He watches me, waiting for some signal or word or thought to exist, and it isn't until I feel the less-than-subtle shift in the fabric of reality itself that I understand why he waited.

Finally, he smiles, the first real smile he's given me since I forgot to remember him, and suddenly I lose my nerves and my anger and my sadness and I grin right back at him. A sad kind of joy glitters in charcoal eyes that may have once been blue, as he says, voice warbling softly under the weight of a sea of emotion, "There you are."

I gasp, eyes widening then slamming closed as I hear the voice that's both angered and aroused me beyond reason for the past hour—as I feel it sliding across my skin, slipping down my spine and up between my breasts, sinking between my thighs and curling its fingers around my throat—and fist my hands into the comforter beneath me with a moan I don't have a snowflake's chance in hell of silencing.

When I finally manage to calm my raging libido—and really, what was that? It felt like a memory, but I don't remember ever... not with him—I open my eyes to meet his and find the exact same emotions lingering in his eyes as in mine, only with that added... that bit that... it...

It's not fair.

It's not fair!

Because I can see—no, I don't even have to look, I can feel the love he so obviously carries for me, and I want to return it, god I do, because I can see he so desperately wants me to and I know I'm supposed to love him right back and I just don't!

Fuck!

FUCK!

I hate this.

I hate this. I can't...

I fucking hate this.

I can feel the mentat wearing off, and all I can do is stare at him and do everything I can not to cry, not to weep for the loss of love that wasn't even anyone's fault, it was just a freak accident of nature, of dreams, folding in on themselves and forgetting what happened.

I grimace and reach out, gently taking one of his habitually tensing and releasing fists in my hands, carefully prying his fingers loose and laying them flat against my palm, before covering his gnarled hand with my own, looking up to regard him evenly. "I... I'm sorry. I don't..."

I snap my eyes closed for a moment, holding my breath, then releasing and peering at him with determination, "I'm sorry... John. I don't remember you, not really. Not like I should, like I want to. But I do want to. I can see... I can see that you care a great... that you love me," I swallow, "and I want to return that, but I can't. Not yet. Please, give me time. Be patient with me. I'm sure you probably already did all that, at some point, knowing me, but... just a little more..."

I fight back tears the blur my vision and tighten my throat. "A little more time, please? I have to remember you at some point, and even if I don't... I mean I already fell for you once, it's bound to happen again, right?" I chuckle softly, though it's choked off after only a moment of life. "This wasn't anyone's fault, there's no reason to give up, just... time and details, yeah?"

I'm not even sure what I'm saying anymore, but the loss of eloquence doesn't seem to be the hindrance it likely should be for him.

He smiles, and again it makes me smile, even through the tears that he gently wipes away. Sliding the chair in front of me, planting his knees just between mine, he reaches up and slowly rests his open hand on my cheek. "I'm not goin' anywhere. You're my sunshine, where else would I go?"

I blush under his touch and lift my hand from his in my lap to the hand he cradles me with so delicately. "Oh, I don't know," I chuckle a bit sadly, "to find some dame that isn't completely bat-shit-crazy, who can actually remember you?" I smile through the painful irony of my own situation, shaking my head, pressing my cheek to his hand. "Somewhere that doesn't hurt you like this."

He raises my hand to his own cheek, eyes on mine as he speaks, "I'd rather hurt and be here with you, loving you than go anywhere you're not."

I swallow, catching the tear that rolls down his cheek with my thumb and wiping it away. "For now," I tell him, firmly. "I won't let you sit around and hurt forever, John. It's not right. But for now, yes. To give memory a chance. Time and details," I repeat the words like a mantra, as if it'll make any of this any better, "time and details."

Every time she looks at him, it's a with a tight smile she tries to use to cover her remorse.

Like it's her fault she completely forgot him.

Every moment.

Every laugh.

Every kiss.

Every love.

It's almost worse than the hatred he'd seen in her eyes when she was freshly concussed and drowning in her past.

