Chapter Text
The Ghoul had spent the better part of the last two hundred years not giving a mole rat’s ass about anything other than chems, caps and bullets.
The way he saw it, caring about other people was just a long detour on the road to ending up dead, and if he’d learned anything in his time, it was that most folks out in the wasteland would do just about anything to survive—even if it meant selling out the very people they claimed to love.
Of course, he liked to forget the way Cooper had tried to play nice in the beginning, as if he expected people to still respond to kindness, even after the bombs fell. Cooper had been too blind to realize it then, but the monster he was becoming had seen the truth in those formative years. He still felt sorry for the pathetic mess he’d been the day he was forced to face the reality of what the radiation was turning him into.
The Ghoul had been softer back then, taking pity on the part of himself that couldn't quite reconcile the need for survival with the morals of a pre-war existence. And so, he’d taken Cooper out back and buried him in an act of mercy he hadn’t extended to anyone else since.
That was the day the movie star Cooper Howard died.
In his place was a creature born of vengeance and desperation—nothing more than a monster masquerading in what remained of the former man’s skin.
His singular mission from that point on had been to find his family, and it didn’t matter how many people he had to kill or use in order to accomplish that goal.
That had been the lie he told himself. The one he believed right up until the moment the wasteland had seen fit to drop a wet-behind-the-ears Vaultie in his path, disrupting that delicate balance with her bright hazel eyes and golden rule smile.
Now, instead of worrying about practical things—such as where he was going to find his next dose of chems, or if he’d have to kill a fella just to have a decent meal—he found his thoughts constantly wandering back to her.
He could still hear her breathless moans as she moved beneath him, branding him with the memory of the way her skin had felt against his scarred flesh. Of the way she’d trembled as she came undone, wholly unaware of the effect she had on him in that moment. As if she craved her destruction just as desperately as he felt the need to destroy.
The Ghoul knew better than to believe he deserved what she’d given him. He never should have taken it in the first place. But the goddamned woman was an addiction and, fuck, if he wasn’t as desperate for her as a jet fiend hunting for his next fix.
It should have been nothing more than sex. He’d tried to hammer that idea home quite a few times in the days since, but for the first time in over a century, he actually caught himself prioritizing another person’s feelings above his own. And that thought alone was terrifying enough to warrant his withdrawal.
Perhaps building a boundary back up between them would somehow erase the way Lucy had wormed her way under his skin and marked him more deeply than the radiation ever had.
“You’re nothin’ but a damn fool,” The Ghoul grumbled softly to himself, irritated at the way his mind kept treading back and forth on the same well-beaten path.
A path that always seemed to lead straight back to her.
It was Dogmeat’s sharp bark that finally pulled him away from his tortured thoughts, and he scanned the desert in the waning light as he waited for the canine to approach.
While he'd been more fortunate than most Ghouls, boasting eyesight that was nearly as good as it had been before the bombs fell, he couldn’t compete with the dog’s heightened senses.
“What is it, girl?”
Dogmeat barked again, sounding more excited than alarmed. She stopped just short of where he stood, glancing back at regular intervals and inclining her head as if she were waiting for him to follow.
“Well, I reckon it’s worth a detour,” he muttered.
The Ghoul didn’t enjoy veering off course, even if the wasteland usually had the last say on the matter regardless of his views. But the sun was due to set in the next hour and the dog had an uncanny knack for finding a good place to hunker down for the night.
He spared a look over his shoulder, watching as Lucy hurried to catch up. It wasn’t lost on him the way she adjusted her pace, almost unconsciously perking up when she realized he was tracking her progress.
She tried to cover it, but it was hard to miss the stiffness in her stride or the way her steps faltered. If he had to guess, he’d say she was probably desperate for a rest, but a darker part of him knew she would walk a few more miles if that was what he wanted.
Always so damn willing to please…
His eyes snapped back to the dog, shutting that thought down before it had the chance to linger.
“Dog found somethin’ worth taking a gander at. Might be where we bunk down for the night.”
”Okey dokey,” Lucy agreed. Her words lacked their usual enthusiasm, though she fell into step beside him without complaint.
The Ghoul didn’t spare Lucy second glance, though he could feel the need for conversation radiating off of her like rads off a feral. She just couldn’t help herself. It was as if running her mouth was about the only other thing she knew how to do—besides driving him near insane with temptation.
Contrary to her nature, Lucy was blessedly silent as Dogmeat led them off the beaten path, following a trail only the canine seemed to know. They passed over an outcropping of rock and down a steep ravine before the ground leveled out again, taking them through a ring of creosote bushes. Despite the lack of water, the bushes were blooming; each one covered in small, yellow flowers that stubbornly held out against the otherwise barren landscape.
One of the oldest living plants on the planet, if the Ghoul’s memory were to be believed, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint exactly where he’d read that.
It was funny what came back to him in flashes, dredging up all kinds of memories he’d all but forgotten until now. Unlike the hearty creosote, which had been here for thousands of years and would likely still be around long after he took that last walk into the sunset, the Ghoul had almost given up on anything other than survival.
Yet every time he was reminded of the way nature seemed to thrive and even bloom in these circumstances, he couldn’t help but feel that old burial mound in the back of his mind stirring, as if Cooper were trying to find his way out.
With a firm shake of his head, the Ghoul slammed the door on that particular train of thought, focusing his attention on the dog up ahead.
It wasn’t long before he spotted the structure that gradually came into view. Not much more than a shack, it was tucked along the bottom of a rocky incline that partially hid it from the main road. It didn’t look like much, but as long as it wasn’t occupied, he saw no reason to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The Ghoul altered course toward it, drawing and checking his revolver in a series of rehearsed steps that were as automatic as breathing. He’d done it so many times over the years, and yet he still couldn’t help noticing the way his trigger finger felt as it slid against the metal and wood.
As if he needed another reminder of the woman he’d stolen it from.