Wendy

"It figures that you shoot better without a hand."

I smirk at him. "Shut the fuck up." The prosthesis that Moira made is ingenious. It fits underneath my Pip-Boy harness, and being rubber coated, holds the handgrips of the assault rifle better than my hand ever could.

We took advantage of the abandoned trenches around the museum to get in some target practice. I know it makes him feel a lot better that I can use a long-range weapon instead of depending on that SMG. "Maybe now you won't get so pissy all the time."

He points at my SMG, which I have holstered on my right hip. "That thing sprays bullets everywhere. It's only a matter of time before you shoot me in the back."

"I wouldn't do that!"

"Not on purpose." He retorts. "Friendly fire is NOT friendly."

"Well, excuse me, Mr. Pissy McWhinypants."

"Hey, I ain't too keen on catching another bullet in my ass. You wouldn't be, either."

"You got shot in the ass?" I don't know why it's funny, but I can't help laughing.

He shakes his head and rubs his eyes in frustration. "Yes."

I can only imagine the raft of shit that Mal gave him for that. "I bet Mal teased you mercilessly."

He snorts, and smiles wickedly. "She paid for it. Dearly."

We head back towards the museum, and I flop down on a bench, then dig pack of cigarettes out my pocket. "Have a seat." I hand him a cigarette, and he lights both with Mal's lighter. "My hair's gettin' shaggy. I need to swing by Snowflake and get a trim." He squirms, uncomfortable with the haircut talk. "Maybe I should just shave the whole thing off. Save me the trouble of worrying what it looks like."

He squints at me. "You wouldn't."

"You're right. I wouldn't."

He takes a long pull on his cigarette, then exhales, "It's a shame that you do not care what you look like."

I frown at him. "Why does it matter so much to you?"

He stares up at the sky, thoughtfully. "If you didn't have skin or hair, then you'd understand. Go look in a mirror sometime. Be thankful you have what you do." I nod.

"So, uh – not to change the subject, but where do we go from here?" I ask.

"Can't wait to leave, huh?" he says.

"I want to get him back."

"Don't worry, Wendy. They won't hurt him."

"How do you know that?"

He waves his hand in the air, leaving trails of tobacco smoke in its wake. "Did you see how they treated him before they loaded him on the vertibird? Like he was Enclave royalty. They won't hurt him. He's special to them, for some reason."

I never thought about that. "Then I've been worrying for nothing, then."

"Probably." He scratches his face, absentmindedly. "I figure we'll head out to the Sat Array where the Brotherhood guys picked up Mal on her way back, work from there."

"Sounds like a good plan. Let's spend another day here. Tomorrow we can get our shit together, get loaded up on supplies, then we can head out the next morning." I sound so authoritative that I surprise myself. I drop my cigarette butt on the ground, and grind it into the pavement with the toe of my boot. "Let's get back, go get something to eat. Relax for once."

"As you wish."

I stand in the bathroom, staring in the dingy mirror. I'd wet one of my shirtsleeves and wiped it, but two hundred and fifty years of grime is gonna take a bit more elbow grease than I have patience for at the moment.

I don't know this person staring back at me. My face is hard, angular – the soft roundness it once had is gone. My eyes are direct and piercing – they remind me of the way Mal's were. My arms are lean, wiry. My hair…oh, my hair. It's a short, shaggy blond mop. It used to be halfway down my back. I'd brush it in the morning and the evening. Virgil loved to run his hands through it. My heart aches. When we find him, will he even recognize me? I look nothing like the soft, innocent country girl he'd fell in love with. I lift my left arm, look at my new prosthetic. I'm becoming someone new, someone harder, angrier. I'm not sure if I like this person I'm becoming – but I suppose I'll have to live with myself, whether I like it or not.

Charon

It's not true. Time doesn't heal all wounds.

Those wounds scab over, and you pick at 'em. When they do heal, it leaves a nasty scar. I've noticed that the sting has slowly dissolved out of my memories of her. The sadness is still there, but so is a sense of thankfulness, of gratitude, that I got to spend so much time with her.

Yeah, what Willow said helped. We had something. Something very special, very precious. It is not gone, just because she's gone. Some never have the opportunity to love like we did.

I am grateful.

About Eighteen Years Ago

Maleficent

I rest an elbow on our new Brahmin cart and sigh, surveying our new property. "So, this is it. Never thought I'd actually settle down." He wraps his arm around my shoulders, and I snake one around his waist. "And I never thought it would be a ranch, out west. "

"Yeah, well…life is funny like that." He says, with a dreamy half-smile.

"Let's go move some furniture. And by 'let's', I mean you." The worn wood of the porch steps creaks satisfyingly as we climb them. I turn the knob and push inward. "I don't remember paying for a rug."

"I bought it." he says, with a shrug.

"And since when do you have a mind of your own?" I ask, playfully.

"Since you stopped giving me direct orders."

Before I step inside, he scoops me up in his arms. I squeal, grab onto his neck. "What're you doing?"

"I've always wanted to do this." He carries me inside to the back of the house, lays me on the bed, and crouches next to it. "Ah, the old 'carry the bride across the threshold' bit. A little late, wouldn't you say?"