On the flip side of things, she's been paying a lot of particular attention to Charon—apparently, John isn't the only person she feels guilty for treating differently—going to great lengths to reassure and calm him. He hadn't noticed Charon acting out of sorts, to begin with; the giant always seems a bit jumpy, so a little extra caution isn't exactly a noteworthy thing...

To anyone but Shana, anyway.

To her, Charon's excess jitters shine out like a beacon, calling to her nurturing nature for soothing touches, and she doles them out in spades.

It's what she does, after all.

Still...

Despite everything he knows is wrong with the very thought, he can't help but feel somewhat neglected.

He's not jealous, no, no.

He just...

He misses her.

The her that loves him.

That sings to him.

That dances with him.

That sits in his lap and kisses him like he's the only person in the world.

That knows him and lets him shower her with affection and light her cigarettes.

That he loves.

Not that he loves her as she is any less, no, that's not the point.

Well... actually yeah, it kinda is, in a way; and doesn't he feel like fucking shit for thinking it? The fact that he can't show her all the ways he loves her kinda puts a damper on everything.

But, isn't that the point of relationships? They take work, they're not just smooth sailing the whole way through. They're meant to make you feel like you've accomplished something if you manage to stick with them and not end up completely miserable.

Right?

As he watches her walk hand-in-hand with Charon, chatting away at MacCready without a care in the world as he takes up the rear of their little group, John finds himself less than convinced.

And he hates himself for it.

"On your left!"

Holy fuck this is a right catastrophe.

Mac's down, Hancock's off somewhere, and Charon and I are back to back, where we've been absolutely swimming in ferals for the past forty seconds straight.

"How the fuck is there this many?!" I cry out to eternity, unloading 'Widowmaker' and fervently wishing I'd opted for a combat shotgun instead of her, only to apologize to her a second later when her second round of buckshot manages to finish the job on the last reaver next to me. I sag slightly in relief and reload, peering around the wall that my contracted pack member creates to see how many targets he has left, as my side is now clear at last.

He must've felt me looking, because he mutters softly, "Two in the rooms to the left, one remaining down the stairs. You are clear?"

"Yeah," I murmur back, "Any idea where Hancock went?"

I feel the jerk in his back as he shakes his head. "Negative."

"Shit." I bend down and retrieve three stimpaks from my pack, quickly uncapping and stabbing them into the worst of Mac's wounds. Doesn't look like he has any broken bones, so there's that, at least. After a minute of watching his tissue stitch itself back together, I nod my satisfaction and look up just in time to see his eyes flutter open.

"Bossy? Wha... happen?" He reaches out, clumsily trying to right himself before he's even fully conscious.

I put a gently restricting hand on his shoulder. "Nuh-uh, hold on and let the stimpaks finish their job. You got whacked good, Mac, just take it easy. We got it under control for now."

He nods and just looks around for a moment, recovering. "Ferals. Med... oh. Okay, I remember now. Wait, I saw Hancock bug out earlier, he ever come back?"

I purse my lips and shake my head. "Nope-uh. If he doesn't have a fucking brilliant excuse for it, I'mma have his ass for it, too. Any idea where he went?"

Mac winces and lifts his head and hand, looking down the length of him and pointing down the hall we've just come down. "Back that way. Looked pissed about somethin'."

I set my jaw and take a look at Mac's now healed and scarred over injuries, nodding my approval as I complete my basic examination. "Looks like you're mostly fixed up. I miss anything?"

He moves around a bit, then shakes his head. "Don't think so. Feels like everything's still attached, anyway."

I arch a brow, clamping down on a smirk. "Sure you don't wanna check?"

He looks at me like I've lost my mind and I stop trying to hold myself back, finally breaking into the snicker I've been holding back.

"What? It was there, you left the door wide open." I grin at him and stand, offering a hand up.

He glares at me for a second, shakes his head and sighs, then accepts my help, retrieving his rifle from the floor and readying it, shaking his head sharply, as if to clear it as he rights himself. He tosses a glance at Charon, then tips his head toward him, where he stands as a watchful guardian, his back to us. "More?"

