I wake to the feeling of warm fingers stroking my hair; pressing short, stubborn locks behind my ear in mindless repetition.

I shift to nuzzle my face into the neck of the man I'm laying on, a soft sigh preceding a pleased moan as I settle happily into this peaceful bliss.

The gentle jostling of his artificial lungs emptying into a quiet huff of amusement makes me smile.

"Mornin', doll."

The rumble of his voice fills my ears and sinks into my muscles, soothing sore spots from yesterday's travels and battles.

"I love you," I whisper back, because they're the only words I can fathom saying to him right now. I turn a kiss to his chest, the slightly velvety texture of his new synthetic skin giving gently under the light pressure.

Amari truly is an artist, and I hadn't realized how much so until I'd undressed my synthetic man as much as he would let me last night, and gave him the thorough going-over my curiosity demanded and his new skin deserved. Edges in the panels where a normal gen 2's skin would be rough and raised—thanks to their mass production and the lack of care the Institute had clearly taken in creating their external shells—are instead mostly smoothed down and even; not quite to the point of seamlessness, but close.

She's also done a marvelous job of copying what he'd deemed the important features of his original synth face—what signifying characteristics people most recognized him by, aside from the tattered bits.

He is still very obviously a synth; he's in no way trying to hide it. The now clean, smooth, uncracked, pale skin is a dead giveaway, if the eyes weren't indication enough.

He's still Nick.

He's just Nick whole.

His innards actually protected.

As they should be.

The hand that'd been buried in my hair switched to my shoulder when I moved, and now strokes the skin there, with feather-soft touches. "I love you too, Shana."

I smile and kiss his jaw before slowly dragging myself up until I'm braced on my straightened arms above him, looking down at him with a bemused smirk. "How waterproof are you now?"

The eyebrows I'd helped him draw back onto his brows last night—much to his consternation; he'd wanted to do it himself, but acquiesced, after he realized it made me happy, and saw I was actually doing a good job of it—lift and quirk into suspicious confusion. "Amari was pretty insistent on sealing me up tight, so I should be fine, according to her. Why are you asking?"

I toss a glance over my shoulder, at the bathroom, then peer back down at him with an impish simper. "Think you can handle a shower with me?"

Those brows fly up, then slowly lower, the smile forming on his lips turning devious, his eyes raking down, then back up what parts of my bare torso I'd exposed in raising myself over him. By the time he meets my eyes again, his expression of determination in the face of a tempting prize is all the answer I really need. "I certainly won't say no, doll. Just... might have to be careful."

I nod my understanding. "Of course. If it's too risky, don't worry about it. Definitely don't want you frying anything."

I lean down and press a chaste kiss to his lips, preparing to get out of bed and head for my shower, but he has other ideas.

He slips one hand over the back of my neck, the other anchoring my hip solidly above his, thumb stroking the flesh over where my pelvic bone gently juts there. He deepens the kiss as he holds me there, his lips and tongue leaving me breathless with a skill and fervor that shocks me every time I'm ravished by it.

Unthinking, I grind my core down against him, forgetting for a moment that him being a pre-gen 3 means he's... well, not equipped... until I realize with a start—from the unexpected discovery of a rather firm, phallic-shaped presence beneath me to grind against—that he is. I gasp softly, starting to pull away so I can properly convey my shock, curiosity, and excitement; but he refuses to release me, returning the grinding motion, which stirs a satisfying groan from both of us.

The hand on my hip skims up my sensitive side, making the muscles twitch under the ginger touch until it reaches my breast, its thumb grazing over my nipple before its cousin forefinger joins it to pinch my flesh, rolling it softly between them like a toy they've so unselfishly agreed to share.

His attentions drive me to send a whimpering moan from my mouth to his, and I finally convince the hand I'm not resting my weight on to overcome its surprise and spring into action, slipping down between us to dive for the clasp on his ratty slacks.

Halfway there, the hand on my breast abandons its station and stakes its claim on my wrist, carefully pulling my hand up to rest its palm against his neck instead. "Later," he murmurs against my lips; the only explanation he offers before sealing his lips to mine and curling his arm around me, holding me to him and slowly, easily flipping our positions.