"Only twenty-seven years. Once you get over a hundred, you tend to get sentimental."

I grin at him. "Ah. For a minute there, I thought you'd gone soft on me."

His hand creeps under my shirt. "There's no danger of that happening anytime soon."

I chuckle and gently push his hand away. "Hey, now – we have to get back to Virgil soon."

"No we don't." he smirks.

"What do you mean, 'no we don't?'"

"Betty's gonna watch him all night." Betty is the innkeeper's wife. She loves Virgil almost as much as we do.

I squint at him. "This couldn't have been your idea. She just likes having a baby around to spoil." I can't help but feel a little jealous.

He shakes his finger at me. "Hey, be nice. She taught you everything you know about takin' care of him." He pauses. "It was my idea. I was…selfish. I wanted some time alone with you."

"Really?" I smile, untie my boots, and kick them off.

"Really." He smiles, "and out here, we can be as loud as we want." After years of having to be mindful of the noise we made, just the thought of being able to let go for one evening is intoxicating. My heart is pounding in my chest, and I grab him by the wrist and place his hand on my breastbone, so he can feel it. It was because of the noise that he hadn't slapped me in a long time. Pinches, scratches, and bites had to suffice. He didn't like pulling my hair…for obvious reasons.

"In that case…" he stiffens, anticipating an order. "…come here."

I scoot over, and he slides into the bed. The bed frame creaks under his weight – unfortunately, we weren't able to find a sturdy bed frame on such short notice, so this one will have to do for the time being.

"You want me, don't you?" I ask, caressing the exposed muscles of his face. I can feel him tremble under my touch. We've been staying at the inn, in the same room with the baby, for two weeks. He feels like a wild animal straining at the limit of its tether. With a simple phrase, I can set him free, unleash him on my body. His throat rumbles, a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl. "Take me, Charon. I'm yours."

"Mine." He whispers, cupping my cheek. Slowly, he draws my face to his. My lips part, and his tongue darts inside my mouth, first hesitantly, then more insistent. He must be feeling gentle today – this isn't what I expected. His hand slides down my body, fingers the ugly scar, a gift from Eulogy, the only bullet I took for anyone else. His warm, dry lips break away from mine, and he meets my eyes. "Mine."

He lifts himself off the bed and undresses me slowly, tossing each article of clothing to the floor. I look up at him as he removes his own. He still turns away from me – after almost thirty years together, he's still uncomfortable, ashamed of his appearance. I've stopped talking to him about it. I figure that if he's not comfortable by now, he probably won't ever be. I close my eyes and lay back, in deference to his request, one that he asked of me long ago – not to look at him when he undresses. In the beginning, this wasn't an issue; it was just sex, and it didn't bother me that all he did was unzip and take care of business. I got what I wanted. I wasn't interested in his insecurities.

Now that I love him, I wish that I can banish his shame. I want to steal his pain away. Make him whole again.

I shiver as I feel the mattress shift under his weight. He parts my legs and positions himself between them. He leans over me and kisses me deeply, and I moan into his mouth when I feel him grind his hard length against my stomach. I knead his broad back, tracing the contours of rough, rended skin and smooth muscle. He kisses his way down to my neck, finds a soft, tender spot, and locks lips on it, sucking deeply, insistently. I buck against him, gasping. When he stops, he pauses, his hot breath on my skin, brushing through my hair. He shifts back, his hands slide smoothly up and down my body, caressing every inch.

He focuses on my scar – his scar. He rubs it with his thumb, traces it with a coarse finger, then leans over me and kisses it, a soft moan escaping my lips. I take his head in my hands, run my fingers through his sparse hair. He looks up at me, and I pull gently, urging him to make me his.

He slides up my body, and even after all our years together, I'm captivated by his smooth, coordinated movements. His is the easy strength of a jungle cat; for a split second I freeze, suddenly aware of how dangerous he is, how easy it would be for him to hurt me, to kill me, and it sends a perverse thrill down my spine.

I moan as he eases inside of me and wrap my legs around him, drawing him deeper, closer. I can feel his weight atop me, and sense the size of him. I inhale deeply the smell of him – wet copper, tanned leather, the faint tang of gunpowder. "Oh, Mallie…" he whispers into my ear, hot breath tickling. I squeeze him deliciously, and he grunts with pleasure.

For one brief moment, I can almost swear that we're back in the suite. I'm young again; our love is fresh, new, exciting, and more than a little scary. I slip an arm around his neck, pull his lips to mine, kiss them chastely. "Oh, Charon…"I murmur. His rhythm is slow, even, and I can hear the gentle creak of the bed frame, his deep exhalations in my ear. I feel the heat begin to gather beneath my navel, "faster," I plead, and he obeys.

The bed creaks insistently with each of his powerful thrusts. "I love you, Mallie" he whispers between gasps, a split second before something explodes inside of me, a fire burning me from the inside out. My throaty scream fills the room, followed by his guttural shout, as he releases himself inside of me.

We lay, panting. "I love you too."