I nod quickly. "Yep. Two in the left rooms, one downstairs that we know of. You good? Thought I caught sight of a bit of green glow from downstairs, could use some extra stopping power if we got a glowing one."

"You got it, Bossy." He shoulders his rifle, looking ready to take on the whole goddamn 'Wealth, even though he's clearly a bit unsteady on his feet from the stims.

I grin at him and pat his empty shoulder. "Good man. Let's get this done."

It doesn't take much to wipe the floor with the remaining mindless creeps, Mac's rifle slugs putting a solid end to what does indeed turn out to be a glowing one down the stairs. His faint dizziness must not be enough to put his aim off. Good to know.

Escaping that trial by fire, we work our way down, until we eventually reach the final room—dispatching yet another glowing one, a reaver, and a ghoul that looks as though she might've once been a very nice old grandmother, before she got her brains melted from between her ears—and Duncan's cure.

Frankly, at Mac's suggestion that we get out of here and deliver the cure—'Prevent'... I question the drug's name to Charon, stating that it sounds more like an inoculation than a cure, to which he has no response but a lackluster shrug— to Daisy, I am more than happy to comply, especially when I see the piles of human bones in the refrigerators, as if there had once been slabs of meat, sections of humans carved up and stored in there for... preservation.

Yeah, let's get the fuck out of here. My nightmares are bad enough already, they don't need more fuel, thanks.

"Charon, take point. I'll bring up the rear since our rear guard has utterly abandoned us." I'm already moving into position when an objection is voiced.

"Mistress, I would be the better choice for rear guard, since any ferals we may have missed will not attack me." His correction is gentle despite its infallible logic, the tone he uses merely instructional, as opposed to chastising.

I nod sharply. "Yeah, you're right, let's switch, then. Sorry, I'm... this whole place, plus Hancock bailing... I'm not all here. Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Mac sneezes violently, stirring the dust about him in a gentle cloud. "Couldn't agree more," he mutters, "think the cleaning 'bot broke."

Charon snorts, shaking his head as he takes up the rear.

I toss a smirk back at him, then strike out for the surface, slightly dreading what we might find once we reach it. Or, at least, whenever we find Hancock.

He's had it.

Abso-fucking-lutely had it.

A nasty voice in the back of his fucked head screams at him that he's just being jealous, that it's all stemming from the green-eyed-monster, that he's lost perspective—and maybe he has, but he knows, he knows what's driving him isn't jealousy.

Because he knows she doesn't mean it like that.

He knows.

All the little touches, every inch of those smooth fingertips, every softness of her embraces, every smile she showers on Charon and Mac are no more frequent or intimate now than any she's ever given them.

She's always been, as Charon's put it several times, a 'tactile smoothskin', and it's part of why John loves her so damned much.

But right now?

Right now, he just can't handle it anymore.

He needs a break from it all, from the suffocating weight of the loss he feels—the loss of her touch.

Their—whatever it is, he has no good name for it and thinking about it hurts enough that he hasn't much bothered—relationship as it is currently is something stilted, cut raggedly down the middle by a chasm he has no means to bridge but patience. He is a patient man, but at the moment, he's petulantly mourning his loss and wallowing in the desire to just make it all go away.

To run away.

The fighting had been thin the whole way in, so he didn't feel too awful about letting them deal with whatever stragglers remained—they were three highly competent wastelanders, after all; they'd be fine.

And he'd been at the end of his rope.

So here he is, stretched out on the sun-warmed hood of some Corvega model he doesn't care enough to name, fucked off his gourd on the now empty ultra-jet canister dangling from the fingertips of his lax hand beside him. His hat's off, resting safely on the roof of the car, coat unbuttoned, shirt open just enough to catch the lazy breeze floating by on his chest. Eyes closed, enjoying the mind-numbing, time-dragging effects that let him forget everything for just long enough to feel sane again.

Hopefully.

