A/N: Physical abuse in this chapter. Actual abuse marked by dashes and o's.

"Absolutely not."

Amari slashes her hand through the air before her in refusal. "She hasn't fully recovered from her episode; her memories are still fragmented, in flux. She is doing much better, but she is still in a vulnerable state right now. Believe me, Nicholas, nobody understands the need to find the Institute more than I, but it's already reckless enough in your case; to risk brain death for two patients? No. Give it some time, let her recuperate, then I will reconsider."

Nick sighs softly. "Fine, fine." He looks aside at Shana, as she stands up from the exam table, Amari reaching up to gently remove the all-too-familiar wires from her scalp. "We'll hold off on that for now. So ah... well. We had another purpose for visiting, Doc."

Amari nods and speaks up before he can elaborate, "Yes, I imagine you've finally come to have your new skin and parts fitted?"

He grimaces awkwardly and rubs the back of his neck. "Guess there's no avoiding it now, is there?"

Shana shakes her head, smirking wryly at him. "It won't be all that bad, Nicky! Have some faith. You know I only keep the best salvage; do you really think I'd bring Amari anything but the best parts for you, of all people?" She cringes softly. "Ah. That sounded a lot less like favoritism in my head."

Amari chuckles, shrugging lightly. "Oh, I think you can be forgiven one moment of favoritism, in this particular case, considering how very glad Nicholas is for new parts," Amari smirks at him, "isn't he?"

He snorts, shaking his head a bit. "If you say so, Doc."

The good Doctor arches a brow at him, nodding to Shana as she eyes him. "Want to electrocute your General, do you?"

Said General is doing an absolutely terrible job of keeping her blushing grin under wraps as he sighs in her general direction. "Can I think about my answer to that for a minute, Doc?"

Shana thumps the back of her hand against his arm in playful reprimand, only to hiss and shake her hand out in pain a moment later. "Ow. Keep forgetting you have no padding on that side."

Amari snickers through a grin and waves Nick toward the exam table. "We'll work on that today. I cannot promise we'll be finished by tonight, but I'll do what I can."

Shana rests one hand on the Doc's shoulder, smiling fondly at her. "Thank you, Doctor. We'll hopefully be back before nightfall, but I'm not completely sure what'll happen, so take your time."

At Amari's nod, Shana releases her and turns down to Nick, where he lays on the table, leaving a kiss on his cheek before she graces him with a smile. "Don't be a bad patient, alright?" She leans down to his ear, murmuring just softly enough for the Doctor not to hear, "I'll reward you in a manner of your choosing if I hear a good report from Amari."

He wraps his left hand around the back of her neck in a gentle grip, keeping her there as he whispers back, "You sure you can keep up with me well enough for that when I've got new parts?"

A soft rumbling of a laugh precedes, "Why don't you be a good patient and find out, Detective?"

He swipes his thumb across the skin behind her earlobe, just to feel the shiver race along her spine beneath his fingertips, reveling in the subtle control he has over her in this moment. "It's a bet, doll." He gently pressures her into backing up enough to face him, so he can reach up and lay claim to her lips properly, even if just for a few seconds, stealing a proper goodbye from her, before releasing her with a smile. "Good luck."

The look on her face by the time he can see all of her features again tells him—in no uncertain terms—that she fully plans to meet that challenge, head-on, and beat it, if possible... though there truly wouldn't be any beating it, in reality. Human stamina versus machine? There's simply no comparison, no matter how delectably eager she might be.

The fact that she wants to try, though... that thought, more than any other, will drive him to behave for Amari, no matter how uncomfortable this ends up being.

Because he knows she's not doing it for her.

She's doing it for him.

He can fathom no greater evidence of her affection for him.

Damn his teasing!

He's going to drive me over the last few inches of the cliff above the valley of my insanity.

I'm very glad I wore underthings today because otherwise, this damn vault suit would be hiding absolutely none of my arousal as I shove open the doors of The Memory Den, to the sight of three of my pack smoking in a semicircle.

