest and her bloody form. He looked down at her there as she shook. She mewled soft gasps of pain, the after-shock, where his shoulder met his neck, her breathing hot and unsteady. On any other day, it would have been nice.
The thought scared him, but it led to other realizations. Like the snap of a finger, the events of the day finally began to catch up to him, the unraveling of the ball of yarn nearly finished. He'd saved her, but here she was, dying. She was curled into his lap like a lover trying to get warm.
Was this real life? Was he dreaming?
Black tugged at the edges of his eyes, but Boone grunted, shaking that weak pussy shit out of his system.
They breathed for a moment. Then, her left arm twisted around his chest and trailed down the muscles of his side. Her fingers were nimble, even like this, and he felt his whole body go rigid as they flirted with the hip bone that had been dislodged by the awkward twisting of their entwinement. They probed further, flitted down, downwards, to the space between his navel and his groin. Unsure, willing himself not to move, he nearly closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the metal behind them so hard the metallic thud that resounded made them both jump. He nearly gasped.
This wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening.
Had he hit his head?
He was hallucinating.
Her knuckles grazed the hem of his belt beneath her, moving side to side, side to side, as if deciding whether or not to breach the gap there, as if searching for an okay that his dick told his brain was already given.
Somewhere from deep within his subconscious as the ragged puffs of breath shot out of him, he felt the words bubbling up in his head,
Don't stop, please, don't fucking stop-
-when she latched onto the grenade that had been strapped to his belt.
Fucking idiot, he reprimanded himself, feeling like his insides had been poured from himself, rung out, and poured back in, bone-dry.
Shaken by the intensity of the moment, he clenched his eyes shut tight, loosened his death grip on the loose shirt on her back, let out a controlled breath that sounded anything but strong.
He rationalized that he was tired. He had needs, that was all. Didn't need to make it a thing. It wasn't wrong or scary, wasn't even really about Juli, he just missed her.
The words wandered into his brain so openly that they almost reached his mouth.
He'd missed her.
There, he said it.
Well. In his head, he'd said it.
"Kill it..." she whispered into his chest, unaware of the change, of the stuttering of his heartbeat.
Not trusting his own voice, he scooted backwards into the wall, placing her gently against the wall where he'd just been sitting. He leaned back over the trap door where the deathclaw was still thrashing angrily, opened it.
He pulled the pin, and dropped the grenade.
Boone held his breath as he watched it collide with the animal's head, watched the leviathan splatter everywhere as fire hurtled upwards towards them both. He dropped the trap door, ducked away from the opening towards Juli to shield her.
But the heat wasn't bad.
The silence that came next was.
Only the wind kept going as the world stood still. His mind went back to her fingers, those fingers, and how badly he wanted her in his lap again.
No!
He was too distracted, getting sloppy.
"Did...you win?" she bleated out, her voice small and wilted and tearful.
Boone's eyes watered again at the sound of her voice, but he willed the tears down into his throat. He took her up in his arms, careful not to bend and snap her in half, and twisted her away from the wall to the gash that cut through the back of her clothing right through to her insides. He knelt on his knees behind her as he propped her up against the metal, hesitated as his hands hovered over the tattered rags that made her decent, needing to do the thing, not wanting to. Something in his muscles willed him not to.
Get it together, you fucking pussy!
Growling angrily, Boone yanked at the cloth, which gave easily with the ferocity of the motion. When he pulled back, a narrow, pale expanse of porcelain flesh was exposed at the curve of her angles near her neck and shoulders. His eyes lingered there for a moment too long before he reached to rip off another, and another. He felt sickeningly eager, which disgusted him. But when she was able to wriggle out of it, he took her in, feeling more light-headed by the moment, more and more like he had to have hit his head.
The gash had torn through the thick, tight bra she had around her breasts too in some spots, but somehow it had managed to stay mostly intact - at least enough to cover her up. There was a strange mixture of both disappointment and relief as he lapped this fact - and her skin - up, hesitating, unable to swallow.
His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn't breathe. None of this felt real.
Maybe there was a gas leak in the ravine and none of this was even real. He was laying in some hospital bed somewhere.
Juli squirmed as the moment lingered on too long, as he just looked down at her, breathing.
"Boone..." she managed, a warning, and he blinked, shook his head a fraction of an inch.
"Right..." he responded.
Fucking idiot! his brain screamed. Why are you such a fucking scumbag?
