Here's another chapter. I didn't think I'd have time to get it up and posted, but between room cleanings, I managed to work on it a bit. I may be able to do the same with the next chapter of Thankless Job. If not... Thank you so, so much for your patience, and reviews.
If anyone is into doodles, I'd appreciate it very much if someone would draw references for my stories.
And I wish you all the love in the world
But most of all, I wish it from myself
Most days, he just wants to roll over and die. It's been two hundred years since Fiona, and it still makes him want to openly weep when he thinks of her; It's been fifteen years since Moriarty bought him off the slavers and he's still not any closer to paying off his debt. He doesn't ask for much, really - just wants to be free and happy, and hell, even being cooped up in Underworld again would be preferable to this shitheap. At least in Underworld, people liked him, cared about him, weren't afraid to touch him; He understood that, though. He wouldn't be his own first choice on the list of people to touch either; His skin was all but gone, for chrissake, and what was left wasn't exactly in good condition. He frequently wonders why people even come in to Moriarty's - he's stuck there all the time, and the Irishman never leaves the doors open, so it probably reeks of old leather and blood, with the slightest hint of decay. It doesn't bother him, because for him, it's a constant; Smoothskins, though… Well, he's pretty sure that if he let it slip that Moriarty pisses in the still, people would spend all their time at the Brass Lantern - and Jericho would probably be pissed as all hell, since he downed more whiskey from this joint than anyone in town. Hell, the former raider's blood was probably all booze and piss by now - it'd explain his sour demeanor.
At least that bastard could come and go as he pleased. Gob was perpetually stuck in the saloon, miserable and waiting to die - hopefully after he got to see Moriarty go, but he wouldn't complain either way. Not that he'd be able to, being dead and all. By this point, he really only had two options: waiting to die of old age (which was, let's face it, not very likely) or waiting for one of the citizens of Megaton to decide they were tired of seeing his rotten face. Jericho could go run around the wastes, leave Megaton and go back to his old ways, if he really wanted to; Go out the way he wanted, in a blaze of gunfire or some such bullshit. Be a badass. That had never been the ghoul - always quiet, always timid, always hesitant to take action, even if it meant defending himself, that was him. And he fucking hated it, more than anything, but he couldn't really be assed to make a change; He'd probably just get himself shot up or beaten or something, and that would be when Simms bothered to do anything. Can't really be bothered to do something about the ghoul, right? The only people who can are those loonies with the Church of Atom, and some days, he really is surprised that they haven't just burst in here and demanded that Moriarty treat him better - but then he remembers that they rarely wander away from that stupid puddle.
The first time she shows up at the saloon, in the afternoon on August seventeenth, he's probably more startled than she is; That much is evident between him shouting "Please, don't hit me!" and her staring at him like he's just told her that he recently murdered a whole orphanage full of babies. Two vaulties within the week - two vaulties who look strikingly similar, though this is one is decidedly better looking - was unheard of, had been for years. The fact that she's staring at him curiously, eyes wide and wandering and green, so green- Like Fiona's. - makes him feel a little bit less guilty as he looks over. Not much less, because god, just take a look at him, then take a look at her - she was shorter than him, though not by much, and slim, small curves hugged by her vault suit, with a head of long, thick copper hair that was half-hanging out of the messy bun it was in. There's a leather jacket tied around her waist, and a ten millimeter pistol in her right hand that he eyes warily. And right when he starts to expect the worst, she smiles at him - smiles. Not one of those polite, 'just trying to keep up appearances' smiles, but an honest to God, warm, inviting 'lovely to meet you' sort of smile, and all he can do is gape at her.
"I'm Joss, Joss Calaway." she chirps brightly, her voice soft and musical and sweet, holding out a hand to shake. Either they were breeding people into crazies down in the vaults, or this girl was dropped on her head recently - smoothskins just did not touch ghouls, period. Hell, the only reason Moriarty ever touched him was to beat the hell out of him, and even then, he's pretty sure it's just because it's much easier to hide the evidence if it's on his hands than on some sort of blunt object. Much, much easier - it's hard to wash the blood off of the billy clubs and shit that are readily available around here; It takes no effort to wash it off of hands or shoes or out of clothes. Just a little bit of Abraxo mixed with the detergent and the red-brown stain of blood is gone.