After several lingering smaller kisses, he abandons my lips in favor of peppering tiny, gentle kisses and nips down the side of my neck, along my collarbone, between my breasts and down my stomach. By the time I realize his aim, he's already sliding off the bed and pulling me to him, resting the backs of my thighs on his shoulders as he takes his time, licking and nipping his way from the inside of my knees to the base of my thighs, paying equal attention to each leg.

My anticipation is so tightly wound when he finally arrives at the center that I nearly lose myself at his first touch, barely holding back a scream that would no doubt send Charon running up here to see who was murdering me. Instead, I manage to restrict it to a tight, strained whimper, which ends its life as a high cry, as his warm lips surround and apply gently suction to my clit.

He spreads his hands out over my hips, keeping them still as he works at me, eyes watching mine with a smoldering intensity that I somehow know all too well; though the exact memory of it escapes me, to my consternation. My confused aggravation is soon forgotten, however, in the face of his onslaught.

Nicky's tongue is agile and eager, seeking out every possibility for pleasure it can find, testing, prodding; his lips doing the worshiping as his tongue explores new territory to set altars upon.

When one of my hands makes its way to the top of his head, intently holding him to a particular spot he's found, I feel the evidence of his smile against me; even as one of his hands abandons its post to draw my hand from his head and gently pin it to the bed next to my hip, before he threads his hand back under my leg and weaves his fingers with mine.

I volunteer my other hand to his, and he readily accepts, then presses forward with his charge, seemingly more sure of his position than he had been, closing his eyes and delving into his devotion with a heated growl of pleasure so delicious it makes me squirm.

It takes embarrassingly little time for me to come, but he only seems to be more excited by the prospect, as I lay bonelessly on the bed, twitching while he languidly laps up my excess juices with a reverence that borders on absurdity.

When he finally deems me clean, he rests his cheek on my thigh and watches me recover, a quiet smile decorating his wet lips with its influence.

I chuckle, a sated, lazy smile adorning my own mouth, laying back and melting into the bed. "You really seem to enjoy doing that."

His voice is rough and low as he answers, "If you had any idea how good you taste, you wouldn't be so surprised, doll."

I look down at him with a lifted brow, then tilt my head and smirk at him. "Well, why don't you get up here and show me?"

He's halfway up my length before I cotton onto that fact that he's still half-clothed. Unacceptable. I point at his pants, brow arched. "Off."

Nick arches his own brow at me, glancing down to his sharply tented pants, then facing me again with something like trepidation. I catch the motion of his throat constricting on a swallow, just before he shifts his weight to his right hand and sets his left to the task of ridding himself of his trousers.

He's watching me when he bares himself, looking every bit like he's trying to catch my honest reaction.

I'm not really sure what I expected before I saw it, but it's... well, surprisingly normal. Or, at least, normal for a synth I suppose, considering how pale it is—just like the rest of him. It seems slightly plain, lacking a lot of minute details, as if the person who'd originally created it didn't have much experience with the real deal, or the actual anatomy behind it. Or more likely, didn't care. But aside from that, it's just an ordinary cock. Maybe this is what Amari meant about him having a unique sensor net? I file the thought away for later and turn back up to him with a pleased, but expectant expression. "Better. You comin' down here, or do I have to come up there?"

He watches me for a few seconds, as if he's testing me, waiting to see if that's really all I have to say, but at last he takes the hint and sinks down to my level—nestling his hips between mine as I hook my legs around his waist and leaning down to let me savor my sapor on his tongue, which I suck on the moment he introduces it into my mouth. The lustful groan that garners is more than worth it, and if that wasn't enough, the slide of his cock along my folds as he grinds into me seals the deal and forces a soft whimper from my own throat.

I let him steal his tongue back from its captivity in my mouth, my hands taking on minds of their own as my fingers explore his new skin with reckless abandon. When my right grasps a handful of ass cheek, he halts his trek toward that one damn spot on my neck, taking a detour to back up and look down at me with a lifted eyebrow. "Eager beaver, are we?"

I snort a giggle at the double entendre, grinning up at him and nodding. "Of course." I raise my left hand to cup the side of his face. "But I suppose I've already waited two-hundred and thirteen years or so, what's a few more seconds?"

I'm more grateful than I'll ever say when he doesn't make me wait longer than two more.