When he starts to come down, he'll light a smoke, finish that then head back in, probably with enough time left over to catch up and join them at the end of the whole deal, none of them much the wiser about his little chem break. He's got plenty of time.

Which is why what he really, really doesn't expect to hear is the sound of gravel and trash grinding beneath some heavy-ass boots, and heading steadily quicker toward him. By the time he lifts his head and pries his eyes open to see who it could be, his jaw explodes in pain that the ultra-jet is in no way suited to numbing, his head slamming back into the windshield, a vague blur of a clearly ghoulified and huge fist flying past before retreating.

A sluggish check of his hand to his jaw reveals it to still be whole if throbbing like an open wound, and the adrenaline from the pain finally manages to rip its way through the jet, clearing his head just enough for action, for self-preservation... if not nearly sufficiently for proper critical thinking.

Fortunately, something out there is looking out for him, because when he does get to his feet in preparation to retaliate, he realizes who his attacker is, and stops short.

"Charon?" He stares up at the giant in utter confusion. "The... the fuck? What'd you hit me for? I coulda fuckin' shot you, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Charon's mien is nothing short of furious, a raw edge of blistering rage John could never hope to match searing through every last ounce of jet in his system and replacing it with the mercilessly icy fingers of fear. Charon reaches carefully around John, so as not to touch him, retrieving the ultra-jet inhaler and holding it in front of John's face, before crumpling the cheap plastic in his fist and letting the pieces—plunk, plunk, plunk—fall to the ground. "We were nearly overrun after you left. There was an entire nest waiting for us in the next room. You abandoned your pack to get high? You abandoned her for this?" he points at the bits on the ground, "This is the gratitude you return for the loyalty and safety we provided you? That she provides you, out of the goodness of her heart, even when she can't remember who you are to her?"

A second punch is thrown, and as the dread knot of worry for the details Charon's left out fills his heart, John doesn't even try to block it, not that he could. He deserves this. He knows he does. Shana could be dead, MacCready could be dead, and he deserves this and more. His cheek is bleeding now, and he's pretty sure that tooth is looser than it was a few seconds ago, and only braces for the third blow that is most certainly coming.

But it never does. When he looks, Charon is walking away from him, fists tightly balled at his sides, and finally he catches sight of Shana, then MacCready and the relief that flows over him when he realizes they're both alive and safe almost takes his knees out.

Then, he catches sight of the new holes in Mac's kit, and guilt replaces his relief. When he sees the look in Shana's eyes—the disappointment, the anger, the confusion, the indignation, the sorrow—he's done for.

He bows his head and lowers his gaze to the ground, where it belongs. He stays there, feeling the blood drip down the front of his cheek, down to his lip, watching it fall off in fat droplets to land between the toes of his boots.

Soft, light, almost silent footsteps approach, and he knows they have to be MacCready's. The sniper comes to rest beside him, leaning back against the car with a sigh. "Sorry Duncan," he mutters, before John sees MacCready look at him in his periphery.

"What the fuck, you asshat?"

Now John looks at him, lifting a brow in a mixture of confusion and surprise, but MacCready isn't done.

The sniper holds up a finger, tilting his head as if listening to some whispered voice on the wind, then straightens, letting his hand drop. "No, wait. What the fuck, you dumb fucking asshat? You couldn't have said something, at the very least? 'Oh hey, I'm gonna go fuck off over here, good luck with that nest in the next room!' Not so much as a 'fuck off'? Come on man, I don't even... Whoa," MacCready falters, sliding left a bit, hands gripping the rusty hood behind him as he tries to steady himself, shaking his head quickly. "Guh... stimpaks did a number on my balance."

"How many you use?"

MacCready shakes his head, more slowly this time. "Dunno. Was out for the first few, but she used two more before we got up top, 'cause she found another place they'd torn into me. So, at least four? Maybe five, if I remember my wounds right?"

"Christ. It got that bad?" John asks, one load of guilt piling on atop the next.

MacCready nods. "Well yeah, why you think we're so pissed at ya? The hell you leave us down there for, anyway?"