John's eyes sweep over me from feet to face, lips grinning by the time his eyes meet mine. "Welcome back, sunshine. Nicky settled in for the day?"

I nod my answer to his question. "Yep-uh, all cozy on that wonderfully sterile exam table, ready for new everything."

Mac lifts the two fingers pinching his smoke between them in salutation, tossing a, "Hey, Bossy," at me.

I smirk impishly at him. "Heya Mackie."

He rolls his eyes and summarily ignores my simpering.

Charon's scan of me is far more clinical than John's had been, his subtle nod of greeting met by my own soon after. "Mistress."

I take half a breath, hold it, then release.

He's just following one of my orders of free will. I have to remind myself.

Even if that particular one irks me to no end.

I force a smile onto my lips. "Charon." I glance at them all, then snag a smoke from my pack, lighting it on the flame John almost immediately provides. I roll my shoulders while I breathe in the first drag, stretching my neck as I let it billow from my nostrils. Shaking myself a bit to loosen my limbs, then straightening, I pat Mac on the shoulder when I pass him, heading on around the Old State House to the entrance of Goodneighbor, all three falling into step around me. "Let's get this show on the road."

"Are you fu-freaking serious?!"

I don't blame Mac in the slightest for his surprise. Honestly, I'm a little shocked he managed to check his cursing—because I sure as fuck wouldn't have—at the sight of the absolutely fucking gigantic... does that even qualify as a mirelurk anymore? What the fuck is that thing?

Besides huge, that is.

Between dodging the babies, hunters, kings, and razorclaws, I do my best to avoid whatever the fuck this hellspawn is spewing out at us all, but... well. Shit happens, when you have this many people running around, trying to kill shit.

A disgusting-smelling glob of the sputum lands on my right arm, and at first, I try to just shake it off... until I realize my suit is smoking.

Oh. Oh great, the giant shit-bug spits acid.

Suddenly, Charon is pulling me into the outer ring of the Castle, a gnarly-looking combat knife sliding free of his boot, and without a word he's aiming it at my arm, promptly cutting into my suit's elbow, above where the acid hit. Just before the weak acid eats through the fabric, he finishes cutting the sleeve free and shucks it from my arm. He examines the skin beneath, but after a cursory assessment, he drops my wrist and dashes back out into the fray without a word.

All in all, a fairly normal day in combat, with Charon.

Too bad it's ruined yet another vault suit, this time.

I holster my pistol and shoulder my shotgun, leaving the relative safety of my current cover, in favor of running headlong into the battle, skirting the edges to get behind the monstrosity of a mirelurk.

With some carefully frantic footwork and a good dosage of luck, I manage to get close enough to really unload on this big fucker. Shoving the barrels up between two massive armored plates, I finger the first, then the second trigger, squeezing one after the other.

Well, I managed to piss it off, anyway.

With a deafening screech, it jerks to try and turn around to face me, yanking my shotgun right out of my hands in the process, the barrels now firmly wedged into this monster's armor.

I make a mad dash to try and recover my weapon, as my pack ghouls do their best to harry the creature with their own weapons, taking pot shots at weak joints and softer sections of armor.

They manage to piss it off more than I did, just as I reach my gun, which then proceeds to smack the fuck out of my head, as the bitch of a mirelurk mothership swings back around to face everyone else, squalling its last rebellion against its impending doom.

I stumble, falling to my knees and one hand—the other pressed to the throbbing flesh of my abused skull—as I dizzily lose all grip on where I am in space and time, memories flooding my conscious thoughts and playing out before me, imposing their existence over the reality around me.

"Trudy, I can't; you know Bart won't let me go anywhere. I've got to cook dinner, you can't be here when he gets home. I'm sorry." I shake my head and give my neighbor a regretful, but firm shake of my head, slowly easing the door closed and quickly making my way back toward the kitchen.