The cold shower after is more necessary than any cold shower I've ever taken, not so much because I'm a sweaty, sticky mess—which I am... god, we both are, despite his inability to sweat. It's the only reason he joined me: so he wouldn't smell like a damned brothel for the rest of the day—but because I really, really need to calm down.

This man... holy fuck.

I've been wound up before in my life—my bastard ex-husband Bart wasn't the only person I'd ever been with, after all; I'd been a college girl, once—but I couldn't remember anyone that could drive me up the wall of mind-numbing, absolutely insanity-inducing pleasure easier, faster, or more happily than Nick does.

And apparently, I do the same for him, because even now, when he knows we need to be heading out, he can't keep his hands to himself.

His hands, god... if he was good with his mouth and his cock, his hands, with all the finely-tuned metal bones and ligaments and sensors they contain, take the cake. It's his hands that he works me with now, playing me like a pitch-perfect violin, and I've never seen a man derive more pleasure from giving me pleasure than he does, but he does, and it's agonizingly beautiful.

As I buck against him, the back of my neck curving over his shoulder, where my head rests while I cry his name to the ceiling, I can just see the smile his lust sharpens with that raw need he's had in his eyes all morning, as if he can't—could never—get enough of this new drug, his new addiction.

That sight is what drives me over the edge.

Eventually, we do make it out of the shower, the apartment, and even the elevator; though the last only took longer for the time he spent showering kisses all down each side of my neck before making sure I knew exactly how much he loved me with a kiss that left me feeling dizzy and boneless.

But now, we're in public, and by unspoken agreement, it's all back to business.

'Trashcan' Carla's in town for trade, and she's who we're meeting up with for this trip; Nick, Charon and I intending to act as her caravan guards from here to Sanctuary.

It's past time I spent a week or so in Sanctuary, helping them get better set up. Despite being in one of the more out of the way sectors of the Commonwealth, it's still a hub of trade and commerce, and it's grown so much since I stumbled out of the Vault that I hardly recognized it the last time I visited, Mac and Preston in tow.

There's at least fifty people living there now; quite a few families with kids choosing to settle down and farm or produce things like clothing, medicinal chems, ammunition... the basic necessities of the wasteland. We're even starting to ship purified water to the various settlements, thanks to the four massive purifiers in the river that runs in front of the... well, I suppose it's a town now. Or who knows, it might even be a city, by the time I get there.

The Red Rocket, where we'd be staying, has been turned into a forward defensive position on the exterior, but the inside—plus a few additional buildings that were slapped on to expand the place for guests and the like—is mine. Wasn't even my idea; the town demanded I have it, saying their General should have a place to stay that... well.

Their actual words were, 'a place to stay with no bad memories.'

I have to think it was Mama Murphy that spearheaded that idea, seeing as she's one of the few people who had any idea there were actual bad memories attached to Sanctuary, before I got back there for the first time after getting my memories back.

That woman's insight was half the reason Sanctuary had turned into what it had, after all. It was her that I put in charge of the building crews, because she knew what people needed the most, and saw that what they needed is what they got.

It's strange, I kinda used to mistrust her because of the chem use, but somewhere along the line, I forgot to let that bother me so much, especially when I saw the great talent she had for supplying the right thing for those who needed it, given the resources.

I'm not really sure why that changed.

Thinking about it makes my brain itch again, so I give up, not wanting to stir up any wasp nests that might be hanging about up there.

"About time you got out here, it's almost noon. We'll be lucky to hit the Red Rocket before sundown with Mincy's leg like it is." Carla gestures back to her pack brahmin, who chews a cud with one head and stares at me with the other, then moos mournfully, as if I insulted its other head.

I glance down at the four legs, scanning over them for any further abnormalities than I usually see on a brahmin's legs, but come up blank. Unless the scabs above its hooves are any different than the scabs on its ears, I don't really see the problem. I focus on Carla with an apologetic grimace. "Sorry, Carla. We can head out when you're ready. Oh," I gesture to Charon, where he looms on my right, "this is Charon, he'll be joining us from now on."

Her sharp, bloodshot eyes rake up the titan of a ghoul at my side, lifting a single brow at him and pursing her lips. "Hm. Looks sturdy enough, but he'll probably draw attention. What happened to the Mayor? Doesn't he usually do these trips? He wears that damn red coat, but at least he's not a giant."