John sighs and swipes at the trail of blood leading to his mouth, then drags two smokes up from his pocket, offering one to MacCready. "Sure you wanna hear it?"

MacCready accepts the smoke, lighting it with only a bit of weaving in the hand that holds his lighter. "Sure, I'm sure. Spit it out."

And so, he does.

Around the corner of the building, Charon waits as his Mistress paces and he slowly watches the red rimming his vision recede.

He'd pulled his punches, no question, but he still feared some measure of retaliation on her part. It may not have been violence against her, but the other ghoul had once been... was still her...

It does not bear sorting out, in the end. Regardless of what the Mayor is to her now, he is still an important member of her pack, no matter how little she remembers. According to one of the first orders she'd given him, every pack member must be protected, just as she must. Just as they all protect each other.

He'd disobeyed that order.

So had the Mayor, for that matter; but the Mayor is not Charon.

The longer he waits, and the faster her pacing becomes, the more anxiously he anticipates her retaliation.

Why wait? Is the delay a part of it? Is she drawing out the inevitable as a small torture before the conclusion?

Or is he misinterpreting her anxiety? As ruthless as she can sometimes be, he does not believe her capable of such petty torments. Perhaps...

"Mistress?"

She stops, looks at him through eyes still glassy and red-lidded. "Hmm?"

"Do you wish retribution upon me, for breaking with your orders to protect your pack members?"

She blinks owlishly at him. "What? When did you break... what? I don't recall you breaking any orders, Charon."

He shifts his weight to his left foot. "I did when I attacked Mayor Hancock."

She scowls in confusion. "What, just now? When you punched him?"

He nods, remaining silent.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. "He deserved it, don't you think? And anyway, what possible 'retribution'," she air-quotes the word, "could I dole out, exactly? Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't, and even if I would, violence invalidates your contract. And even if it didn't, and I wanted to, and all the stars aligned to somehow prompt me to punch you back, you know what would happen?"

He arches a brow, maintaining his silent vigil.

"Not a damn thing, because punching you would only land me with a broken hand, and I'd be an idiot to try." She huffs, batting away his concern like a pre-war fly. "So there, that's where your 'retribution' went. Right into the damn gutter of uselessness and pointlessness."

Maddeningly, she immediately resumes her pacing.

It's dark by the time we reach Goodneighbor, and I just... I don't have the will to fight any of it anymore. I'm tired, I don't want to talk to anyone, I just want to grab Nick—whether he's finished or not—and climb into bed and fall asleep on his warmth for a week.

Charon finally dropped the whole retribution bullshit thing, thank fuck, but I still get the feeling he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Sorry, buddy; I got no spare shoes to drop for ya.

Handing the cure over to Daisy is a cinch; then again she's always been a peach, and ever since I cleared out the library for her and returned that book, she gets this sparkle in her black eyes when I come in, and always tries to give me a discount, which I naturally refuse.

She tells me to look after Mac, says he's one of the good ones.

I grin, coming up behind him and slinging my arms around him, planting an obnoxiously wet kiss on his cheek just to watch him squirm. I look at Daisy, wink, and say, "Yep-uh, I know," then release him and summarily steal his hat, running off laughing through the alleys of Goodneighbor toward the Den, a sniper hot on my tail.

A sniper who is surprisingly fast, for having shorter legs than mine. He catches up to me right in front of the Rail, and I only manage to retain possession of his cap by handing it off to Charon, who merely glares at Mac when the merc begins to plead with him.

Hancock's fucked off somewhere again—likely the Old State House, as I've come to understand it's his office and actual residence—and honestly, I'm glad of it. I'm not one to hold grudges, generally, but fuck if he didn't fuck himself and us hard today.

I probably wouldn't have been so bothered, if Mac hadn't been injured and impaired for some time after, but... well, he was.

And, while I can't rightly put all the blame squarely on Hancock's shoulders for that, abandoning us in the middle of a mission was still a shit move. Who pulls that kind of shit, honestly? And just to go get high, on top of it? Fucking hell, that's just...

