Click

A silent breath of relief. Russel couldn't remember the last time she had struggled to pick a lock- the ghoul clearly didn't appreciate others in his office when he wasn't around. The door swung open on silent hinges, and she tiptoed inside, carefully closing it to swathe herself in darkness. A soft glow from the desk lamp cast still shadows on the walls; her eyes widened at the disarray of paperwork everywhere. How did someone work like this?!

Fingertips lithely perused through documents, letters, folders-

Nothing of interest came across her hands. With a soft sigh through her nose, she began to rummage through the drawers of filing cabinets, looking for something to sate Morello's overreaching hunger while that ledger was M.I.A. While she mindlessly flipped through, inhaling dust from forgotten pages and tasting the faint tinge of salt from the bay out the open window, a pull from the back of her mind led her hands astray, and as she soon found herself seated in the ghoul's cracked leather chair. She twirled in it, staring out at the lapping waves riding to the shoreline. Another half-spin, and she was now seated behind his desk, combing her fingers over the worn handles to divulge their hidden contents.

Where was that journal?

It was the one thing about the ghoul that piqued her interest the most. A simple, leatherbound book, full of poetry she was absolutely certain he didn't care to write. Russel had never been one for literature; in a world based purely on the motto 'eat-or-be-eaten', being anything above literate was a dangerous waste of time. Why would a stonehearted ghoul like him keep something like that?!

The slight tinge of fear in Lydia's eyes after she had divulged her snooping was unexpected. It was not that Lydia had been worried she had actually been in his room, but it was as though she had unburied something no one else should have the knowledge to. The faded pencil sketch portrait of a young woman only added to the allure of the mystery. She knew Cross was Pre-War...was she perhaps a lover, from another time? How can one man hold on to something like that for so long?

Her fingers curled around the handle of a bottom drawer, giving a yank. Nothing. It was locked. Those fingertips scraped along the surface in search of a keyhole, her other hand already diving through her hair for a bobby pin. When there was no space allotted for access, she furrowed her brows, tapping an index finger along the smooth surface.

What was in here?

Scratch scratch scratch

The end of a pen came to trace across her lips, words mumbling off her tongue as Evelyn internally struggled with what to write.

The phrases I love you and I need you had been struck through after great deliberation and utmost thought. This wasn't her world, anymore. It wasn't theirs. Who knew what the two men she held so dearly to her heart were doing now...

She sniffed snot up her already stuffed nose. Ol' Webbers' detail on Charon had been so accurate that it couldn't be a mere coincidence. It had to be Charon, which begged the question: why?

He started coming through, oh, maybe five, six years ago? Can't really recall...but I don't get too many ghouls down this way, and he already punches his own card.

The sheet was crumpled into a tight ball and tossed over her naked shoulder. Her foot propped behind her made twirling motions in the air; a ringlet of hair was lightly caressed between her lips. A sigh, and she set the stationary set she had traded the ghoul for to the side, smooshing her face into the stained lumpy pillow. Despite her inner conflicts, it felt satisfying to be able to sleep in an actual bed after nearly ten years.

Ten years.

Another sniff. Her vault suit was left soaking in the sink, a basin full of ominous, dark crimson water. The ghoul didn't have any other clothing options for her to switch into, but he had taken all of the unwanted scrap she had pillaged, and she now had somewhat of a decent pack. The sleeping bag had been the biggest reward for her overweighted haul, and when she had reorganized her things on the floor of his shop for easier burdening, he had pointed at the pile of rocks she kept zipped away at the bottom.

"Is that your means of defense?" he had curiously asked, alluding to the fact she hadn't wanted to keep the shitty pipe pistol, and hadn't asked for anything to replace it.

She had burned a brighter shade than he thought possible on a person as she lamely confessed, "No, uh, I like to skip them."

The ghoul had laughed, and she colored a much darker hue. "I like you kid, I like you. Don't die out there."

It was...something. A start, at least.

But a start at what?

Haven't seen him for awhile...who knows, might be that time of year when he comes around again. You want to hang around, or leave a letter? I'd be sure to pass it on.

Life was anything but a simple decision, at this point. Her literal last memory had been of Penny's strained expression, ushering her into that slosh of cold liquid...and then, nothing. She had no memory of reentering the Vault; how did she get back down there? How, and why, did Braxton burn to the ground? What happened to Campbell, and Lydia? Were they alive? What became of those experiments?

Ol' Webbers was solid on his advice- Braxton was the one place on this earth she never planned on seeing herself visiting, ever again. All of those heated arguments, rough make-up fucks after said arguments, and spent tears squeezed from her eyes gave her exactly what she had wanted- a trip to a city she honestly had no business in ever going back to. Everyone had sacrificed themselves in trying to keep her from the one thing she had wanted most, those ten years ago.

Thomas had given up his love for her. Darcy gave up her life. Charon gave up his choice. Cross...gave up her.