Nicky comes to the rescue with a tactful, "He's got mayoral duties to attend to this round, Carla. You'll have to make do with us this time."

Carla shrugs, clearly caring less than she'd initially let on. "Whatever. Let's get going, Preston's been askin' for these fusion cells for two weeks now. Sick a' hearin' 'im harp about it."

It's a fairly peaceful trip to Sanctuary, all told.

Oh, sure, we get the bugs, the dogs, and a few feral ghoul packs along the way, but the mutants and raiders seem to be taking a break from the main paths.

Or the Minutemen cleared them out.

Either way, we do indeed make it there before sunset, and usher Carla and Mincy across the newly repaired bridge and through the main gate with all due haste.

Preston comes to the gate to meet us, waving from the low guard tower on the right, laser musket cradled lovingly in the crook of his lowered arm. "Welcome home, General! Good to see you, Carla, Mama Murphy's been waiting for you at The Trading Post. Welcome back to Sanctuary, Mister Valentine."

I hook a thumb at Charon. "Think you met Charon during the Castle assault, but just in case, Charon, Preston Garvey; my second in command in the Minutemen. Preston, Charon."

Preston touches his fingers to the brim of his hat in polite greeting. "I did see him there, but was never introduced. Good to meet you, sir."

Charon narrows his eyes slightly at the 'sir' honorific, but nods his own version of a polite greeting at the Minuteman.

I elbow him—his hip, actually, since I can't comfortably reach his ribs; and it's only very, very gently, more of a nudge, really—and he sighs, tacking on with a muttered grumble, "And you."

I grin at him, my reward for his cooperation. It's like pulling teeth, but it's getting there.

Preston apparently hears and nods, refocusing his attention on me. "Three new families since you were here last, and a few drifters. Sturges put the drifters to work on the purifiers, and one of the family's patriarchs swears up and down he knows how to jerry rig a water heater big enough to handle the showers." He looks to Nick. "If you could help him out with any wrench-turning you can contribute, we'd be grateful."

Nick shifts a bit uncomfortably. "Afraid I don't know much about water heaters, but I'll give it my best shot."

"I do," comes the unexpected offer from Charon.

We all turn to him, varying levels of surprise masking our features.

Preston recovers first, his enthusiasm more than enough to cover for his moment of surprise. "Great! We'll take all the help we can get. Cold showers are getting old, quick, especially in these winter months. Whatever expertise you have for anything that's needed, we'd be happy to have. We'll be glad to supply anything you need too, as long as we have it. Have you met Sturges before? He's our quartermaster and head engineer." He steps down the ladder of the tower, hopping off the last rung and waving Charon on. "Come on, I'll introduce you and get you settled in."

Charon peers down at me, seeking instructions. I smile up at him and nod toward Preston. "Go ahead, he'll lead you right. I'll be safe here, and Nick's with me."

He glances over at Nick, the glance turning into a stern glare for a moment, until Nick nods reassuringly. Charon huffs and looks back to me. "As you wish."

I watch as he squares his shoulders and marches off after Preston like a ghoul on a mission. I turn back to Nick with a quiet smirk, which he returns.

"Doesn't seem like the big guy likes bein' separated from you."

I shrug, looking over to watch as Preston and Charon round the corner to Sturges' Garage. "He's a kindred spirit, that's all."

When I look back, Nick's wearing a skeptical expression, which mellows with a sigh and his own shrug after a few seconds.

"To love is easy, and therefore common. But to understand, how rare it is," he quotes, watching the spot where Charon had disappeared from only seconds ago for a long moment, then turning his gaze upon me, his eyes thoughtful, and gently searching.

I smile at him, nodding once, then hook my hand around his elbow, taking a breath as he obligingly starts to lead me into town. "I'd say that's partially accurate. It is rare to understand, certainly, but I think the kind of love referenced there is... petty love. 'Oh, I love this gun,' 'oh, this weather's simply delightful, don't you love it?' that kind of thing. Real love, the timeless kind of love that takes over your entire existence?"

I shake my head, with a sureness in the motion that will brook no argument on the subject.

"That's not common at all."