the good fight.

"Of course I have. But that doesn't mean I like being hit again."

"Respectfully," Bev cleared her throat. "I don't need to know that about you." Usually bedroom activities aren't included in the secondary assessment for head injuries. But hey, she'd had stranger conversations. ...Seemed fitting, though.

That wound was as clean as it was going to get out here, clean enough to take risk of infection off the table. So she abandoned the now blood soaked rag onto the table, and ripped off another piece of gauze.

"Not that I'm judging, hold this right here for a moment-" She folded the strip of fabric into a tight square, and held it against Devil's head with the pad of her thumb.

And evidently he didn't think this was serious in how he angled his chin up with a smile like he was expecting a kiss on the forehead. "Not too much," the merc answered with a shrug. "It'll straighten up soon. I-- ow-!"

Bev kept that much to herself, though, instead easing the pressure she'd pressed against his head. Wiped the blood and mess away a little softer, not without sucking her teeth in response.

"You've been hit worse, I bet." She spoke lowly, any bite completely gone from her voice and now slipping into some semblance of bedside manner. More so, staying relatively quiet so this back and forth simmered down.

When they stopped, he dropped heavily onto the nearest bench. The cloth he'd been using to staunch the bleeding was now soaked in his blood, a sight that drew a slight grimace out of him with his next chuckle.

"This is now twice that I've had to put you back together." Please- Like he'd be the first person shed patched up more than once. Although lately she was more used to Charon grunting and waving her off before popping a shoulder back into place, or Dogmeat yelping through Stimpack shots.

Where had she been? For nineteen years of his life, Aaron had been nothing if not a rock for his sister. He’d been the more resilient of the two in many ways, taking to the wasteland somewhat like a fish took to water, and through all of the horror and hardship, he had been there for Beverly. Then she had left. She had not been there for him during the war, she had not been there for him in the aftermath of the Pitt, she had not been there for him when Sarah died and he was left with the weight of the world on his shoulders alone.

All these thoughts and more were analyzed, excised, and discarded with the feeling the man soon came to realize was disgust. Disgust at himself, at the childishness and selfishness of these thoughts. There had been ten years of reflection on why exactly Bev had done what she did. Why she left. Aaron had long accepted that, and any remnant anger he felt was surely the result of the repression of having no one to share the immense weight of his station and title.

She’d had hardships of her own. Was she standing there and blaming her woes on her absent brother? Surely not, and he had no right to make her the object of his frustration.

He leaned back against the wall again, his head dropping as he noticed the trembling of the redheads hands as she tended to the dishes. He wondered if this had always been there, if below the surface she had always been in fear of him in some small way. Or if this was just the result of the wasteland, the wedge it had driven between them as it transformed them against their wills.

How stupid was this- Feeling bitter and anxious and a genuine upset, when anybody else would be relieved and overcome with joy. Her brother, the last family she had, was standing in the middle of her kitchen. Alive, and remotely unfazed by the last ten years out in the wastes. Scratch that, he was more than okay.

Elder Sheling, if she remembered her robes. Looked like he'd made a good life for himself. In spite of it all. Or maybe the wastes just gave him an opportunity to excel, to be more than just another vault dweller, reach his full potential. Whatever the hell it was, their lives looked vastly different now. He was different now.

"-Can you please just talk to me like I'm a normal person? There is no need for formalities between us." A few words in and her throat got tight all over again. Couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Fuck. "-Why are you here." The moment the words left her mouth she regretted it, but couldn't stop. Already she could feel the corners of her eyes welling up, and she pressed the heals of her hands hard against her face. "Did you come to brag? To show off, to show me what I could never do? Because I left, and-and now you're punishing me for it? Because I left you twice and now you've come to rub this all in my face?"

Shut up.

Devil tilted his head towards her before he was stalking off, rifle still slung against his arm as he walked in case any more ferals jumped out at them.

So far it looked promising.

Despite the dim light, he could spot an abandoned roadside diner around the corner-- good enough to sit. Good, because maybe he was starting to feel woozy with the amount of blood dripping through that rag on his head. Still, can't help being a jerk.

Still, couldn't help but scuff and drag her feet against the dirt just a bit. Followed close behind him all the same, wiped her palms on the front of her pants before piking up the pace. Bev wasn't sure if what streaked her cargos was sweat or feral blood, and at this point she was so apathetic to check. "I didn't." She answered quickly. Dad had, she assumed, but there was little point in brining him up in conversation. Besides, he didn't know her like that, to know family history and shit.

"I'd call it more skill than luck, actually."

The scratch in question was still bleeding fairly profusely, but such was the nature of head wounds. At least he merc didn't seem concussed-- one of those ferals had just gotten a lucky swipe in that had scraped up the side of his head.