"Who the hell was that, Shana?"

I freeze in dreaded surprise, then slowly force myself to turn toward my husband; who, it seems, has arrived home early. I keep my eyes lowered to the tan and cream linoleum of the dining room floor as I force a smile onto my lips and speak in my quietest, gentlest tone, "I-it was just T-Trudy, I s-sent her away quickly. W-welcome home, d-dear."

Bart sets his briefcase next to the door, pinching each finger of his gloves before sliding them off and setting them carefully on the back of the spotless couch. Off comes his coat, hung with care on the coatrack, just like his scarf and bowler. He fishes into his vest pocket for the rings he dares not wear underneath his gloves, slipping them onto his fingers, one by one. Finally, he takes the requisite steps to come to a standstill in front of me.

"What did you tell her, Shana? Don't lie to me." He rolls his shoulders, I hear the bones grinding with the motion in the silence surrounding us, then the more subtle popping of his knuckles as he tightens his hands into fists, then shakes them out, that sound making me flinch ever so slightly.

"Sh-she wanted me to g-go to the movies with h-her. I-I told her n-no, said I had to c-cook dinner." It's a truthful answer, though I know I'm omitting things he would find more objectionable.

-o-o-o-

He backhands me, the open-handed nature of the blow hardened by the rings he habitually wears when he's not in public. It's bearable, but it still stings enough to draw tears.

I straighten, as I know I must—as he's trained me to—and he takes hold of my chin, pinching it fiercely between thumb and forefinger.

"Stop. Fucking. Lying!" he shouts the order, then scrapes his thumbnail against my chin as he forcefully releases me to point at my nose. "One more chance, Shana. One more. Then you make this difficult."

So I tell him. Of course, I tell him. What choice do I have?

Angry as he is about what I really said to Trudy, my reward for telling him the truth is only a hard, open-palmed slap. It's better than I expected, really.

-o-o-o-

He gestures to the drawer we keep the stimpaks in. "Stim your goddamn face, and don't talk to that Trudy bitch again. Finish dinner, I'm starving."

Just as I move to curve my fingers over the drawer pull, I feel the familiar prick of a needle, at the base of my skull.

The scene begins to fade, as does my equilibrium. Fortunately, it seems someone has been kind enough to catch me as I stumble about. God, I've got to... who is... who's caught me? I have to apologize before Bart finds out... wait.

My vision starts to clear properly, and I realize I'm not just being held up but restrained.

Oh, fuck no.

I don't recognize the thigh-sized arms holding my own arms to my sides, and considering they are the most immediate threat in my mind, it is them I initially attack.

Well, 'attack' might be a strong word. Wriggle a lot and try to slam my head back into the owner of the arms' head a few times is more accurate. None of my attempts connect—apparently, the steel band arm owner had anticipated such a rebuttal. I try to kick back at their legs, but they have me angled up just enough to take away any possible leverage. I let out a roar of frustration at my impotence, thrashing as much as I can against my captor.

It only clicks when I really, really look at the arms themselves, with now fully clear and sharp vision.

Skin missing. Muscles and veins and bones showing.

Ghoul.

And not just any ghoul, but... oh.

Ah, shit.

Slackening in his hold, I let my head lean back as my neck relaxes. "Damnit," I breathe out, "Charon, is that you?"

"Yes. Have you surfaced from the past?" His arms remain tight around me, uncertainty the theme of the minute.

I huff a few breaths of air, catching up. "Did I fuck up your contract?"

I feel his head tilt slightly. "It was not me you attacked, Mistress."

Scowling, I try to get a look around me, but apparently he's taken us away from anyone else, and the panic that begins to rise within me at the thought of whom I might've attacked floods my mind with guilty dread. "Who'd I hurt?"

"None were injured. You aimed your pistol at Mayor Hancock, but I removed you from the situation once I saw you were... not yourself."

I frown, still utterly confused.

"Who the fuck is Mayor Hancock?"