Hallelujah: Oh Holy Night! (Cait)

Tommy is gone off to Goodneighbor, looking for more chems and, probably, advertising the Zone to all the raider gangs along the way. Cait is happy he's gone; she's never cared to look at that ugly mug of his, especially not since that night he got fresh with her and she had to knock him out. It's not like it's the only time she's had to knock out some bastard who got fresh; that's just the way of the world.

She wraps a bootlace around her bicep and flexes a few times, then flicks the sensitive skin of her elbow. The flesh there is so scarred with use that she barely feels it; it's just one white scar polka-dotted over another, and sliding the needle in is difficult. She almost blows the vein but then, mercifully, she doesn't.

A Christmas miracle, she thinks wryly and loosens the shoelace. Balancing with one hand, she slides the plunger on the syringe of Psycho home.

The familiar, pleasant warmth spreads from her arm on down her hand, lacing through all her fingers; it darts rapidly up her shoulder and loops through her brain, licks its way down her other arm and into her legs, curls around her toes. She feels the heady bravery of adrenaline; she can take on the world when there's Psycho coursing through her. She's strong, now.

There never were good Christmases in her home, not like the ones you'd see on the holotapes from before the war. Those people, those soft, pre-war folks, they'd all gather 'round a tree, hang it with lights and glittering garlands and sing some kumbaya shite. The kiddies would get useless toys, nothing to help them defend themselves, and the people would all gorge themselves on food they didn't eat the rest of the year. They might even give the leftovers to the dog, if you could believe that shite.

Some small part of her whispers that it sounds nice, that she might have enjoyed a life like that. It's jarring and unpleasant to think about and she's sure as hell not going to sit still for that.

Cait bounces out of her chair. Sure, there's no one to fight, but she's never been one for sitting on her arse thinking. Especially not once the Psycho is flowing.

She wanders over to the kitchen and starts heating some water for mac and cheese. She's not really hungry, but it's something to do, and later she can practice some of her fighting moves. It'd be good to get some fuel in her first, so she can feel her strength when she does her exercises. Tommy'll be happy if he knows she practiced, too - he's been getting on her lately, worried she's leaning too hard on the Psycho and not working hard enough. She may not want to fuck him, but she does want to keep him happy.

The water's almost to boiling but she can't hold still. Cait turns and flips the radio on. There's Travis talking again, something about snow in Diamond City? She thinks about going outside to check it out - she remembers a few snows from when she was a girl, and the thundering of the ocean beyond - but then the music starts and she finds herself glued to the spot, frozen by the pure tones of the women singing.

Cait prides herself on being tough, on not falling for that soft girly shite.

And yet -

There's a soft, yearning tone to the harmony that takes her breath away. The woman singing lead goes higher, then softer, her voice a tease, a lament and praise all at once.

An ovation.

When the voice on the radio commands her to fall on her knees, Cait finds her own knees buckling in compliance. Somehow a tear drips from one of her eyes, landing softly on one of her arms. Her hands clutch the edge of the counter and she leans against it, kneeling face-first into the battered wood, and something in her stomach twists even as her heart soars up, higher and higher, out of her body and into the balcony above the stage.

When she comes to, it's to the smell of charred metal and Tommy slapping her on the face. She can feel from the burning that it's not the first time he's smacked her.

Cait sits up, grimacing and waving his hand away, using the cabinet to brace herself as she gets into a more vertical position.

Tommy's face is worried, or as worried as his face can really get. It's hard, she thinks dimly, when your face is basically road leather. The song on the radio is different now, not the quiet and affecting prayer she recalls but instead something about bells jingling. She feels dizzy and wired and when she stretches her limbs she finds some pain in her neck.

"What th'hell, Tommy?" Her voice is slurred.

"You were passed out on the floor." He stands now, his tone angry. He turns away from her, walks partway down the small set of stairs that leads to the kitchen and stops. When he turns and walks back up to her, she can see she undersold his feelings.

Tommy ain't angry; he's livid.

"What's the problem? I'm perfectly fine, y'know." She thinks about trying to get to her feet but knows she'd fail, and so she just looks at him balefully, one head cocked and trying to focus her eyes.

Tommy deflates, like a ball she had as a kid. She remembers that - it was the only toy she had. Soft red rubber but firm with air inside it, and it would bounce so high. A smile flits across her face and she tries to stifle it, but it's so perfect, thinking of Tommy as her own ball. Their skin, both soft and dulled from centuries of radiation. Weak but scarred.

He kneels in front of her and takes her hands in his own. His grip is strong, but for once she doesn't feel like he's going to make a move. She lets him hold her hand and looks into his watery eyes. She knows what's coming and yet somehow - she wants to hear it anyway.

"This shit's killing you," Tommy says. "I had to stimpack you to bring you back."

Well, that explains the pain in her neck.

"You stopped breathing, Cait."

That's definitely worrisome, but she doesn't dare let Tommy know that. She pulls her hands from his grasp and struggles to her feet, using the counter to balance herself. She doesn't want him to see how hard it is for her, but it's hard to hide the wince when she stands up straight and puts weight on both her legs. Desperate and hating herself for it, she wonders if he brought back any Med-X for the pain in her leg, the one lingering after the last round.

"I'm alright, Tommy," she lies, forcing a smile on her face. It's hard, but she thinks of the ethereal harmonies she heard just before she passed out, and then it's real.

He's watching her, trying to catch her in a lie. Finally, he takes a step back.

"Fine, okay. If you say so," he says. He's walking away again but her leg spasms and Cait lets out a gasp. Jesus, only twenty-seven and already falling apart.

Her own fool luck, being born into this godforsaken world.

"Tommy?" Her voice is timid and she curses herself for it. He turns and looks at her, his face neutral, even though she still detects some worry around the eyes. She tries anyway. "Any chance you brought me that Med-X? For me leg, I mean."

For a moment, Cait thinks he won't give it to her, or that he didn't get it, or that he's going to give her another lecture on her chem use. And then, instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slim syringe, narrower than theone Psycho comes in, glinting dully in the faint lighting.

"Here," he says, and she doesn't think she imagines the disgust in his voice. When he puts it in her hand, it seems he does it rougher than is strictly necessary, and then he turns and walks away. She wonders if she's made a mistake, and then her leg twinges again.