He twisted her around again, sprawling his tired legs out in front of him. He pressed her head-first into his chest between his legs, her own legs bent up to her chest where she managed to curl into a ball. She was up against him, bare, save for a thin piece of cloth that he didn't dare look at. His fingers latched onto the med-ex, the needle that had nearly ruined his life full of liquid that probably would have killed him, and here he was, rushing to push it into her system.
He grabbed at her arm, found a vein on her hand, didn't hesitate. It entered her flesh easily, and he pushed down, releasing the liquid.
"You're gonna be okay..." he mumbled as he did it, but there was doubt in his voice too.
He was having a heart attack. His chest seized up. He was going to die.
This wasn't real life. This was a dream, a really bad, strange dream.
This wasn't how he thought it was going to go.
He began to gather the tatters of her shirt together around her form further up his legs near his knees, ignoring the way his hands shook from his shoulders, hoping she wouldn't feel the affect all of this was having on him - because he was a pussy and he couldn't handle a half-naked woman anymore, apparently.
Not a half-naked woman.
A half-naked Juli.
Felt different.
"It'll be okay..." she consoled him, voice slurred, mouth barely moving (probably the med-ex), from somewhere below his chin.
He choked as his throat and mouth ran dry, as his tatters fell onto his knees and out of his hands.
She thought of him. Now, of all times, she thought of him.
It wasn't right, somehow.
"Shut up," he told her, taking note of how ragged his voice sounded, how boyish and young.
"If I die..." she began, and he grunted to cut her off.
"I said shut up!" he nearly yelled, feeling the pooling begin again on the lower rims of his glasses.
His traitorous hands shook harder, his energy sapping. He couldn't see.
What was happening to him?
"I'm not...afraid..." she sighed, and she smiled at him, her eyes lidded.
Dammit, that smile.
"Afraid of what?" he managed.
"To die..." was her reply.
But I'm afraid for you to die.
The words jolted into him like he'd been electrocuted, and he jostled her. She looked up at him.
He breathed for a second, taking inventory of the situation.
It was nice having her in his lap. Too nice. Her hair was loose. He'd never seen it all the way down. It was long and thick, smelled of her soap and flowers, which he had remembered during their separation. She bled where his arms gathered her up, and if the situation were any different, the two of them would have been fucking cuddling.
He trembled.
He cried.
Because he had a friend. She was his friend. He saw it in the way she looked up at him, eyes clear and lucid, in the way she smiled, naked admiration and trust warming the crinkling edges of her eyes. He avoided her gaze like it burned, but she brought a hand up to wipe the tears from his cheeks and he had to stop.
He nearly whimpered there, overwhelmed, shaking like a baby, not allowing himself to turn down to look at her.
"It's okay..." she whispered from beyond the veil of his clenched eyes.
He dipped his head down to tell her to shut up again when he realized his mistake.
She was close.
Too fucking close.
Her mouth was barely an inch from his, and the air sucked out of his lungs so fast he might have actually passed out. When the moment lingered, he came to, but there just wasn't enough oxygen in the air in that space between their lips. The warmth of her breath against his mouth was hot and sticky, and it morphed into something alive and loud and needy, something cold that caused blood to pump faster, harder, hotter.
What it actually was, he wouldn't say it. Couldn't. He didn't dare, not even in his head. Boone absolutely refused to put it into words. He had no right to think about her, he thought, the words cascading through his mind. No right to be gathering up her huddled form, to hold her like this, to be this close to something so good, he had no right to, no right.
She breathed, and he breathed, but that was all the movement between them. It was like some inescapable gravity had caught him in her orbit, or some poetic bullshit.
It was like her face spoke words he had to be just close enough to understand.
His throat constricted. He felt pinned.
Get away from me!
He wanted to throw her off of his lap, to actually physically throw her. He wanted to scare her, throw her away, hit her, hurt her.
Liar.
He wanted to be here.
No, he didn't.
Yes, he did.
No.
Yes.
NO.
The battle raged on. She didn't move a muscle, her hand frozen to his cheek, as if the tears had frozen her palm in place.
He should push her away, patch up her wound - but he couldn't will his muscles to obey. He fought the intense urge not to look at her mouth for as long as he could. It was a valiant, if ultimately futile, effort, he thought.
Five seconds, maybe six.
He should have been proud, but...