She screwed her eyes shut, smothering herself into that mildew-smelling pillowcase. She had been so undeserving, of all of them, and yet...they had clawed within themselves to give her everything she had no right in asking for. All of this pain for a simple vendetta she still had nothing to show for.

Evelyn, you have a brother...he is waiting for you.

Roman...where are you?

There were no tears to wet her sheets; they had been spent just hours prior, when she had secluded herself in this shithole of a motel room that made one question if it was even habitable. The only light source from a flickering flashlight she had purchased wavered as the creaking metal frame of her bed shook. With a muffled, heartbroken cry, she curled onto her side, drawing her knees to her chest as she blankly stared at the two last sheets she had remaining.

A swipe of the backside of her hand across her face, and she picked up her pen.

"Have you ever kissed a ghoul?"

The question was announced at utter random. The cup of cold, black substitute for coffee was practically snorted from Lydia's nose. She turned in her seat, careful not to spill any more liquid on the paperwork Cross had left for her to manage.

"What?"

Russel shrugged nonchalantly, striding into the room with her hands clasped behind her back, peering at all of the knicks and knacks the older woman had seemed to collect over the years. Lydia's personal quarters were as much a disaster as her workshop- full of strewn parts, cans of grease, and random bolts littering the floor.

"It was...weird. No lips, kind of rough."

"Are..." Lydia blinked, too stunned by this revelation to think properly. "...did you, and Cross- ?"

"It was just a kiss, not like we fucked or anything." A wink, and she turned to pick up a snow globe hidden away under a film of dust. A swipe of a finger revealed the name Mt. Charleston. "I mean...not yet."

"What the fuck is it that you want from him, Russ?" Lydia stood from her seat, her surprise quickly molding into anger. "He's not someone to experiment your fucking kinks on. He's your fucking boss."

A snort. The snooping woman gave it a hard shake, watching the little flakes of snow flurry around. "I thought you weren't into him like that. Why does it bother you so much?"

"I'm not," Lydia seethed. Cross was...he was the only thing she could relate a father to. He may keep her at an arm's length when it came to personal relationships, but it still didn't change the level of affection she had for the old grump. He was always there for her, just like he had promised to be all those years ago. "Stay away from him."

Russel turned her head; her raised eyebrows disappeared into the hairline of her bangs. "Kind of hard to, when he's the one who wanted to talk, when he got back." Lydia seemed to deflate a little at that. "I heard Can say they went to Braxton...what's there?"

You're supposed to be the smart one, goddamnit!

I think you should leave this to the professionals, kid. You'll only get in the way.

Get this fuckin' door open!

"If you care so much-" Lydia sat back in her seat, suddenly devoid of anything but a tired slump of her shoulders. "-then you can ask him yourself."

That night...that last night...

She's gone-she's gone- she's fuckin' gone- fuck-

Hey! Whoa! You didn't have to fucking shoot the guy!

Evelyn is dead. There is no going back.

Russel gave her a quiet look, setting the globe back in its rightful place. Lydia spun around, pouring over the missive they had been requested for with her head in her hands. Please come back, old man...don't lose yourself, down there.

Ol' Webbers tucked the two envelopes carefully in a worn shoebox, placing the entirety of Evelyn's soul high on a shelf behind the counter.

"I'll keep the light on, case he comes around."

A small smile graced her lips. "Thank you."

The ghoul reassessed her; she was much more presentable and clean compared to the previous day. Her hair was braided, and a little shorter, just resting over one shoulder. The stain of her killings had been meticulously scrubbed away from her vault suit. One hand was clutched at the strap of her backpack, while the other was fiddling with the end of her braid.

"So...where to now?" he rasped.

"Boston."

He raised a brow muscle at her quick-fire answer. "Commonwealth, eh? Quite the walk...know the roads?" There was no confident outburst as before, and the arch of his brow rose higher. "Need a map?"

For a moment, her eyes lit up. "You have a Pip-Boy?"

A barked laugh at her childish eagerness, and she slumped in disappointment. "Hell no. Those bastards are rare. I should be asking you that, Miss Vault Dweller." He reached into a drawer, pulling out a musty, stained, carefully folded map. "You'll have to do this the old-fashioned way... On the house. Not like I'm usin' it anytime soon."

It was thick, and as she began to unfold the thing with widening eyes at its size, the ghoul scratched at the tip of cartilage he still had for a nose.

"Here, I'll mark you some points, and call that my good deed for the day."

Evelyn snapped the map into the air from her seated perch, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth as she attempted retracing the route Ol' Webbers had penciled in for her. The roadmap then suddenly unfurled down the side of the wall, the southern states she cared not for picked up by a cool breeze. "Shit." She scratched at her head, not understanding the mess of lines and what they represented. Ugh.

So, you're here, Braxton is- here. If you want to get to Boston, then I suggest you stick to this interstate. Caravans use it all the time, so it's relatively safe.