Well, there's a reason I'm heading to the Den, even if I took a bonding detour for the man who's basically become my annoying little brother, in this new life of mine.

I finally deem Mac's begging to be sufficient, and nod for Charon to release the poor man's hat to him.

Charon considers the hat for a long moment, then dons it himself, looking down at Mac solemnly. "You may have it back when you are capable of retrieving it yourself."

I snort a laugh at the sight of Charon wearing that ill-suited hat, which dissolves into giggling, and Mac turns at the sound to stare at me... then starts laughing himself, a moment later. I fall into the nearby bench, holding my stomach and trying not to spill out of the bench in my mirth, as Mac braces himself against my shoulder and laughs so hard I can see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.

Really, it's not so much that Charon used one of his rare decisions to choose to be a smartass, or even how silly the hat looks on him, it's more that we just plain need this laugh, after the day we've had. And I, for one, am grateful for the opportunity he provided.

It's a long moment before we regain control of ourselves and stand, me slinging Mac into a hug and him belatedly returning it before I turn him toward the Rail and say goodnight. While Mac gives his hat—still resting firmly on Charon's head—a longing look before he disappears into the Rail, there's a soft kind of smirk on his lips just before he turns away, and that right there is a win, in my books.

I heave a weary, but pleased sigh as I turn to the Den, Charon trailing behind, still not bothering to remove the hat. I smirk at him and push the door open, smiling at Irma as we near her stage, the woman gracing me with a delicate wave, and winking at Charon.

"They're still downstairs, darlings. Should be done soon, from what I hear."

I blow a kiss at Irma. "You're a gem, Irma, thank you."

She rests her hand delicately on her chest. "Why thank you dear, and you're welcome, anytime."

I chuckle and head down the stairs, soft music—from a radio that's been flipped on at some point since I left—trailing into my ears as I reach the bottom landing.

You made me love you
I didn't want to do it
I didn't want to do it
You made me want you
And all the time you knew it
I guess you always knew it

I freeze where I am, the song taking hold of something inside me and yanking, hard.

You made me happy
Sometimes you made me glad
But there were times, dear
You made me feel so bad

I half stumble over to the brick wall, back slamming into it as the weight of memory shoves down on my mind, without actually giving me anything of tangible substance to grasp onto.

You made me sigh for
I didn't want to tell you
I didn't want to tell you
I want some love, that's true

Charon tries to get my attention, his hands on my upper arms, gently shaking me as I stare a hole through his chest, utterly oblivious to his existence as I drown.

Give me, give me, what I cry for
You know ya got the brand o' kisses that I'd die for
You know you made me love you!

I suck in the first air I've had since the song began, finding Charon's eyes with mine a moment after I regain an understanding of where I am, what I'm doing. I slowly reach up and rest a hand on his cheek, stroking it in gentle gratitude as a tear I hadn't even realized existed tumbles down my own cheek.

He releases my arms and his worry softens into sadness, mirroring me and tenderly wiping the next tear away.

I smile and impulsively hug his massive tree trunk of a torso, my hands not even getting close to reaching each other behind him. It's... oddly enough, not a normal thing for me to do with him, and I'm not really sure why, but this is the first time I can remember doing it.

Hesitantly, gingerly, he returns the gesture, though it's clear he's more unused to it than I am, in this case.

I find, despite him being uncertain of it all, that he's actually good at it. The thought makes me smile as I gently back away, and I tip my head towards the room we've been standing just a few feet away from the entrance of.

I lead the way inside, and I'm greeted by Amari standing just behind a seated—now fully clothed and whole-skinned—Nicky, who has multiple cables protruding from the back of his head and neck. He doesn't respond to my arrival, so I assume he's in some sort of standby mode or running diagnostics.

Amari does notice, however; greeting me with a smile and a small wave. "Ah, welcome back, General. I take it the venture was a success?"