His eyes were transfixed on her lips like a bug to a zapper. He knew he should get to work, felt her bleeding there again into his lap, but he just couldn't fucking move. He didn't like to feel this powerless, this helpless, didn't like what he wanted, what he needed, didn't like her, didn't like him.
Didn't like this.
Get it together, you little bitch.
Yeah. He could do that. Had to think of her.
This helped the little voice in his head.
He should move - right? He should turn away, shove down the feeling, pretend it wasn't there. That was what he had been doing, and what they had hurt, but it was stable. It was okay.
Yeah.
He should push her away. He should take her wrist, bring her hand from his cheek. He didn't deserve comfort, after all. Didn't deserve her companionship, didn't deserve to feel the fondness, the warmth, that spread through him when he looked down at her.
He should push her away.
But so should she, shouldn't she?
The thought threw a wrench into the rationalizing.
She hadn't moved either. What did that mean? Her breathing was ragged too. Everything from her lips to her expression - they all said what her lips wouldn't, what she would never say to him or to anybody. She stared with lidded eyes at his mouth with such intent that he felt like he should scamper like a frightened radstag, but she was all around him, and, Jesus, his body was rigid, and he couldn't move a muscle, and he couldn't stop it. Should stop it, saw it coming.
He felt the buzzing ring in his ears to just do the thing, just take it. It was all that mattered. Just feel it, be brave, just do it. Do it. DO IT.
She didn't move, and he couldn't, and he felt the buzzing leave his head space and enter his brain, infiltrate his blood stream, course through his system, the air was warm and cold all at once, and he felt hot all over, and he wanted to move, but he didn't, but he did, and he wanted to be anywhere but here.
It would be a twisting motion, that was all it would take, just a minute angling of his neck, more of a flinch than anything else. It would be an accident. It was okay. She wasn't well. She wouldn't remember. He needed it.
The thought stuck.
Jesus Christ, but he needed it - so badly that it took up residence inside of his abdomen and just pulled everything together so tightly it made his muscles sore. He needed... something, needed it for six weeks, needed what she was able to provide, which he felt, which he knew, because she was right here and she was the giver of it and he just wanted to take it and have it and use it because that was what he needed.
She's your only friend, he fought with himself. You don't do this to your friends. You need her to be your friend.
But it didn't matter.
The soft hand on his cheek wasn't his, wouldn't wait for his panicky, rambling anxiety attack. She tensed beneath him, closed the gap, her cracked, sunburned lips tensing like a whisper as they made contact with the corner of his mouth. It was the briefest of contact, a question, wanting an answer. She lingered there, not moving, the heat not dissipating like he'd hoped it might, but getting hotter, warmer, pulsing inside of him, feeling like fire, feeling like a drug, feeling like chems.
His lips took the chance to respond before his brain could catch up like it was his last chance to win the lottery, and he answered her question, unsure, afraid. The kernel quickly intensified as he dipped back in again, tilting his head, meeting her full mouth this time.
And again.
And again.
The kiss grew longer, deeper. Each one was a question, never sure, never right, and each answer more forceful than the last, more desperate, more ragged and harsh, more honest.
Too honest.
His chest hurt. He felt the ball of yarn was exposed now, and she was close, close enough to touch, to hurt, to expose the truths that needed to be raveled up, tightly wound.
This was too good.
It was too much.
What was he thinking?
He stopped himself, stopped her, stopped his mouth, stopped everything. In full reverse, he withdrew, he ran, disentangling himself slowly, piece by piece. His lips, first, he suckled away from hers, separated, bit down on themselves. He grunted as he did it, a noise of displeasure from deep in his abdomen, the monster of his physical needs that was often left undisturbed, that had actually been neglected since his wife died, stirring in protest.
He ignored it.
His torso went rigid, and he tried to quiet the heaving of his chest.
Couldn't.
Well, nobody was perfect, him least of all.
He told himself didn't care that it physically hurt. He also told himself that he didn't care that emptiness filled him as he curled his free fingers around her wrist, as he brought her palm from his cheek.
He didn't care. This was sloppy, an accident, a lapse in judgment, a - who was he kidding?
It was a fucking disaster!
He made himself let go of her wrist, then whispered, his voice ragged and husky,
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have."
He watched her carefully for a reaction, clenched his jaw. He'd known her long enough to know when she was putting up a front, even if for the briefest of moments he thought he might have identified hurt underneath the pain and exhaustion.