He doesn't realize that he's still staring at the vaultie until she clears her throat and squints at him. Instinctively, he finds himself wincing, preparing himself for the inevitable smack or punch in the head, but it doesn't come. Straightening himself out and glancing around in search of Moriarty, who would hit him if he saw that he was making small talk rather than doing his work, he swallows nervously. He hasn't been this nervous about anything in years, not since… No. He really needed to work on not letting his mind go there - it was depressing and he knows Fiona wouldn't want that. "Right, right." Mumbling to himself all the while, he gives her hand a quick shake, fully expecting a look of disgust or for her to snatch her hand away. When she doesn't, he blinks. It's official - vaulties are nuts. They breed 'em like crazies in those holes. "I'm, uh… I'm Gob."
If Joss were to say that she wasn't absolutely terrified when she first saw Gob, she would have been lying - but it's not because of what he is. It's because she stumbles out of the backroom of Moriarty's, where she'd picked the lock to gain entrance, and runs straight into him and she's only just adjusted to the much darker atmosphere of the building. Whatever he is, he's obviously mistreated - who the hell says "Don't hit me!" immediately after meeting someone? - but he seems nice enough, and, well, looking at him vaguely reminds her of looking through her father's old anatomy books, the ones with the cross-sections of skin and muscle and bone. So instead of acknowledging his outburst, the nineteen year old introduces herself cheerfully, shaking his hand just like she would with anyone else and waiting for his name.
"Gob?" It's not like she can judge people with odd names - 'Joss' isn't exactly a normal one - but Gob is definitely the strangest she's ever heard. Then again, she's only been outside the vault for roughly five hours now, and before that, the strangest name she'd ever heard was her own (unless you count the names in some of the pre-war books she'd skimmed - 'Kilgore Trout' was a strange name if she'd ever heard one). "Right, well… Gob, would you, perchance, have seen my dad? Middle-aged dude, dark hair, sorta looks like me?" Or, rather, she kind of looked like him, albeit definitely more feminine and with a sprinkling of the features she'd only ever seen in photos of her mother. Her face is heart-shaped, her skin pale but tinged red over her nose and cheeks, thanks to recent exposure to the sun; Her eyes aren't wide set, but they're large, almost too large for her face and surrounded by thick, red-gold lashes. Her nose is nothing more than a button above pouty lips hiding too-white teeth, and a soft jaw. She has her father's nose, her father's eyes, the same well-defined cheekbones. Honestly, if he were a few years younger, they could probably pass for siblings more easily than father and daughter.
She watches as he averts his eyes, trying to look everywhere but at her. "There was, uh… There was another vaultie through here this morning, 'round eleven…" Now he looks apologetic, and she wants nothing more than to hug him, this poor, sweet mistreated bartender. "I can't tell you any more, Moriarty'll kill me. But, uh… There's a terminal, in the back. Nova knows the password."
This how she comes to speak to the whore. She can't decide if she likes her or hates her, or if she respects her for taking this all lying down (both metaphorically and literally) without breaking down; All she knows is the moment that 'bad bitch' routine starts up, she seriously considers punching her, right in the mouth. The girl may not look like much, but she spent the last six years of her life flipping through copies of Pugilism Illustrated and practicing the moves on old bags of fabric scraps - she knows how to fight, it's just her gun skills that are shaky, since she hadn't picked up her BB gun since she was twelve, before today. "Listen, Gob told me that you know that password, can't you just tell me?"
Nova scoffs. "That sort of information'll cost you - that could get me in some serious trouble, hon."
Of course, nothing in life is fucking free and nobody can just help someone out of the goodness of their goddamned hearts. She doesn't even have any money - just a baseball bat, a BB gun, a ten millimeter pistol and the ammo to match, along with a whole box filled with assorted medications and drugs, and a massive bag of what looked like bottle caps that she'd picked off the corpse of a woman she'd found in Springvale, who'd decided a good policy was 'shoot first, ask questions later'. Freezing at that thought, she frowned and narrowed her eyes. "One hundred caps."