I had come back down to apologize for my behavior and to apprise Nick of where we were headed before I left, since he wasn't fit for duty just yet, and spoke to Amari about the memory issue. It ended up being a fairly short conversation, which went about the same way the one about my life's memories had, with the exception that it would be an easier transition to remember one person, as opposed to my entire life.

I nod, returning her smile. "It was, yes. Mac is very happy." I nod to my synth beau, resting a hand on his shoulder. "How is Nicky doing?"

"Oh, he's fine, we're just de-fragmenting his hard drives and freeing up some space for him, storing some of the files he never uses on these drives here," she gestures to a small server rack behind her, "It's been a pretty typical maintenance run for him thus far, aside from the new skin and parts. I had to custom-fit his sensor net into his new facial panels, along with a few... others, here and there. Really, that was the most time-consuming aspect of the whole ordeal. I never realized he had such a different type of sensor net than the other gen 2's, but I suppose it makes sense, him being the prototype he is. Anyway, he's tested all the new parts, and everything seems to be working smoothly."

"Well good, I'm glad to hear it," I say, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Any idea when he'll be ready to go?"

"Would now be a good answer, doll?" comes Nicky's own response, and it feels so damn good to hear his voice that I lean down and kiss him right then and there.

"Seems the answer's 'yes'," he murmurs with a crooked smirk when I manage to pull myself away. At my nod, he glances back and finds Amari, gesturing toward the back of his head vaguely. "Mind unpluggin' me, Doc?"

She nods distractedly once, watching data scroll by on a terminal. "One moment. The data transfer is nearly complete."

"Doctor," I venture, "I know this morning you said you'd let us know when it's safe to return to the loungers and search for the Institute, but I'm curious if you might have an actual time frame for it, so we can have some idea when to come back."

Amari purses her lips, eyes still on the screen until she sees whatever signal she was looking for, then turns and slowly begins separating Nick from his backed up old memories. "I would say give it at least a week of actual rest, General. Considering your injury and the memory issues of today, there is absolutely no way I would allow you into the loungers, even on your own, before any less than a week of rest and a daily administration of at least a half stimpak." She looks up over my head and waves to who could only be Charon, beckoning him over. "You are her primary caretaker, are you not?"

He glances at me as I look back at him, searching me for instructions, to which inquiry I just nod my head toward Amari. After a few seconds of internal debate, he peels himself off of the wall and comes to a halt in front of the good Doctor, nodding once. "Yes."

She nods her satisfaction and points right smack at my jugular. "Here, or," she lightly jabs the spot he'd stimmed me earlier, "here. A half dosage is all that's absolutely necessary, though I would recommend a full one by the time the day is through if she wishes to be healed enough to come back at the end of a week."

At this, I object. "Wait, he used that second spot earlier, and I couldn't even sit straight for a full five minutes, let alone stand or walk. Granted, I did have a concussion, but... still."

Amari waves me off, shaking her head. "No need to worry, if you truly are resting, General. You don't need balance to rest, do you?"

Charon answers for me, "I will ensure she receives the proper injections."

"Glad to hear it," Amari smirks at me after she notes the stink eye I'm giving Charon, then manages to distract me by pulling out the final cable from Nicky's head, which causes him to emit a short, strained, synthetic outcry.

Nick shakes his head, blinking a few times and rubbing his jaw like someone socked him one. "That always gets me," he mutters, huffing a sigh born of mild irritation.

Amari bends down to eye-level with the back of his head, using a small pair of tweezers and what almost looks like a flathead screwdriver, but oddly rounded at the end instead of squared off, to aid her as she fits a palm-sized panel of synth skin into place over his ports. She makes quick work of it, obviously being quite adept at the process, then slips the tools into their slots in her lab coat pocket and straightens, clapping Nick on the shoulder. "There you are, Nicholas, all done."

He stands and plucks his hat from where it rests on the table next to him, donning it as he turns to extend his hand to Amari. "Thanks, Doc; I appreciate it."

Amari smiles and shakes his hand, then points to me. "She is the one who got the parts, I just made them work for you, Nicholas. You should thank your General as well, I think."