But it didn't matter. That mask was back on. The mask she hadn't worn for him since the night he'd killed Jeanie May. That mask she wore for strangers, even Veronica sometimes, never for him.
Fuck.
They didn't speak after that.
He couldn't think straight.
He couldn't think at all.
It was like he forgot how to think.
Fuck!
Boone reached with feeble fingers for his stimpak, for her tatters, but his hands shook because she watched him now, gaze even and wordless, unapologetic. He fumbled with the items on his belt, trying to attach it to her arm, to straighten out her elbow to find a vein for the needle. He felt naked under her gaze, totally exposed, woefully inadequate in a way he never had been.
There was no energy left to fight off these demons. His physical energy was spent, and he couldn't shake the sensations that swept through him now as his fat, stupid fingers trained for death tried to make heal, to soothe. Tears welled in his eyes and he felt hysteria rise up in his throat to constrict around it like a snake as he realized he didn't remember how to heal or soothe anymore, just kill and hurt, callouses growing over callouses over callouses.
He didn't deserve that soft gentle thing she'd just given him, and he didn't deserve any of it.
"Squeeze your fist," he ordered, his voice raw, too honest.
She did, but her grip was weak. Too weak.
His abdomen clenched, tears welled up again.
Not the time!
Jesus, his brain was splattered everywhere, just like that deathclaw's.
What was he thinking?
He hadn't been.
Hands shaking, he finally loosened the needle, reached for her leg, and injected the medicine.
"Do you feel it?" he croaked out, feeling unsure.
"Wait..." she instructed, her first word, her only word, since their ill-advised...
Holy fuck she'd kissed him on the mouth.
He fumbled now with the stimpak, trying to latch it to her arm before dropping it next to her into the blood. She looked up at him, her expression inscrutable.
"Shit..." he cursed, feeling inadequate, feeling like he'd failed her, feeling like he couldn't even manage to do this one small thing for her that she'd done for him countless times without complaint.
He reached for it again, but it slid out of his grip. He wanted to push up to get it, but her head was in his lap, her face was so close, and, Jesus Christ, she just wouldn't stop looking at him!
His insides were mushy. Boone was a pig. A fucking asshole dick that didn't deserve someone like her to look up at him like that. She was going to die now because he couldn't get the stupid stimpak into his goddamn hands, and he couldn't do for her what she needed, what she'd always needed. He'd never felt like less of a person, less of a man, than he did right then, reaching for the stimpak that was just out of his reach as the only person in the whole world who mattered to him rested in his lap, dying, who looked up at him like he was the world.
It reminded him of Carla. It was a similar sensation, a similar scenario, similar timing, similar everything. It was, in fact, so similar that he felt it begin to break him all over again. He saw the edge of madness, and his ears began to ring with how plainly the memory had just waltzed back in.
He felt her lips again.
I kissed her on the mouth.
That thought, so singular and simple, caused something to snap.
And then there wasn't anything. Nothing but ringing.
His ears continued to ring until Veronica jutted in, making him jump.
"You did it!" she cried out, interrupting his reverie. "Great job! Do you have her?"
"Yes..." he managed, shaking his head.
"Is she alive?"
He looked down at her, felt nothing. She still breathed, but her head had fallen back now, like a damsel in distress.
"Yes," his mouth answered.
"Great! We're coming to get you down now. Hang tight, big guy."
It was the most affectionate title she'd ever given him, and was a far cry from the way she'd spoken to him yesterday afternoon.
He didn't deserve their praise, Juli's gratitude. He didn't deserve any of it. He fought to get the stimpak back in his hands. He was able to detach the stimpak from its sheath and was able to insert it into her wrist, where the medicine quickly seeped out of its bag. If she died now, at least she'd die painlessly.
He was broken.
He looked down at her, unsure of where he even was, his mind wandering, his eyes lost. They swam now, but he was able to tie her hands together, to hoist her gently over his shoulders to carry her down the ladder, to rest her onto the roof to wait for Veronica as the morning sun rose like it always did.
Boone watched her as Veronica and the handsome man with the ridiculous name that he pretended to forget ran up the stairs to greet them. Boone brought her down to a gurney that had been attached to the back of a retrofitted military vehicle, placing her like a child's doll onto the bed with grace he didn't ever ordinarily possess. The blonde man with glasses drove the vehicle away from the scene, and Boone was silent as Veronica gave him a once over, as he stared down at Juli's wounded, half-naked form.