"Right, like that'll work. Two hundred."
Joss just stares at her for a few moments, then snorts. "Yeah, right. I just heard you tell someone it's only one twenty to get you in a room for the night. I ain't paying more than that. One twenty, or I'll make sure to mention that you thought hacking the terminal would be a grand ol' idea, if I get caught."
The other redhead just stares, shocked that this vaultie just managed to… Fuck, she doesn't even know what the fuck just happened, but she's agreed to the terms and mumbled the password and watched the girl venture into the back room.
"You could have just told her, you know," Gob rumbles from behind the counter, running a filthy rag over an even filthier glass in an attempt to clean before he stashes it back under the counter. "You know, and it's not like Moriarty'll do anything to you." Aside from treat her like shit and probably push her into drugs, which she hadn't turned to yet, but he wouldn't lift a hand to her, not like he would if he thought that Gob was the one who'd spilled the beans.
"And get out of it without a little something for myself? Gob, I've been here for years and still haven't managed to pay him back." Yeah, big deal. I've been here fifteen miserable years and I still haven't paid him back. Don't know that I ever will. He shook his head, returning his attention to his task, his chore, just as Moriarty breezed in. He can't help the way he automatically freezes, and he has to physically stop himself from running to warn the vaultie, because he knows that won't help anyone's case. Luckily, when the girl returns a few minutes later, Moriarty's gone upstairs to straighten out Jericho - for the fifth time that week - for doing God knows what to Nova to make her start screaming bloody murder.
"You find what you were lookin' for, smoothskin?" he queries with a discreet glance at the stairs. The vault girl's shoulders sag in defeat, a frustrated sigh passing her lips as she takes a seat at the bar and buries her face in her hands.
"Galaxy News Radio. It says he's gone to Galaxy News Radio, whatever that is. According to my pip-boy, that's at least four days away from here." There's a note of defeat in her voice that's all too familiar to him - he knows what it's like to feel like you've lost everything, and get that feeling again the moment you think you may have found something. Hell, his whole goddamn life is like that: loneliness, then Fiona, then loneliness and depression, then something like hope, only to end up here. Yeah, he definitely gets where she's coming from here. "I'm never going to find him, am I? He's always going to be just one step ahead."
Well, it did sort of seem that way… He's just glad he didn't say that out loud - the thought of making this girl cry was upsetting (not to mention, it would probably earn him the wrath of Moriarty). "Well, uh, no. Maybe you'll find him, soon. He can't always be one step ahead, can he? And, uh, if it helps…" God, is he happy that Colin's kicking up a riot upstairs, or he'd hear. "When you're in town, I'll sell to you at a discount. Least I can do for a friendly face."
Over the next six months, her visits are like lightning - brief bursts of light in the darkness. She's the first smoothskin to make him a promise and keep it; Before she left that first week, she promised she'd come back, and she made the same promise each time she stopped in. So far, she'd kept it every time. But this time… This time, it's been nearly a month and a half since she's come through Megaton, compared to the usual two weeks, and Moriarty's been especially nasty the whole time. He just needs a friendly face, someone who isn't Nova, someone around whom Moriarty will at least lay off a little bit - he isn't sure what Joss has done to make Moriarty wary of her, but he's so glad it happened. At least when she's in town, the beatings virtually stop - his bruises, the ones people can't really see because of his dried leather skin and corded muscle, get a chance to fade, cuts get a chance to heal.