Nick turns and smiles down at me, one hand lifting to carefully tilt my chin up and meet his lips to mine in a soft, slightly possessive kiss. "Thanks, doll," he murmurs against my lips, brushing his along mine and diving back down for a second taste, after.

It isn't until Amari clears her throat and smirks at us that he finally backs away with a somewhat sheepish grin, reaching back to rub his ports bashfully. "Sorry, Doc."

"No apology needed; you did thank her, after all. But I do suggest you find another space to occupy if you plan to continue in such a manner."

I can't help but agree, but before we leave, I have to ask, "Doctor, was he a good patient, or did he make a fuss?"

Amari quirks a brow at the question, but she answers, "He was surprisingly cooperative, this time around, though he did still complain a few times. But he was better than usual. Why do you ask?"

I hum a soft laugh, glancing at Nick before I respond to her, "Oh, we had a small bet, that's all. Thank you, Doctor, for everything you've done and continue to do."

She nods. "You are quite welcome. Now, all of you, get out of my lab. I have work to do."

I hook my hand into Nicky's new elbow, and pat Charon on the arm as I lead the charge from the lab, more than happy to comply with the good Doctor's wishes.

Time for a long, warm nap on my newly refurbished boyfriend.

Possibly followed by some sexy rewards, if he's a good electric pillow.

He watches from his balcony, waiting for her to exit the Den. He's been out here, observing, since she came through with MacCready's hat, waving it in the air like a prize, then tossing it to Charon once MacCready caught up to her. He'd seen as they laughed, as they said goodnight.

He knows how wrong he'd been.

Now, he's just biding his time until he can make a good entrance, and try to get her to hear his apology.

Honestly, though, he wouldn't blame her if she didn't forgive him. He knows he fucked up bigtime, and he knows she deserves to stew on it for a while if she wants to. He wouldn't blame her a bit. He'd do a hell of a lot more than stew, in her shoes.

He wonders if she's telling Nicky what happened, or if she'll wait until they're in the apartment and have some privacy.

He wonders what Nicky will think of it all. What he'll do and say.

The Den door opens and he sees her boot beyond it, and he makes a mad dash for the stairs. He's down and out the side door so quickly that he probably looks like he's on psycho. But no, he's stayed clean for this, doesn't dare approach her for this with a fucked head after earlier.

He bolts down the empty market street and as he nears them, they turn, likely to see who'd be running after them at this hour. He takes a couple breaths, then spits out, "Shana, can we, can I say something? I wanna apologize. Please?"

His hands fiddle anxiously with his coat as he catches his breath and views her glancing to Nick with concern, then to Charon with a quiet storm brewing in her eyes.

She opens her mouth, about to speak, then winces and shakes her head, gaze lifting again to Charon, a pain flashing through her features that he can't possibly name. He absolutely refuses to.

Suddenly, Charon blocks his view of her, arms crossed and looking more menacing than ever. "My Mistress does not wish to converse with you. You may leave peaceably, or I will remove you if you refuse to comply. You have one minute."

John scowls at Charon. "You can't remove me from my own goddamn town, Charon. If she doesn't want to talk, that's fine. She don't have to talk if she don't want to. It's me who needs to apologize; whether she accepts or forgives any of it is on her."

Charon remains unmoved. "Thirty seconds."

"Seriously?" He glares up at the mountain of a ghoul, "You're gonna remove me from my own town, are ya? How well you think that's gonna go with the Watch?"

"You are currently standing on private property, thus you are not technically in your town. Ten seconds."

"You know what?" John lifts his hands in surrender. "Fine. Fuck you. I'm gone."

He flips Charon off, turns on his heel, and returns to the State House.

Upstairs, when he sits down on his couch, he's greeted by the sight of a fresh shipment of chems, in all flavors and types of highs, and he thinks someone must be lookin' out for him, after all.

Time for some chem cocktails, ladies, and gents.

Time to fuck off from the world.