Still, Boone felt nothing, shrugged when she berated him with questions, looked at the horizon, felt nothing.
All he thought, all the way back, was that she had fucking kissed him on the lips, and, worse, that he had fucking kissed her back.
He wanted to make up some excuse to never see her again. He wanted to flee, and he hated that, hated himself, hated that he wanted to retreat like some animal, some bottom-feeder, like a coward.
It was all too much, too fast. He couldn't do it.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't even see.
His eyes began to droop. The last thing he saw was Juli's hair whipping through the air, and the last thing he felt was the heat on his face from the morning sun.
When Juli woke the first time, the only thing she really felt was pressure around her right palm. It was heavy and rough, a warm something that was alive. A hand. The hand squeezed her as she stirred, and she felt so loved by that hand. She heard a soft, masculine voice murmuring unintelligible nothings into the abyss, and Juli felt safe.
Juli drifted back into nothingness with the knowledge that she was being watched. The next time, the hand was gone. Her heart pulsed, a thready thing, and she felt it quicken. There were sounds now, heated voices, but another gentle voice coaxing the angry ones outside, wherever that was, because they faded away into oblivion just as Juli drifted back into sleep.
The third time, Juli was awake. Sensations whipped back into her like the sharp end of a snapping towel, like her soul had been resting outside of her body and had all at once been dumped back in, spilling everywhere.
She began to panic immediately.
A loud beeping thudded in her ear as her eyes shot open. She felt numb everywhere. Her nostrils flared, but she only smelled chemicals, sterilization, which reminder her of death and babies.
Her chest heaved, eyes scanning. A small room. A high-up window near the ceiling, clean, dimly lit, small. It smelled stale, like they never opened the windows. Two people at the end of the room, both in white lab coats, their backs to her. When she stirred, they turned around and looked at her waking up with idle curiosity, like she was a creature in a cage that was only mildly uninteresting.
She didn't know them.
Juli tried to call out for Boone, but her voice was weak. She wanted to thrash, but her limbs were heavy. She'd been drugged.
A woman who looked a little like her took a step forwards, but Juli recoiled into her bed. It hurt her back, but she didn't feel it, just the smooth, cool sensation of clean bedding. The realization of the bed materializing beneath her drew her eyes, where she saw also that she had an IV in her arm.
Panic began to set in in earnest as she fought to rip out the IV. Tears budded in her eyes. She felt helpless. She didn't know where she was.
"Where am I?" she mewled out in Chinese, her voice that of a child's.
"You're safe," the woman replied, not hesitating a moment.
Juli's eyes shot up, relief splashing over her.
One of her people, one who knew.
Still, it wouldn't be the first time she'd been tricked.
"Who are you?" Juli whispered, out of breath.
"My name is Doctor Usanagi," the woman replied in English. "Do you speak English? They mentioned you speak English."
Juli hadn't even remembered speaking in Chinese.
"Where am I?" Juli repeated her first question.
"Near Freeside," Usanagi replied, her voice calm and gentle, coaxing. "Like I said, you're safe. We're not going to hurt you. You were in an accident with some deathclaws. Do you remember that?"
Memories rushed in and Juli sucked in a breath. She looked around again, as if everything was different now.
But it wasn't.
She was alone. Alone in a bed with no one to greet her after her ordeal.
Boone was gone. So was Veronica.
Juli's abdomen clenched.
Felt like a slap.
She vaguely remembered him reaching the perch, but not much after that.
She must have passed out.
"Where are my friends?" she asked, her heart pounding.
Now, the good doctor hesitated, looked unsure.
Juli felt pathetic in her bed. The word "friends" lingered in the air between them, like an echo that wouldn't go away and didn't diminish, and it made Juli feel foolish and small, naive and stupid.
She hadn't felt this alone in a long, long time.
"Let me find your friend Veronica," the doctor ordered.
"Don't," Juli ordered loudly, her voice cold.
The doctor pursed her lips.
"They would be here," Juli informed her, "if they wanted to be here."
She leaned her head back into the pillow, pretended to sleep, pretended not to feel the familiar sting of rejection and disappointment as she realized that, once again, people, her people, had failed her.
Ugh! I feel like I wrote and rewrote and rewrote this. I lost the chapter edits I made once (guess I've been sloppy) and it just isn't as "perfect" as the version that got away. Hope it still satisfies. Also, hope the sparks feel like sparks.