The faded word of Boston had been circled multiple times. The minuscule distance that she had traveled from the city of ghouls to the town she harbored the night in now seemed so small. Why the fuck was Boston so fucking far?!

"This is stupid," she mumbled under her breath, taking another chest-rising inhale as she flipped the map around. (It had been upside down). After spending nearly twenty minutes just trying to refold the damn thing closed again, she tucked it neatly down inside her pack.

The Cascades- the first major town he had penciled in over some faded lettering of the previous city.

From what I'm thinking, you might get there, a week? If you stick to these roads. Now, you stick to them, you hear me? Don't go getting lost on your way and getting piked on some raider post somewhere. If your close friends are still kicking, I'm damn sure they'd care to see you. Ghouls don't have much to look forward to, trust me.

Evelyn began walking down the ties of an old railroad track when her foot got caught under a board and sent her sprawling forward. She loudly huffed, raising herself and dusting the dirt from her oversized jacket. She brushed her hands against her knees, continuing forward...to whatever and wherever the winds sought fit to carry her.

Boston...

If that ghoul knows his roads, you might just damn well meet him on it. Who knows? It's a small wasteland, and hope is sometimes better than a full belly and dry socks.

Hope was something scarcer than her supply of caps, but she couldn't help her heart from swelling full to the brim with it.

I will see you again... I promise.

There was no visit from Evelyn in his dreams. Instead, there was a teasing grin, biting at his lower lip with earth-colored eyes. His body was flush against her own, dragging his tongue across her neck as he tasted her pulse and kissed the freckles constellating her shoulders. A hand would dive into her bob of bronze-colored hair, arching her small frame as he rode her from behind.

The merc awoke with sticky sheets, a throbbing erection, and a pounding headache. A groan, and he rolled to sit over the edge of the bed, sighing loudly through his nostrils into his palms as he leaned over his knees. Finally, something of a nice dream...there was a pang of guilt over the woman he now fantasized about, but wasn't that better than pining over a dead one?

The passing of days in their pilgrimage to Braxton was beginning to stretch- a week on the road, and he now found himself wanting to turn back for other reasons. The shower was turned on, the hot spray trickled down his head and shoulders, and a grunt left his mouth as he came to the fantasy of Russel's mouth stroking him in substitute of his hand. The dirty thoughts he knew he wouldn't be able to go back from tangled around the memories of his past lover. He didn't want to forget about Evelyn, or her touch, her lips-

A soft sob cried out, and he bit into a closed fist to stem it. What the fuck was he doing?! Time was such a mixed curse and a blessing for ghouls; it never seemed to pass quickly enough; ten years ago for a human would always seem like just yesterday to him. He could still feel her fingers clawing at him when she had been high out of her mind on shiner- why hadn't he just taken her with him?! Why had he been so adamant about leaving her behind?! She had been nothing more than a frightened, childish puppy chained to his lap, muttering asinine words as she had begged him to not let her go.

...which is what he did, and look what it had gotten him.

The ghoul stood under the hot stream with closed eyes, imagining for the millionth time what it would have been like if he had simply held on to her.

For one, he wouldn't be masturbating to the attraction from a smoothskin woman he pathetically latched on to like a lifesaver. Evelyn would still be asleep in their bed, at this hour, dreaming of the stars and the moon that she would wake from to write beautiful poetry about. He would run a hand through her tangle of hair and kiss her skin softly until she awoke. They would make love, argue over something trifle, and then have rough sex to apologize for words neither one had really meant. She would laugh at the dumb jokes he was always thinking so hard about in excitement to tell her; she would have soothed his worries with sage advice far too wise for her years; she would have skipped rocks, and danced on two left feet, and looked at him every second of every day with a heart bursting I love you.

The shower turned off, and there was nothing but a drip drip from the nozzle as a knock from Charon sounded on his door. It was time to continue forward, no matter how long he seemed to be spent in the past.

Cross reached inside a side pocket unknowingly as he dipped a hand into his bag, his fingers grazing something cold and unrecognizable. When he pulled out a small bottle with a little note attached, he felt a small twist of something wring inside his chest. The note was unfurled, the bottle of whiskey set to the side.

We never had that drink. You can buy me one when you get back.

He didn't recognize the penmanship, and he reread it a few times to find a correlation. His eyes flew up to the ceiling under crossed brows. Was this...from Russel? When did she sneak this shit into his bag? He uncorked the bottle, sniffing the alcoholic aroma that drifted from its tip.

What the fuck was this rookie trying to do to him? Why was she so fucking persistent in wanting him?! A swig was taken; it was good. Every time a drop of liquid amber would melt on his tongue, he would remember why he would drown himself in the stuff. He came up for air, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the horrible handwriting this little recruit scratched out for him. It then found its place tucked away inside his jacket, beside Evelyn's journal.