By now, it's been two full months, and he's starting to think that she's gotten herself killed. It's two in the afternoon, and he's honestly panicking as he polishes glasses and refills drinks; All he can think about is the fact that, in the end, everyone he knows and cares about goes away. But then the door opens and sunlight filters into the dingy room and all he can do is grin like a fucking idiot. Joss is standing there, clad in pieced together raider armor - a single knee pad, a pair of shorts, and what looks to be the top of a pair of coveralls, with a belt of ammo slung over her chest. Oddly enough, he thinks she looks like she belongs in raider armor, but that doesn't disgust him like it might with other people and it doesn't even bother him, not one little bit. The scars she's managed to accumulate in two months, those are what bother him. Pale pink lines marring her skin, the skin that's gotten a healthy bit of colour since she's been out, but still looks pale in comparison to everyone else. There's a scar on her right shoulder that disappears beneath her top, only reappear and cut across both collarbones; Another, on her stomach that looks like someone may have tried to carve a large 'x' there; Her right leg has several, criss-crossing lines that cover the front of her thigh, and he finds himself wondering if her back is any worse, and just who did this to her. Her hair is still the same, beautiful red-gold and pulled into a messy bun at the base of her skull; Her eyes are hidden behind a pair of sunglasses that she'd obviously picked off a corpse. He can tell by looking at her that's she stopped at the house she earned by disarming the bomb before she came here - she doesn't have her pack, or any of her usual weapons: no power fist, no Deathclaw gauntlet, no ten millimeter. He doesn't even know if she has more than that - she probably doesn't need them, he's seen her deal with Jericho weaponless.
He expects her to sidle on up to the bar, order a drink, grin and tell him stories, like she always does. What he doesn't expect is for her literally jump over the bar and pull him into a hug, burying her face in the crook of his neck. A panicked squeak (he didn't even know he could still make that sound - that was vaguely embarrassing) flies from his ruined lips before he has a chance to stop it, and the girl, startled, pulls away from him. "Did I hurt you? God, Gob, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, you know I didn't! I just don't know my own strength, oh god, I'm sorry! Are you alright?"
He can't help it - he laughs. The only smoothskin who's never hurt him, and she's so damn worried about it. "No, no, you didn't hurt me, I'm fine," he tells her once his laughter dies down. "I just wasn't expecting that. You, uh, you've never done that before, and most smoothskins won't… Well, you know."
He has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the insulted look on her face as he speaks. "Gob, I tell you every time I'm in town, I don't care what you are. You're one of the only people here who doesn't treat me like either shit or your own personal errand boy." Her face brightens slightly at that, like she's remembered something. He doesn't get a chance to ask what. "I made it to Underworld; I met your mom! She, uh, she wanted to write you a letter, but I didn't have time to wait for one, so uh…" She pauses, pulls him into another hug, and stays that way for a bit. "That's from her, and she says she loves you, and she misses you, but 'don't you ever visit, it's dangerous'. She also said, uh… What did she say? Right! She said 'Take care of her, she's a sweetheart'. Said you'd know what that was about."
If he could blush, his face would be a rather interesting mural of reds. As it were, he felt the skin left on his face and neck heat, and he had to resist the urge to bury his face in his hands. Oh, he knew what that last thing was about - the vault girl herself. How she could be so smart, such a people person, and not pick up on that, he didn't get. "Yeah, yeah, I know what that one's about. Uh, how long are you staying?"
"Well, according to some holotapes I found, Daddy's in vault one twelve. I figured I'd stay two or three weeks, because if he leaves there before I get there, he'll probably pass through here. So, uh, if you wanna write letters to Carol during that time, I'll take 'em with when I go, because I promised I'd go back soon and visit."
"Gob, you lazy shuffler! I don't pay you to chit-chat with the- Oh. It's the wee vault girl, searchin' for her papa." Moriarty sneered, rolling his eyes. "If ye'll kindly let Gob here get back to 'is job, it'd be much appreciated."
"Yeah, and if you'd kindly get yourself killed, that would be much appreciated. Can't always get what you want, Moriarty. I'm almost never in town, anyways, and Jericho's the only other person here today. You'll live if Gob's a bit distracted." God, he wishes he were brave enough to stand up to Moriarty, get out of here, be happy. He sees the Irishman's glare, and it makes him nervous.
"Oh, don't you mess with me, lass. I'll ruin y-"
Joss squares her shoulders, steps between Gob and his employer with narrowed eyes and clenched fists. "Get fucked, you asshole." For a moment, the ghoul is scared there's going to be a showdown between the two, and he keeps his hands at his sides until Moriarty retreats into the backroom. "Bastard. I wish he'd leave you alone, Gob. I wish I could do something."
He can't quite find the courage to tell her that just her being there helps.